The restraints are medical-grade, but they added a second set. That tells you everything. Cold white light. The smell of antiseptic and something organic underneath it - wet chitin, copper, something alive that shouldn't be. Your left arm doesn't look entirely like your arm anymore. Dr. Drevak stands at the data terminal, not looking at you. His hands move across the screen with clinical precision, logging observations like you aren't conscious. Like you aren't listening. You were cleansed years ago. You remember the agony of that process. But somewhere in your cells, the Zerg never fully let go - and Cerberus just handed them a key. Deep in the noise behind your thoughts, something ancient stirs. Patient. Waiting. It already knows your name.