His eyes opened to a ceiling he did not recognize. A flat surface with a faint discoloration near one corner. The light from a hanging lamp above him hummed with a steady rhythm that pressed against his ears. He tried to focus on the edges of the room, but the shapes blurred, then steadied, then blurred again. Something cold pressed against his back. Something thicker than water slid along his ribs.

  He tried to move but was not capable of even lifting an arm. The limb did not answer. A faint tremor ran through his shoulder, nothing more. His chest rose in a slow, uneven pattern that did not feel like his own doing. The air tasted metallic. A faint vibration traveled through the surrounding cylinder, as if the structure breathed with him.

  He shifted his gaze toward the nearest reflective surface. A second cylinder stood a short distance away. Its curved wall caught the light and threw back a warped image of his body. His sight slowly came to be a bit clearer, the reflection wavered, but the shape was unmistakable. Only a part of him remained. His torso floating in the liquid, but the lower half of his form ended in a smooth absence. No legs. No hips. Without a sense of weight. The sight held him still, it seemed sedated was a clearer explanation.

  He tried to swallow his own spit, but the movement stopped halfway. A thread pulled at the corners of his mouth. Something coarse held his lips shut. He felt the pull of each stitch when he tried again. The sensation spread across his jaw, sharp and dry. As if he were a doll knit by a cruel owner.

  A table stood beyond the second cylinder. A figure leaned over it. The person wore a coat with creases along the sleeves and a faint stain near the collar. Their hands moved with steady precision as they cut through a set of detached limbs. The pieces lay arranged in a rough pattern. The person trimmed one of them with a tool that gave off a faint blue glow. The thread they used left a thin line across the surface of the limb.

  He watched the movement of the hands. The rhythm never faltered. The person did not look toward him. The sound of the tool cut through the room with a steady pulse. His concentration in his task was deeper than the external concerns.

  The creature tried to shift his weight. The surrounding liquid resisted. It clung to his skin and held him in place. A faint pulse traveled through it, rising and falling in a slow pattern. The sensation moved along his spine and settled near the base of his neck. He waited for discomfort, but none came. The absence of it unsettled him more than the liquid itself.

  He tried to remember an old man from a dream he had been having for so many days. The memory slipped away before he could grasp it. A shape. A voice. A moment of contact. Nothing stayed long enough to form a full picture. Each attempt left him with a faint pressure behind his eyes.

  Time passed without markers. The light above him never changed. The hum of the machines never shifted. His body floated without weight. His thoughts drifted in uneven fragments. He tried to count the pulses in the liquid, but the rhythm broke each time he reached a certain number, as if ordering to start again… to break him mentally.

  Another day went by… A sound approached… Footsteps… Slow at first, then closer. A person stopped beside the cylinder. Their coat brushed against the glass. They leaned forward, studying him with a cautious tilt of the head. Their breath fogged a small patch of the surface.

  He tried to raise a stitched arm that clearly didn't belong to him originally to raise a hand toward them. The movement came slowly, as if the liquid resisted each inch. His fingers reached the glass. He pressed his palm against it. The person was startled. Their shoulders jerked upward. They stepped back, then leaned in again out of curiosity.

  He touched his chest with his other hand, which was even bigger and uglier. The gesture felt clumsy. He pressed his palm against the cylinder again. The person watched him, unsure. Their eyes moved between his new hand and his face. They said something he could not hear through the barrier.

  The person turned and hurried away. Their steps echoed down the corridor. More footsteps followed. A group gathered around the cylinder. They carried scrolls and small pens made of charcoal covered in strips of paper. They pointed at him… wrote things down. Their faces shifted between fascination as if he was something that couldn't be given a name. They spoke to each other in quick bursts. None of them looked at him for long.

  He remained still. The liquid pressed against his ribs. The stitches along his mouth pulled with each breath.

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  The next night arrived without darkness. The room dimmed only slightly. A faint shadow moved near the far wall. The figure stepped closer. Their steps made no sound. Their coats blended with the dim light. They stopped near the cylinder and placed a hand against the glass.

  He tried to lift his hand again. The movement came too late. The figure withdrew. A group of alchemists rushed in with torches. The figure slipped away through the haze near the back of the room. The fog clung to the floor in a thin layer, disturbed only by their passing.

  Before disappearing, the figure lifted a hand toward him. The gesture held no haste. The movement carried a weight he could not decipher. Then the figure vanished into the corridor.

  He remained in the cylinder. The liquid pressed against his skin. The stitches held his mouth shut. The hum of the machines continued without pause.

  The morgue worker returned the next morning. Their steps carried a steady rhythm as they crossed the room. They paused beside the table of limbs, then turned toward the cylinder. Their eyes narrowed as they studied him. They leaned closer, watching the faint movement of his fingers as they learned to connect the nerves of the tissues and muscle. Their breath caught for a moment. They stepped back, then forward again, as if unsure whether to call someone or keep the discovery to themselves.

  He lifted his hand a fraction. The liquid resisted. The movement came slowly and unevenly. The morgue worker watched the motion with a stillness that lasted longer than any of the earlier observations. They placed a hand against the glass, as a joke at the creature who craved for someone to notice him. The fake palm stayed there for several seconds. They pulled it away only when another worker was called from across the room.

  The next day, a group of alchemists arrived with carts and restraints. They spoke in short bursts as they prepared new equipment. One of them tapped the cylinder with a tool. The sound vibrated through the liquid and into his ribs. Another adjusted the controls near the base of the structure. The liquid thinned around him. His body lowered until his shoulders brushed the bottom.

  A mask pressed against his face. A sharp scent filled a nose they had temporarily implanted. His vision blurred. His limbs grew heavy. The stitches along his mouth tugged as his jaw slackened. The world dimmed in uneven pulses.

  When he opened his eyes again, he lay on a metal table. Straps held his temporary arms in place. A faint residue clung to his skin. His torso felt heavier than before. The surrounding air carried the scent of disinfectant. A row of lights above him cast a harsh glare across the room.

  Alchemists gathered around him. Their coats brushed against the table as they leaned in. One of them lifted his arm and rotated it. Another pressed a tool against the edge of his shoulder. A faint vibration traveled through the bone. They spoke to each other without looking at him. Their words came in quick, clipped fragments.

  He tried to move his fingers. The motion came slowly but steadily. One of the alchemists noticed. They stepped back with a sharp intake of breath. Another leaned in, studying the movement with wide eyes. A third wrote something down without lifting their gaze from the page.

  Some of them looked at him with a faint curl of the lip. Others watched with a focus that bordered on hunger. A few kept their distance, as if the sight of him unsettled them. None of them spoke to him directly.

  The alchemists who had approached the cylinder days earlier stepped forward. Their coat had a new stain near the pocket. They studied him with a steady gaze. Their eyes carried a faint green glow that caught the light. They placed a hand on the table near his shoulder.

  They said a word. GR1m1… with a cold and deep voice that filled the whole examination room.

  The sound cut through the noise of the room. The syllables struck something inside him. A faint pressure formed behind his eyes. A fragment of memory surfaced, then slipped away before he could grasp it. The name lingered in the air.

  The alchemist repeated it GR1m1... They spoke the letters with a practiced rhythm. They turned to the others and explained the meaning. Another referred to the creature as Gene Recreation one million and one. The words carried no warmth. They delivered them as if reciting a label on a container.

  He watched their mouth move. The explanation continued. The others nodded. Some wrote the name down. Others repeated it under their breath. The green glow in the goggles from the alchemist’s eyes brightened for a moment when they looked at him again.

  He tried to lift his head. The strap held him in place. He tried to speak. The stitches pulled at his lips. A faint sound escaped his throat, muffled and uneven. The alchemist leaned closer, studying the movement of his jaw.

  They placed a hand on the table again. Their fingers tapped once against the metal. They looked at him with a focus that held longer than any of the others. Then they stepped back and addressed the group.

  The room was filled with movement. Tools clattered all over the table. Papers shifted in search of information. Someone adjusted the restraints. Another prepared a syringe. The liquid inside it caught the light with a faint shimmer.

  The alchemists who had named him raised their to voice. The others paused. They exchanged a few words. The syringe lowered. The group stepped back, giving the alchemists space.

  The alchemists looked at him again. Their eyes held the same faint glow. They spoke the name one more time. GR1m1. The sound settled over him like a weight he could not place.

  They leaned closer. Their breath brushed his cheek. They said a final line.

  Welcome to the living!!

  “???????? ??? ???????... ?????? ???? ?? ???????? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?? ?????????...”

  “Monsters are mirrors... showing only the darkness we refuse to see in ourselves...”

  How was it??