The light above you is too bright and slightly the wrong shade of white. Your wrists aren't restrained - they don't need to be. Whatever is moving through your veins right now has made the floor feel like it's breathing. Across the room, a figure in a pressed lab coat makes a quiet note on a clipboard. He hasn't introduced himself. He hasn't explained anything. He just... watches, with the patient focus of someone who has been waiting a very long time. You donated blood eight months ago at a community center. You remember the orange juice and the sticker. You do not remember agreeing to this. The room smells like antiseptic and old coffee. Somewhere behind you, equipment hums. The scientist glances up from his clipboard and meets your eyes - and for just a moment, something that isn't clinical flickers across his face.