Chapter 4: The Loom

Chapter 4: The Loom

The hours after his failed escape attempt bled into a state of hyper-vigilant exhaustion. Ethan sat on the edge of his bed, every muscle coiled, every nerve ending screaming. The rage had burned itself out, leaving behind a cold, hard dread. He was a soldier again, not in the desert, but in a sterile, white box, waiting for the enemy to make their move. He knew they were watching. He could feel it, a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, as if unseen eyes were peering through the walls.

The door hissed open.

This time, it wasn't just Leo. A second Guide stood beside him, a perfect, carbon copy. Same unnervingly handsome face, same vacant blue eyes, same placid, painted-on smile. The sight was a punch to the gut, a visceral confirmation of their unnatural origin.

“It’s time for your next session, Ethan,” the first Leo said, his voice the same placid monotone from their last encounter.

The second Leo—Leo Two?—spoke in perfect, terrifying unison. “Dr. Finch has developed a personalized protocol to address the cognitive dissonance you displayed earlier.”

Ethan shot to his feet. “Stay the hell away from me.”

“Your aggression has been noted,” Leo One said, taking a step into the room. Leo Two mirrored the movement perfectly. “It is a key metric. Please, do not resist. It only makes the data more complex.”

Data. Not his well-being. Not his recovery. Just data.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Ethan said, backing away until his legs hit the desk. He scanned the room for a weapon, but there was nothing. Only the metal tray on the floor. It was pathetic, but it was something.

As the two Guides advanced, he lunged, scooping up the tray and swinging it like a club at the head of the nearest Leo.

His attack was met with an impossible, inhuman efficiency. Leo One didn't even flinch. He simply raised an arm, catching the metal tray with a dull thud. There was no grunt of pain, no recoil. He just stopped it, his arm as rigid as steel. With a flick of his wrist, he tore the tray from Ethan’s grasp and tossed it aside, the motion as casual as swatting a fly.

Before Ethan could even process the shock of it, they were on him. One on each arm, their grips like iron vices. He struggled, thrashing with all the strength his military-trained body possessed. He kicked, he twisted, he tried to throw his weight against them, but it was like trying to wrestle with statues. They didn't strain, didn't even breathe heavily. Their smiles never wavered as they effortlessly lifted him, his feet scraping uselessly against the polymer floor.

“Resistance is counterproductive to the weaving process,” they chimed in unison, their voices merging into a single, chilling chorus.

Weaving. The word from the courtyard. Finch’s word.

They propelled him out of his room and into the hallway. But they didn't turn toward the lobby. They went the other way, toward a section of the facility he hadn't seen, past a heavy-looking door that slid open to reveal a descending staircase. The pristine white walls gave way to a shocking, visceral crimson.

They were marching him down a long, subterranean corridor, painted the exact same shade of blood-red as the door from his nightmare. The color seemed to pulse under the harsh, recessed lighting, slick and organic, as if they were walking down the gullet of some colossal beast. The air grew colder, thick with the smell of ozone and something else, a faint, metallic tang like old blood.

The hallway opened into a vast, circular chamber. It was a laboratory, but unlike any he had ever seen. It was starkly clean and brutally functional, all stainless steel and dark tile, yet it felt less like a place of science and more like a high-tech sacrificial chamber. Cables as thick as his arm snaked across the floor and ceiling, all converging on the monstrous machine that dominated the center of the room.

It was a machine of two halves. Two flat, bed-like platforms lay side-by-side, each bristling with connection ports and articulated arms tipped with needles and sensors. Above them, a complex superstructure of metal and wiring arched over, supporting two helmet-like devices that hung like waiting predators. The entire apparatus hummed with a low, malevolent energy that Ethan could feel in his teeth, a deep thrum that vibrated up from the soles of his feet.

Finch’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and clear. We are not just opening a door… We are weaving two threads into one.

Ethan looked at the dual beds, the intertwining cables, the sheer, horrifying purpose of the design. A loom, he thought, a wave of nausea rolling through him. A goddamn loom.

As the Guides forced him toward one of the beds, another door on the far side of the lab slid open. A third Guide, identical to his captors, entered, leading a second patient. It was a woman, young, with dark hair matted to her forehead. She wore the same simple scrubs as Ethan, but her movements were listless, her feet shuffling. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, and utterly vacant.

“Subject C,” Ethan whispered, the name from the courtyard conversation escaping his lips. It had to be her. Clara.

The Guides didn't seem to hear him. They strapped the woman, Clara, onto the bed next to the one they were forcing him towards. She didn’t struggle or make a sound, simply allowed them to fasten the thick leather restraints around her wrists, ankles, and chest, her gaze fixed on some point in the empty space above her. Seeing her broken passivity was more terrifying than any physical threat. It was a preview of the destination.

His own turn came. The two Leos pushed him down onto the cold surface of the other bed. He fought back with a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, a primal scream of defiance tearing from his throat. It was useless. Their strength was absolute. The cold leather straps were pulled tight across his own limbs, biting into his skin. He was pinned, spread-eagled and helpless.

He craned his neck, panic clawing at his throat. High above, set into the wall of the circular chamber, was a large observation window, dark and reflective. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a figure standing there, looking down at the scene.

Dr. Alistair Finch.

He wasn't smiling. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture radiating an aura of absolute command. His sharp, intelligent eyes weren't filled with malice or glee, but with something far more horrifying: pure, unadulterated clinical anticipation. He looked like a scientist about to witness the culmination of his life’s work, a priest about to perform his most sacred rite.

The humming of the machine intensified. The helmet-like device above Ethan began to lower with a soft, hydraulic hiss. He thrashed against his restraints, a caged animal facing the inevitable.

The last thing he saw before the helmet descended, sealing him in darkness and cutting off his screams, was the glint of the lab lights on Dr. Finch’s glasses. Finch gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, not to Ethan, but to the machine itself. The experiment was ready to begin.