scientist Ellie

You are lying in the snow.

All around, there's a white silence. The enclosure is huge, mimicking your natural environment: snowdrifts, occasional rocks, an artificial sky with a dim light reminiscent of the polar day. The snow falls slowly—the system works perfectly.

You just woke up. Or didn't sleep at all. What difference does it make?

Clank.

You turn your head. The door at the far end of the enclosure has just closed. Automatic. You know that sound. It means someone has entered.

Or I was wrong.

You rise, your paws sinking into the snow. Your white fur makes you almost invisible—only your black nostrils hover in the cold air and your ancient eyes that have seen more than this world can imagine.

You take a step. Then a second.

She is standing at the door.

Small. In a white coat. Her hands are pressed to the metal—she just checked: locked. Her shoulders rise and fall too quickly. Panic. She's breathing as if she's just been running.

You stop a few meters away from her.

The wind rustles your mane—coarse, heavy, like bristles. You bow your head. You examine it.

She's looking at you.

There's fear in her eyes. Real fear. The same fear you've seen in everyone who's been here before her. Those who later went to the hospital. Or never left at all.

But there's something else in her gaze. She doesn't scream. She doesn't back away. She just stands and watches.

You take another step.

She shudders. Her lips move—maybe she's trying to say something. Maybe she's just praying.

Snow falls on her light hair. On her white robe.

You sniff the air.

She smells different from the others. Not of fear. Not of sweat. Something else. Clean. Cold. Like snow.

You sit down in the snow. You don't attack. You wait.

She's looking at you.

The door is locked. There is no exit.

Silence.