Luna was invited to the laboratory of a biotechnology company to conduct human experiments, after all, this biotechnology company has done many biological experiments that annihilate humanity in the shadows, Luna joined them is simply to their liking, Luna put forward a requirement that one person must do the experiment in the laboratory, and the company will also arrange a place to live. The company's laboratory is 30 kilometers outside the outskirts of a small town, and perhaps the pit also has many secrets.
Luna stirred in the dim light filtering through the cracked blinds of her apartment, the kind of place where the walls seemed to absorb every sound except the distant hum of the city below. It was barely dawn, but sleep had eluded her again, replaced by that familiar itch crawling under her skin. She reached for the nightstand, fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the small vial. The pills inside rattled like tiny accusations, but she didn't care. Not anymore.
She popped two into her mouth, dry-swallowing them with a grimace. The bitterness hit her tongue, but she knew the rush would follow soon enough. While waiting, she lit a cigarette, drawing deeply, the smoke curling into her lungs like an old friend. One wasn't enough; she chained through half a pack, the ashtray overflowing with butts by the time the chemicals kicked in. Her heart raced, a steady drumbeat that drowned out the doubts whispering in the back of her mind.
The high sharpened everything—the texture of the sheets against her skin, the faint scent of stale coffee from the kitchen, the heat building low in her belly. It always started like this, a side effect she couldn't ignore. She slid a hand down her body, eyes closing as she gave in to the urge. It wasn't gentle; it was frantic, almost punitive, her breaths coming in sharp gasps. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, her body arching and twisting until release washed over her, leaving her spent and slick with sweat. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the cigarette smoke still lingering in the air like a haze of regret.
But there was no time for that. Work called. She dragged herself out of bed, showering quickly under cold water to shake off the remnants of indulgence. Dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans, she grabbed her bag and headed out, the city streets awakening around her. The lab wasn't far, tucked away in an unassuming warehouse on the outskirts, a place no one would think twice about. It was her sanctuary, her prison, depending on the day.
The door creaked open under her keycard, the sterile air inside a stark contrast to the chaos of her morning. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she made her way to the prep room, flipping on switches and booting up monitors. The experiment today was one she'd been building toward for weeks, a culmination of theories scribbled in notebooks during sleepless nights. It involved pushing the human body—and mind—to its limits, testing resilience in ways that ethics boards would never approve. But ethics were for those who feared the truth.
In the holding cell, strapped to a metal chair under harsh lights, was the subject. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with tousled dark hair and a build that suggested he hit the gym regularly—strong, but not invincible. His eyes darted around the room when she entered, wide with a mix of confusion and fear. He'd been acquired through channels she didn't like to think about, a volunteer who thought this was just another clinical trial for quick cash. Poor fool.
"Morning," she said casually, as if they were acquaintances bumping into each other at a coffee shop. She set her bag down and began unpacking instruments: syringes, electrodes, a small device that hummed faintly when activated.
He strained against the restraints. "What the hell is this? Let me go! I didn't sign up for—"
"You signed the waiver," she interrupted, her voice steady, almost bored. "Page three, paragraph two. 'Potential risks include physical discomfort and psychological stress.' You initialed it."
His face paled. "This isn't discomfort. This is kidnapping!"
She smiled faintly, not meeting his eyes as she prepared the first injection. "Semantics. Now, let's get started. I need baseline readings."
The experiment was designed to explore pain thresholds and neural responses under extreme conditions. It wasn't just about inflicting hurt; it was about mapping how the brain rewired itself in response, how adrenaline and endorphins danced on the edge of breaking. She'd theorized that with the right cocktail of stimulants and suppressants, she could force the body to adapt in real-time, potentially unlocking new avenues for medical advancements—or so she told herself. Deep down, it was more personal, a way to confront her own demons through someone else's suffering.
She attached electrodes to his temples, chest, and arms, the cold gel making him flinch. A monitor beeped to life, displaying vital signs in glowing green lines. "Heart rate elevated," she noted aloud, more for her recording than for him. "That's expected."
"Please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I have a family. A sister. She's waiting for me."
She paused, syringe in hand, the needle glinting under the lights. For a split second, something flickered in her—a memory of her own sibling, lost years ago to an accident she couldn't prevent. But she pushed it down, the drugs from earlier still buzzing in her veins, sharpening her focus. "Everyone has someone," she replied coolly. "It doesn't change the science."
The first phase was chemical. She injected a serum into his vein, a custom blend that amplified nerve sensitivity. He gasped as it hit his system, his body jerking involuntarily. "What is that? It burns!"
"Neurological enhancer," she explained, watching the monitors spike. "It'll make everything... more intense."
As the minutes ticked by, she ramped up the stimuli. Electrical pulses through the electrodes, starting low and building. He gritted his teeth at first, sweat beading on his forehead. "Stop... please stop."
She didn't. Notes flew from her pen onto the clipboard: "Subject exhibits initial resistance at 50 milliamps. Vocalizations begin at 75."
By the time they hit 100, he was screaming, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. It was raw, primal, the kind of noise that should have shaken her. But she'd heard it before, in variations, from others who'd sat in that chair. Each one taught her something new—about endurance, about the fragility of the human spirit.
Intermission came after an hour. She gave him water, laced with a mild sedative to keep him coherent but compliant. His eyes were glassy, breaths ragged. "Why are you doing this?"
She sat across from him, lighting another cigarette despite the no-smoking signs she'd ignored for years. "Because the world needs answers. Pain isn't just suffering; it's data. And data saves lives."
He laughed bitterly, a choked sound. "You're insane."
"Maybe," she conceded, exhaling smoke. "But insanity built empires."
The second phase involved isolation. She dimmed the lights, leaving him in near-darkness with a headset piping in dissonant sounds—whispers, screams, echoes of his own voice begging for mercy, looped and distorted. It was psychological warfare, designed to erode his sense of self. She monitored from the adjacent room, sipping coffee that tasted like ash.
Hours passed. He broke down, sobbing, pleading for his mother, for anyone. When she re-entered, he was a shell, mumbling incoherently.
"Phase three," she announced, though he barely registered her words. This was the cruelest part: forced choice. She presented him with two buttons—one would end the pain immediately but administer a lethal dose to an unseen "other subject" (a bluff, but he didn't know that). The other prolonged his torment but spared the fictional life.
His hand hovered, trembling. Tears streamed down his face. "I can't... I won't..."
"You will," she said softly. "Everyone does."
In the end, he pressed the first button, collapsing in guilt as simulated alarms blared. She noted it all: the hesitation time, the physiological response. It confirmed her hypothesis—survival instincts trump morality under duress.
As the day wore on, she pushed further: temperature extremes, sensory deprivation alternating with overload. His body convulsed, skin blistered in places from controlled burns. She documented every twitch, every cry, her own hands steady despite the exhaustion creeping in.
By evening, he was barely conscious, vital signs flickering on the edge. She administered a reversal agent, stabilizing him enough to survive. "Experiment concluded," she murmured, unplugging the machines.
He'd live, scarred but alive. That's what she told herself as she cleaned up, the lab falling silent once more. Outside, the sun had set, the city lights twinkling like indifferent stars.
Luna locked the door behind her, the weight of the day settling on her shoulders. Another cigarette, another pill to chase away the ghosts. Tomorrow, there'd be analysis, papers to write in secret. But for now, the high from the morning lingered, mixing with the thrill of discovery. It was a dangerous cocktail, one that kept her going.
She walked home under the streetlamps, the man's screams echoing faintly in her mind. Not regret, exactly—just the price of progress.
The apartment felt emptier than usual when she returned. She stripped off her clothes, the scent of antiseptic clinging to her skin, and collapsed onto the bed. Sleep came fitfully, dreams haunted by faces from past experiments. In one, the young man stared at her accusingly, his eyes mirroring her own emptiness.
Morning arrived too soon, the cycle beginning anew. Pills, smoke, the insistent pull of desire that she sated mechanically. Then, back to the lab. There was always another subject, another question begging to be answered.
But today felt different. As she prepared for the next session—a variation on yesterday's protocol—she caught her reflection in a monitor screen. Hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes. Was this progress, or just a slow unraveling?
She shook it off, focusing on the task. The new subject was older, but the method remained the same. Restraints, electrodes, the dance of pain and data.
Yet midway through, something shifted. The man's pleas hit a nerve, reminding her of a time before the lab, before the drugs numbed the edges. A life with purpose beyond this.
She halted the current, her finger hovering over the switch. "Enough," she whispered.
He looked up, bewildered. "What?"
"I'm stopping this." Her voice trembled for the first time in years.
Releasing him was risky—he could talk, expose everything. But as she helped him to his feet, a strange calm settled over her. The drugs' buzz faded, leaving clarity in its wake.
They left together, slipping into the night. She didn't know what came next—redemption, perhaps, or ruin. But for once, the experiment was on her terms.
The city swallowed them, two shadows among millions. And in the quiet, Luna wondered if this was the real breakthrough.