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"How much time do I have?" The question emerges with calculated precision—not whether I'll be permitted to attempt, but practical details of implementation.

"One week," he states, the timeframe clearly predetermined rather than negotiated. "Sufficient for final medical clearance and necessary preparatory protocols."

"Fine." I accept without haggling, knowing additional demands must be carefully selected. "But I want no cameras. No audience beyond those directly involved in evaluation."

He laughs then—genuine amusement breaking through the corporate facade. "You think this is the Hunger Games? Public entertainment disguised as a selection process?"

"If the comparison fits," I shrug with deliberate casualness. "As long as I get what I want in the end, the specifics of methodology remain negotiable."

His expression shifts subtly, calculation replacing amusement as he leans forward across the desk.

"One rule will change from your previous attempt," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial level.

"Which is?" I ask, warning signals flaring despite my outward calm.

"You'll need five alphas to complete the final level," he states, satisfaction evident as he delivers this critical modification. "You know which level I'm referring to, yes?"

The implications cascade through my mind with devastating clarity.

Level Minus Four—the theoretical escape point that proved an elaborate trap during our previous attempt. The level is designed to test not individual capability but pack dynamics and compatibility under extreme stress.

Last time, I had four carefully selected alphas—each chosen for specific capabilities that complemented the overall strategy.

Now Press demands five—an additional variable in an equation already balanced on a knife's edge.

I offer a single, silent nod of acknowledgment, mind already racing through possible adaptations to this unexpected parameter change.

He settles back in his chair, satisfaction evident in his posture.

"Good. Follow that requirement, and everything will proceed fairly." His lips curve in what might charitably be called a smile. "Or at least, as fairly as circumstances permit."

Something tickles my nose suddenly—a strange tingling sensation that intensifies with alarming speed. I wrinkle my face against the unexpected stimulus before a sneeze escapes without warning.

"Bless you," Press offers with automatic politeness, but the words sound strangely distant, as if reaching me through increasing layers of separation.

Alarm bells ring with deafening clarity as my body begins registering systematic changes—limbs growing heavy with inexplicable weight, vision blurring at the edges, thoughts becoming sluggish despite desperate attempts to maintain focus.

The water.

It was the goddamn water.

Press sighs with exaggerated patience as he registers my rapidly deteriorating condition. He reaches for a tablet on his desk, fingers moving across its surface with practiced efficiency.

When he turns the screen toward me, the message displayed carries perfect clarity despite my increasingly compromised vision:

"You'll start now and ensure the true threat doesn't catch you, Patient 496, or you'll be ours... permanently."

Before I can process this revelation, he turns the tablet away, adding something with quick, precise movements. When the screen faces me again, the additional text sends ice through my veins despite the numbness spreading through my extremities:

"And those Alphas you're addicted to will be slain before your eyes."

I try to respond—to call him every vile name my extensive vocabulary contains, to threaten retribution that would make his worst nightmares seem like pleasant daydreams.

But my body refuses to obey basic commands, muscles going slack as control evaporates with terrifying speed.

My vision darkens from the periphery inward, consciousness retreating before an advancing tide of chemical sedation I should have anticipated.

The last thing I register before darkness claims me completely is Press's satisfied expression—the look of a man who believes he's maintained perfect control over a situation that threatened to escape institutional parameters.

If only he understood I planned for this betrayal from the beginning.

The thought follows me into darkness as consciousness surrenders to shadows that somehow feel like old friends rather than enemies.

Consciousness returns in fragmented pieces—sensory information arriving in disjointed bursts rather than a coherent stream.

Cold seeps through thin fabric, suggesting an institutional floor rather than the office chair I last remember.

Voices murmur at the edge of awareness, clinical tones discussing "subject response" and "accelerated processing" without addressing me directly.

I maintain the appearance of continued unconsciousness while slowly cataloging my circumstances through other senses.

The antiseptic smell confirms a medical setting rather than standard containment.

The subtle vibration beneath me suggests a transport platform rather than a stationary examination table.

The occasional mechanical beep marks monitoring equipment tracking vital signs with institutional precision.

They're moving me. Preparing me for whatever "starting now" entails.

"Neuromuscular blockers clearing faster than anticipated," a female voice observes from my left. "Core temperature stabilizing within acceptable parameters."

"Maintain standard monitoring protocols," a male voice responds, authority evident despite conversational volume. "Director Press was explicit about procedural requirements for this subject."

"But the accelerated timeline—" the female voice begins, concern evident.

"Is not open for discussion," the male voice interrupts with finality. "The Parazodiac protocol modifications have been authorized at the highest level. Our responsibility is implementation, not evaluation."

Their conversation continues, but I focus on gathering more essential information about my current position and potential escape routes.

The gentle sway of the transport platform suggests corridor movement rather than elevator transition. The air carries a slightly different composition than upper levels—higher humidity, trace mineral content indicating deeper subterranean positioning.

They're taking me down. Bypassing standard intake protocols in favor of direct placement.

The realization carries both tactical advantage and concern.

Skipping the preliminary evaluation means avoiding repetitive testing and psychological conditioning designed to establish baseline parameters. But it also means entering higher-difficulty levels without appropriate preparation or resource acquisition normally available in earlier stages.

The platform slows its movement, suggesting arrival at the designated destination. I maintain perfect stillness despite a growing urge to assess my surroundings visually, knowing premature display of consciousness would trigger additional sedation protocols.

"Transfer authorization Blackwood-496-Omega," the male voice announces to what must be security checkpoint personnel. "Priority clearance Nexus-Seven."

A moment of silence follows— presumably security verification procedures —before mechanical sounds indicate barrier disengagement. The platform resumes motion momentarily before coming to complete stop.

"Prepare for transfer to containment unit," the female voice instructs someone not previously part of the conversation. "Standard restraint protocols apply despite unconscious state. This subject has demonstrated exceptional recovery capabilities and adaptation to chemical sedation."

The warning almost draws a smile despite my careful maintenance of apparent unconsciousness.

They've learned from previous encounters that standard parameters fail to predict my responses— a small victory in ongoing psychological warfare between institution and subject.

Hands grasp my limbs with clinical efficiency, transferring my unresisting form from transport platform to what feels like a standard containment bed.

Restraints secure wrists and ankles with practiced movements, the material feeling slightly different from upper-level equipment—reinforced synthetics rather than standard institutional restraints.

"Monitoring systems activated," a new voice announces from somewhere near my feet. "Vital signs transmitting to central observation station. Recovery timeline projected at forty-three minutes before full motor function returns."

They consistently underestimate recovery rates. The actual timeline closer to twenty-seven minutes based on previous sedation response patterns.

The knowledge provides a tactical advantage that I carefully file away for upcoming requirements. Better they believe me incapacitated longer than actual recovery permits—creates an opportunity window for assessment before they realize full consciousness has returned.

"Observation team withdrawing," the authoritative male voice announces. "Automated systems will maintain standard monitoring until the subject demonstrates consciousness. At that point, orientation protocols will initiate via the communication system."

Footsteps retreat from the immediate vicinity, followed by the distinctive sound of the security door engaging multiple locking mechanisms. The space falls into relative silence, broken only by the soft hum of monitoring equipment and barely perceptible airflow through ventilation systems.

I wait precisely ninety seconds after the last audible human presence before allowing eyelids to flutter open, ensuring no immediate observation prevents initial environmental assessment.

The ceiling above features standard institutional lighting recessed into panels that prevent access to electrical systems or structural components that might serve as escape implements.