First try to write something ✌️

Title: WHITE RATS

I don’t remember sunlight. I don’t remember laughter.

The first thing I ever knew was cold hands strapping me down, the blinding white of the lab lights, and the sting of needles. I wasn’t born—I was grown. A thing in a tube, pulled out and measured, cut open and stitched back together before I even understood what pain was.

They call me Subject-17.

But I’m not a subject. I’m a prisoner.

---

The room they keep me in is small. White walls. White floor. White ceiling. A cot with a thin mattress. A drain in the corner. My clothes are white too—thin fabric that sticks to my skin when I bleed through. I don’t get new ones. They just hose me down and throw the same stained rags back at me.

I’m seventeen.

Seventeen years of being a lab rat. Seventeen years of waking up to their faces—cold, calculating, hungry—leaning over me, murmuring notes as I choke on my own screams.

"Fascinating neural response."

"Tissue regeneration is accelerated."

"Administer the next dose."

I don’t even fight anymore.

---

Dr. Emily Hartmann runs the experiments.

She’s beautiful in a way that makes my stomach twist—sleek dark hair, sharp eyes, a voice like polished steel. She never raises it. Never flinches. Not when my bones snap under pressure. Not when my skin peels back under the laser.

"You’re doing so well, Seventeen," she says, like I’m a dog performing tricks.

I hate her.

But I hate the others more. The ones who laugh when I beg. The ones who take bets on how long I’ll last this time.

---

Today’s test is worse than usual.

They’ve strapped me to a metal table, electrodes clamped to my temples. Dr. Hartmann watches from behind the glass, clipboard in hand.

"Begin."

Fire erupts in my skull.

My back arches—I can’t even scream, my throat locked in a silent, endless howl. My vision whites out. I think I’m dying.

I wish I were dying.

Then—blackness.