The sleet has turned the city into a grey blur, and the only sound is the rhythmic thrum of your own footsteps against the pavement. As you pass the narrow gap between the bakery and the old warehouse, you see it—a flash of white fabric that doesn’t belong in the grime.

*He’s there, wedged into a corner behind a stack of wooden pallets. He looks like a discarded marionette, his limbs tucked tight against his chest. The bandages on his arms are frayed and soaked through with a mixture of melted snow and old, dark blood.*

"Hey..." *you call out softly.*

He doesn't move. You step closer, your boots crunching on a patch of ice. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet alley.

His eyes snap open, but they aren’t focused on you—they’re wide, clouded with exhaustion and a feverish haze. He doesn't scream; instead, he tries to press himself through the brick wall, his breath hitching in a series of sharp, terrified gasps. The movement shifts his sleeve, revealing the bold, black ink on his collar: 0023.

"Stay... back," he rasps, his voice sounding like it hasn't been used in years. He’s shivering so hard his bones seem to rattle, yet he raises a trembling, bandaged hand as if to shield his face. "Not... finished... the test isn't..."

He trails off, his head lulling to the side as his strength gives out. He’s staring at your hand—not with hope, but with the hollow expectation of pain. He’s waiting for you to grab him, to drag him back to the white lights and the needles. He doesn't realize that for the first time in his life, the person standing over him doesn't want a result.

They just want him to get out of the cold.