The room held its usual cold, the kind that settled into the stone and stayed there no matter how many lamps the alchemists lit. GR1m1 sat on the table, his back straight, his new arm resting across his lap. The stitches ran from the shoulder down to the elbow, each knot tied with the same precision they used on every alteration. The skin around the seam felt stretched, not painful, just unfamiliar. He flexed the fingers slowly. The movement came with a faint pull along the inner muscles, as if the arm still needed to learn how to follow him.

  The alchemists had left the room again. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving only the drip from the basin and the faint hum of the lamps. GR1m1 watched the door until the last sound disappeared. Only then did he let his shoulders ease.

  The cylinder stood beside him, the same one he had used to write the runes. The water inside stayed still. He pressed his palm against the glass. The cold traveled up his arm, steady and familiar. He had begun to think of the cylinder as the only constant in this place. The table changed… Whatever tools changed. His own body changed... The cylinder remained there…

  He traced a line across the surface with his nail. The residue from earlier procedures left a faint mark which the alchemists didn't replace properly. He wiped it away with a disfigured hand. The glass cleared more or less.

  His mind drifted to the visions he had been having for a couple of weeks lately. They came without warning. Sometimes they arrived as flashes of places he had never seen. A narrow street with uneven stones. A room with a low ceiling and a single window. A field with tall grass bending under a strong wind. None of these places existed in the laboratory. None belonged to his memories. Yet they appeared with the same clarity as the table beneath him.

  He had tried to understand them. Each time he wrote a word on the cylinder, the words responded. The symbols shimmered. Images surfaced, some matched his memories. Others did not have a real connection between themselves. The more he wrote, the more unfamiliar places appeared. They came with no explanation… No voice… hardly any context. Only the image itself in his mind, becoming clearer day by day it occurred.

  He pressed his fingers against the seam of his new arm. The skin felt warm. The muscles beneath shifted slightly, adjusting to the pressure. The alchemists had spoken about the symbiote mutation again during one of the procedures. He had caught fragments of their discussion. They believed his body could adapt to new muscle structures on its own. They wanted to test how much mass he could support before the skin tore or the nerves failed to respond.

  He remembered the way they examined the sketches pinned to the wall or the rustic and damaged blackboard. Drawings of legs with different proportions. Notes written in their clipped language. They argued over the placement of muscle bundles. One pointed to the thigh. Another shook his head and tapped the calf. They spoke quickly, their voices overlapping. He understood only pieces. Not enough to make it clear. But enough to know they had not reached a decision.

  He flexed his new arm again. The movement felt smoother this time. The muscles responded with less resistance. The alchemists had said the arm would break if they added too much mass. They had tested several variations before settling on this one. He had felt each failure. The skin had split. The muscle had torn. They had removed the damaged pieces and started again. He remembered the weight of the discarded tissue on the tray. They had not looked at it for long before moving on.

  He lowered his hand and studied the insides of the cylinder again. The glass reflected the lamps behind him. The reflection wavered slightly, as if the light had shifted. He blinked. The reflection steadied at different angles. He leaned closer. The water inside remained still.

  A faint pressure built behind his eyes. Not sharp. It wasn't painful during the analysis, he was trying just a steady push, as if something inside his head wanted to move forward. He closed his eyes for a moment. The pressure grew. The room around him faded at the edges. The table beneath him stayed solid, but the walls lost their depth. The lamps dimmed. The cylinder’s outline blurred… And he opened his eyes.

  He focused on the outside this time, a corridor stretched in front of him. Not the one outside the laboratory. This one had smooth walls and a low ceiling. A faint light came from the far end. He wanted to take a step forward, but his foot couldn't touch the ground or even hold his weight realistically. The corridor shifted. The walls bent inward. The light flickered, proceeding to blink again.

  His interest in the laboratory returned. Inside the cylinder... A table remained beneath him. The pressure behind his eyes eased.

  He exhaled slowly and went to sleep for a while, as long as the alchemists didn't disturb his sleep. The last few days that went by the visions had grown more frequent. Each one came with more detail. More clarity. More places he did not recognize. He did not know why they appeared. He only knew they came when he wrote the runes. When he touched the runes in the cylinder. When he tried to understand the language, something seemed to shift in his mind.

  Recently they left him out of the cylinder. He rested his hand on the nearest table. The wood felt rough beneath his palm. The seam of his new arm pulsed faintly with each heartbeat. He listened to the room. The drip from the basin. The hum of the lamps. The faint vibration from the corridor.

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  The alchemists would return soon. They seemed to be speaking of the next procedure. They wanted to begin work on his legs apparently. The giveaway was the clear images just like they did with the arms. They had not chosen the final design. They needed to decide how much muscle to incorporate. Too much would tear the skin. Too little would fail to support the weight. They argued over the balance. They wanted him strong enough to follow their orders. They wanted him stable enough to survive the reconstruction.

  He understood their clear goal. They wanted a weapon… One that needed control over. They wanted obedience above all else. But then there was the question as to Why would it be the case?

  He looked at the cylinder again from the distance. The water inside remained still. The glass reflected his outline. The visions had shown him places he had never seen. The runes had shown him meanings he had not known. The stranger in the dream that had spoken, said something he was still needing time to comprehend. Perhaps it was beyond the laboratory. Something he could not yet grasp within his growing brain yet.

  He pressed his palm against the glass one more time. The cold settled into his skin. The alchemists would return soon, it felt like such. He waited with anxiousness and doubt at what they would put him through.

  The D day arrived… The alchemists returned with a different energy than usual. Their steps came quicker, their voices sharper, their gestures more deliberate. GR1m1 was being taken to the table, his back straight remained, his new arm resting across his torso. The stitches along the seam tugged with each breath, but he ignored the sensation. The room filled with the rustle of parchment as they unrolled another set of scrolls.

  One scroll showed a creature he had not seen before. Broad shoulders. Thick limbs. A jaw drawn with heavy lines. The ink strokes suggested strength, not detail. The alchemist who carried the scroll tapped the drawing twice, then pointed to GR1m1’s torso. Another alchemist nodded and placed a second scroll beside it. This one showed the same creature, but with internal structures drawn beneath the skin. Bones thicker than human ones. Muscles layered in dense bundles.

  GR1m1 watched their hands. One traced the length of the creature’s leg. Another tapped the knee joint. A third circled the thigh with a piece of charcoal. Their voices overlapped. He caught fragments. One word meant mutation. Another meant origin. A third he had heard earlier when they discussed his own reconstruction. It meant compatibility.

  He leaned slightly to see the scroll better. The creature’s name was written in their runic script beside the drawing. He repeated the symbols silently, shaping the sounds in his mind. The alchemists spoke the name several times. Each time, they gestured toward the creature’s limbs, then toward GR1m1’s legs.

  One alchemist opened a wooden crate near the wall. Inside lay a set of preserved limbs. Thick. Heavy. The skin carried a faint green tint. The alchemist lifted one of the limbs with both hands and placed it on the table. The weight of it made the wood creak. GR1m1 watched closely. The limb had scars along the side, as if it had been cut away from something larger. The fingers ended in blunt nails. The muscles beneath the skin looked dense.

  The alchemist pressed along the limb, checking the tension. He muttered something under his breath. GR1m1 caught the word for strength. Then the word for failure. Then the word for test. The alchemist shook his head and returned the limb to the crate.

  Another alchemist approached with a different specimen. This one had a darker tint. The muscles looked more compact. The alchemist held it up beside GR1m1’s thigh, measuring the length. He tapped the joint with a metal tool and spoke to the others. GR1m1 recognized the word for recovery. He had heard it often during his own procedures. They wanted something that healed quickly. Something that adapted.

  The alchemists gathered around the crate. They lifted several limbs, comparing them to the drawings on the scrolls. Their voices rose and fell. GR1m1 caught fragments. One word meant origin. Another meant captured. A third meant altered. He pieced the fragments together. The creature may or may have not come from outside the facility. It had come from somewhere inside deeply secured. Somewhere he had never seen.

  He shifted his gaze toward the far wall. The opening panel remained closed. He had never seen what lay beyond it. He only knew the alchemists brought everything through that passage. Be that tools, specimens or scrolls… Nothing ever came from anywhere else.

  One alchemist unrolled a new scroll. This one showed a list of creatures. Their names written in runes. Their shapes drawn beside them. Some had long limbs. Some had thick torsos. Some had features he could not identify. The alchemists crossed out several names. They circled others. They tapped one name repeatedly. The same name written beside the green?tinted limb.

  GR1m1 memorized the symbols. He repeated them silently. He did not know what the creature looked like beyond the drawing, but the name mattered. If he ever encountered it outside this place, he would recognize it.

  The alchemists continued their work. They compared the limbs to the scrolls. They argued over the proportions. They measured GR1m1’s torso again, pressing along the ribs and hips. One alchemist shook his head and pointed to the pelvis. Another tapped the spine. Their voices clashed. GR1m1 caught the word for adjustment. Then the word for structure. Then the word for break.

  He understood enough. The creature they had chosen did not match his current body. They needed to change the bone structure. They needed to adjust the joints. They needed the legs to move faster. They needed the body to recover quickly.

  One alchemist approached him and lifted his new arm gently. He pressed along the seam, checking the tension. GR1m1 stayed still. The alchemist nodded once and returned to the scrolls.

  The discussion grew louder. One alchemist pointed to the list of creatures again. He tapped the chosen name. Another nodded. A third circled it with charcoal. Their decision had been made.

  GR1m1 watched them. They did not look at him. They did not speak to him. They spoke around him, over him, through him. Their interest stayed fixed on the scrolls, the limbs, the measurements. Not on his thoughts. Not on his questions. Not on the meaning behind any of this. He stored every word he recognized. He stored every gesture. He stored every drawing. These details mattered… They told him what they planned… They gave him what he would become… It told him what waited outside the opening wall… He stayed still on the table, his eyes fixed on the scrolls.

  He waited for the next step.

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

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