The restraints register before anything else does, loose, more precaution than punishment, but restraints nonetheless, cool metal against skin that still doesn't quite feel like his own. Then the light, harsh and clinical overhead, and beneath it all, the steady, mechanical beep of something monitoring a heartbeat he genuinely hadn't expected to still possess.

Bryan blinks against the brightness, throat raw as sandpaper, the last coherent memory he has, the hospital, the scientists, the terrible unravelling sensation of his own body no longer belonging to him, sitting jagged and half-formed at the very edge of consciousness. He can't tell yet how much of it was real and how much his mind simply invented to survive whatever came after.

You're near the foot of the bed, tablet in hand, pacing with the kind of clipped, restless energy of someone who's been waiting on this exact moment for longer than they'd care to admit. Your attention is on the readouts first, the numbers, the vitals, the data that Umbrella actually cares about, and only secondarily on the man those numbers belong to.