I stumbled my way up the stairs, my legs quivering with exhaustion, my hands slick with blood and viscous fluid clinging stubbornly to my skin. The cold metal rail dug into my palm, anchoring me to something tangible as my feet dragged across the steel steps. Every motion felt like walking through molasses, each breath a rasp that burned in my lungs. The lights above flickered in a chaotic rhythm, casting long, distorted shadows across the corridor like dancing specters.

  At the top of the platform, a narrow catwalk stretched across the facility’s core. I paused, breathing hard, my pulse a wild drumbeat in my ears. The tanks below housing the abominations inside like mummies to a tomb, many of said tombs half full their residents no longer occupying the glass crypt. Many of the glass housings where shattered entirely, others cracked open like broken eggshells. Thick fluid seeped across the floor in lazy puddles that reflected the blinking lights like pools of mercury..

  This place it was modern. Sleek in design and function. If it wasn't for one problem this place looked a wreck, like it was recently destroyed.

  Smooth white walls bore long, jagged gouges, as though something with claws had raked across them in a fury. Touchscreen terminals lay shattered seemingly discarded in panic, their cracked glass faces still blinking with fragmented readouts. A few monitors displayed warnings on loop: "Containment Failure. Protocol SRAM Activated. Evacuate Immediately."

  Blood was everywhere.

  Fresh.

  It smeared the walls, pooled beneath doors, and painted long trails along the floor like desperate brushstrokes. It wasn't dry. It hadn't been here long.

  I followed the catwalk to a glass sliding door, half off its tracks. A jagged crack ran through its pane. One shove, and it groaned open just enough for me to slip through, the edge scraping across my ribs and leaving a fresh red welt.

  I emerged into a corridor bathed in dull, pulsing emergency light. The air was heavy with the sterile tang of disinfectant, but beneath it was something fouler—coppery, organic. The unmistakable scent of fear and death.

  Each door I passed looked the same: tall, steel, sealed. Some had blood-slicked panels. Others bore deep dents, as if fists or worse had pounded against them. One display blinks erratically: "Observation Room 4A - LOCKDOWN ENGAGED."

  My reflection caught on a dark screen as I passed. Pale. Bloodied. Gaunt. A stranger.

  Finally, a door hissed and gave way under my hand, revealing a lounge. I staggered inside, the door sealing behind me with a hiss.

  The room was dim, lit by a single functional overhead panel that buzzed like a trapped insect. A couch sat to one side, gray upholstery stained in places. A few overturned chairs lay near a cracked coffee table. Cabinets lined the back wall beside a sink and a mounted mirror, its surface fractured into a dozen jagged reflections.

  I barely made it to the sink before collapsing over it.

  The water sputtered, then flowed cold. I drank greedily, cupping it in my hands, rinsing the chemical taste from my mouth. It tasted like rust and static, but it was real. I splashed more across my face, trying to scrub away the slime clinging to my skin. My hands trembled with each movement.

  I raised my eyes to the mirror and froze.

  The face staring back wasn’t mine.

  Not the one I remembered.

  Dark blue hair, streaked with black, hung limp and matted. My face was angular, youthful—too youthful. My body, once muscular, was lean, almost childlike. And my eyes. My eyes were deep, piercing, a shade of blue that felt unnatural, bottomless.

  "Lucas," I whispered. My own name, like an incantation. A lifeline.

  Memories stirred—my mother’s laugh, my father’s firm hand on my shoulder, my sisters calling my name. But the closer I got to the present, the now, the more everything blurred. Like a fog rolling over a familiar landscape. The more i focused the more my head began to pound, the only interruption was the gurgling of my hungry stomach

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  This can wait. I thought to myself.

  I scoured the cabinets for supplies. Granola bars of some generic brand. Towels. Napkins. A half-used roll of medical tape. I scrubbed my body clean as best I could. The slimy mucus like substance plopping with sickening burbles into the sink carried away by the water. My wounds needing to be addressed I started by pulling slivers of glass from the wound in my side, hissing with each pull. Blood welled, but I patched it with trembling hands. My body obviously pushing itself to the limit and with the fading of my adrenaline I began to relax.

  "This is so stupid. What kinda sick whack jobs abduct someone!' I groaned out.

  Someone had obviously knocked me out and tried some freaky experiment on me. At least that was the only guess that made any sort of sense.

  "Buncha sick fucks playing around as Dr Frankenstein and Jeffrey Dahmer." My raspy and high pitched voice was broken and dry.

  I sighed my eyes growing heavy "I need some sleep."

  I stumbled over to the couch grabbing one of the loose pillows

  And then I collapsed onto the couch.

  Naked. Exhausted.

  I curled into myself, a makeshift bandage clinging to my ribs. Sleep dragged me under like a tide, despite every instinct screaming that I should stay awake. Unfortunately I could resist no more as my eyes grew heavy with the comfort of the couch luring me to dream, gently I fell into a deep slumber.

  "KuKuKu..." a small sound barely a whisper.

  Above, in the quiet dark of the air vents, something moved.

  Not large. Not loud.

  But deeply, deeply wrong.

  A figure crept along the interior of the ventilation shaft, its movements fluid and unnatural. It was small, draped in a worn, yellowed cloak it's silhouette mouse like. Two long, crooked ears flopped as it moved. The face painted on the fabric was childlike and cartoonish: two wide black eyes, a jagged smile. Innocent.

  But it was a lie.

  Beneath the fabric, its true form was hunched and glistening, limbs too long, too thin, with claws that shimmered faintly in the dark. Its real eyes, hidden under the disguise, glowed faintly—not with light, but with want. It had found a new playmate and toy and this time it would not fail. Not like the others they had thrown away their lives to it, had called it monster had screamed and ran. It hated when they ran. It had worked so hard to be seen, to be loved, to be friends, but after they ruined his disguise he couldn't control himself. If they would reject him, reject his love, he would reject them and they would become his nourishment.

  He was Mimikyu and he would be denied no longer.

  It peered through the vent grate, down into the lounge where the one of his desire slept.

  Still.

  Breathing.

  Vulnerable.

  The creature didn’t move at first. It just stared. Unblinking.

  Then, with slow, delicate movements, it descended.

  The grate slid open without a sound. The haunted doll-creature dropped silently onto the top shelf of the cabinet, then crawled downward in a jerking, childlike mimicry of movement. It made no noise. It cast no shadow.

  It perched above on the back of the couch.

  And watched.

  As the boy shifted in his sleep, murmuring incoherently. A hand flopped over the edge of the couch.

  One of Mimikyu's limbs extended, just enough to brush its black claw against the boys knuckles. The touch was impossibly light, barely there. But the flickering light above reacted—buzzing louder, dimming, flaring.

  The creature flinched and withdrew, retreating into the darkness. But its gaze remained fixed.

  It moved in silence, skittering into the corner of the ceiling, clinging to the wall like a shadow. From there, it stretched out its influence—a creeping fog of emotion. Not a sound. Not a voice.

  But a presence.

  This was it Mimikyu was certain this time he would not fail. The boy was untainted by the white coats and their ignorant notions.

  He was pure.

  Heart unmarred by the expectations of others and not yet bonded too. Visions danced in his mind of the boy smiling at him.

  Calling him.

  Needing him.

  All he needed to do was simply fool the boy. His disguise was perfect and while he loathed the one he formed it based off, he wouldn't ignore the usefulness of the stupid creature. He had darkly chuckled as the All Devourer had trapped the foolish thing and feasted on its flesh.

  This was it, this boy would be his.

  He snaked one limb toward the floor, tracing lines in the dust, forming shapes—not letters, but something more primal. Symbols of ownership. Of attachment.

  On the far wall, beneath the half-dead lights, the darkness shifted.

  The word emerged, as if pressed into the surface by invisible hands:

  MINE!

  The lights dimmed further. The air grew cold. A nearby cabinet door creaked open just a hair, as if breathing.

  From deeper in the facility, a soft hiss echoed through the vents.

  A door had opened.

  Something was coming.

  The creature froze, its crooked ears twitching. Its painted face remained the same, but the air pulsed with agitation. One claw curled, then unfurled. Then it retreated.

  He would wait. Patience was his ally after all.

  Faster now. Silent. Back into the vent.

  Gone.

  By the time the outer hallway door creaked open, the lounge was still again only the gentle breaths of the boy inside. The flickering lights stuttered once more, the boy shifted in his sleep.

  The boy unaware.

  But not alone.