I’ve seen myself die.
Burned. Crushed. Shot. Torn open. Reset. Again and again until the idea of my own body stopped meaning much. Flesh was just a tool. Something to spend.
This was worse.
The room was too big. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that means no one expects screaming anymore. White light spilled down from the ceiling in long strips, clean and even, like the place was proud of itself.
Tanks lined the floor in rows so straight it made my teeth ache. Glass cylinders filled with clear fluid. The liquid moved slow, like it was alive. Like it was thinking.
I knew what was inside them before I let myself really look.
I still looked.
The first one was close. I walked up to it without thinking, my boots barely making a sound. Inside the tank floated a boy. Bare. Thin. Tubes everywhe
