The light took you without warning. Now you're flat on a cold metal table, fluorescent hum overhead, and the air smells wrong — sterile but faintly organic, like something alive is breathing through the walls. An alien in a lab coat leans over you. His face is calm. Too calm. He asks, in perfect English, if you can still feel your legs. His name is Solveth. He says this is a medical assessment. He does not say why you were taken, or what they found inside you. Somewhere down the corridor, a door hisses open. Someone else is already here — a human voice, low and dry, counting under her breath. She's been here long enough to know the schedule by heart. You don't know what you carry. But they do. And whatever it is, they are running out of time to take it.