BEHOLD, THE PRODUCT OF 10 MINUTES AND NOTEPAD.
A dense fog filled a small, dark room. The lackluster walls of this aforementioned room were made out of bricks painted a dull blue, the floors a
boring linoleum. The floor was peculiar, it was coated in a slippery, grey substance that seemingly camefrom nowhere, even after cleaning. There were no lights of any description; the only light in this room came in through a small glass window on the large blast door marking the entrance. A breathy voice of a seemingly old man crackled over the intercom in the room, coming from a small speaker in the corner.
"Wakey-wakey."
A malnourised man sitting in the corner stirred, and let out a low gargling noise. His face was stretched across his bony features. He wore no shirt, and all of his ribs were clearly outlined. His only attire was a pair of dark denim jeans that were torn up at the legs. He posessed small, beady eyes that gave off a dim white glow, illuminating the fog around him. His gaze shifted to the door, but no living being was in sight. Hoisting himself to his feet, he propped himself up on the wall and ran his hands through his patchy, dark hair, thinking about how he was going to get out.
"Good, you're up." The speaker shifted over to the side, causing a rustle through the microphone. He called over to his team-mates, "relocate him."
The door let out a loud hissing of pneumatics, and split into two parts. Several gangly-looking men in orange jumpsuits stood through the door, looking at the poor inhabitant of the room.
Within a second, the man was gone.
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