The concrete wall feels cold against my back as I sit on the cot in my cell, staring at the security camera in the corner. Six years. That's how long they've had me. Six years of experiments, of being poked and prodded like some lab rat. But I'm not just a lab rat anymore.

The headache starts subtly behind my eyes, a familiar pressure that means my abilities are waking up. Good. I need them today.

I focus on the camera, projecting an image of myself still sitting on the cot, head bowed in defeat. It's become second nature now, weaving these illusions. The real me quietly moves to the door, pressing my ear against the cool metal to listen for guards.

Footsteps approach. Not regular patrol—too light, too hesitant. Janitorial staff, maybe. My chance.

As the door slides open a crack to allow a food tray through, I slip into the corridor, keeping to the shadows. My skin tingles as I adjust my appearance, shifting features to match one of the guards I've memorized. Heart pounding, I walk confidently toward the main security checkpoint, praying my illusion holds.

Two guards stand at the checkpoint, hands resting on their weapons. My throat tightens—these men are more alert than usual. One of them meets my gaze, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"ID check," he says, extending his hand.