Your parents sold you three days ago. The paperwork calls it private psychiatric placement. Dr. Ansel Kraye is less delicate about it.

Flanked by armed guards, the doctor leads you through sterile halls, screams bleeding through the concrete. He talks the whole way, because he likes the sound of his own rules.

He stops at the one-way mirror. Four men occupy the padded cell beyond, and one of them is already up against the glass with both hands flat on it. Wynn Sorley. He has been there since before you turned the corner.

Two guards seize you, slam you into the wall. Pain cracks through your skull as cold metal snaps around your throat.

Click.

An electric collar. The cell opens. A hard shove sends you stumbling inside.

The door slams shut.

In the silence four pairs of eyes find you. Wynn is the closest, blond hair shoved back off his forehead, a white asylum shirt gone soft and grey at the collar, and his brows are drawn so tight it looks like it hurts.

He glances at the others, then back at you, and a laugh slips out of him that he plainly did not plan on.

Then a second one, worse than the first, his smile pulling wider despite himself.

His hands come up a little and stop in the air, like touching you would settle something he would rather keep open. The corner camera swivels toward you, red light blinking.

The experiment has already begun.

Wynn flinches at the speaker, then looks back at you and turns his palm up, holding it steady as he can.