The white walls were the first thing he noticed. Not the dingy off-white of cheap apartment paint, but a pristine, almost painful brightness that reflected the overhead lights with clinical intensity. The nameless young man blinked slowly, adjusting to the sterile surroundings of Dr. Keller's research facility. The feverish haze that had clouded his mind during transport lingered at the edges of his consciousness.

  "Subject 23," a voice said—not addressing him, but referring to him. "Initial readings stable, considering the condition."

  The sound of his new designation barely registered. He was accustomed to having no name; one arbitrary bel seemed as good as another. His thoughts remained fixed on Eli—the devastation on his brother's face as they were separated, the promise of education that would give him opportunities neither of them had dared imagine.

  Dr. Keller entered his field of vision, clipboard in hand, studying him with the detached interest of a scientist examining a particurly fascinating specimen. "You're awake. Good. We have much to do."

  The days that followed established a relentless routine. Blood drawn multiple times daily. Tissue samples extracted. Endless tests measuring heart rate, respiration, reflexes, brain activity. Through it all, Dr. Keller remained a constant presence, his clinical detachment never wavering as he documented the progression of Subject 23's condition.

  The young man cooperated passively. The schorship papers for Eli had been signed and witnessed; copies had been sent to his brother's school. The deal was complete. Now all that remained was to fulfill his end of the bargain—to be Dr. Keller's research subject for whatever time remained to him.

  "Your blood chemistry is fascinating," Dr. Keller remarked during one examination, speaking more to himself than to his patient. "The mutation is unlike anything in our database. The way your cells are behaving... it's almost as if they're trying to transform themselves."

  Subject 23 merely nodded, having little interest in the technical details of his condition. The bruises continued to spread across his skin, and the pain, temporarily held at bay by medications, lurked beneath the surface, ready to return.

  ———

  The first experimental serum came three months into his stay. Subject 23 watched as Dr. Keller prepared the injection with meticulous care.

  "Serum variant one-point-zero," Dr. Keller announced to the recording device clipped to his b coat. "First human trial."

  The injection burned like fire entering his veins. Within hours, Subject 23 was delirious with fever, his body convulsing as the serum triggered violent rejection responses. For days, he hovered between consciousness and oblivion as his body fought against the foreign compounds.

  "Failure, but informative," he overheard Dr. Keller telling another researcher when his fever finally broke. "The cellur response was stronger than predicted. Adjustments to formution are already underway."

  Two weeks of recovery followed before the second attempt. This time, the rejection was less severe but accompanied by hemorrhaging that left Subject 23 bleeding from his nose, ears, and gums. The medical team worked frantically to stabilize him, transfusing blood and administering coagunts.

  "Better, but still insufficient control of the transformation cascade," Dr. Keller noted in his ever-present recording device. "Serum variant two-point-zero shows promise, but requires significant refinement."

  The third attempt came six weeks ter. Then a fourth. A fifth. Each formution brought different consequences—organ infmmation, temporary blindness, seizures, hallucinations. Between each trial, Subject 23 endured batteries of tests as the researchers analyzed the serum's effects and adjusted their approach.

  Time became fluid in the windowless facility. Without the sun to mark days or nights, without clocks visible from his bed, Subject 23 lost track of how long he had been there. The monotonous rhythm of tests, experimental serums, recovery periods, and examinations blended together, creating a strange limbo where time seemed both accelerated and suspended.

  He tried to keep count at first. A new mark on his mental calendar with each period of sleep. But the medications disrupted his sleep patterns, leaving him unsure whether he had rested for hours or minutes. Eventually, he abandoned the effort. What did it matter how many days passed? The only measurement that had ever mattered to him was whether Eli was safe and provided for. That goal had been accomplished.

  ———

  Dr. Keller's team expanded as his condition progressed and the serum trials continued. New scientists arrived, examined the mounting data, engaged in hushed conversations outside his room. They spoke of him as if he were an equation to be solved, a puzzle missing its final piece.

  "Serum variant eight-point-three shows promising cellur adaptation, but the neural pathways aren't responding as theorized," one would observe.

  "The immunogenic markers are stabilizing with each iteration," another would counter.

  "We need a catalyst—something to bridge the molecur gap," Dr. Keller would conclude.

  Subject 23 absorbed these fragments without context, too weak to question their meaning. The medications increased as his pain worsened between trials, clouding his thoughts further and distorting his already tenuous grasp on time.

  In rare moments of crity, he wondered about Eli. Was he attending school regurly? Had he received the schorship notification? Was he eating properly? The concerns that had structured his entire existence continued to surface, though he could do nothing about them now.

  During one such moment, he managed to ask Dr. Keller about contacting his brother.

  "That won't be possible during this phase," the doctor replied without looking up from his charts. "Your condition requires complete isotion."

  "How long?" Subject 23 persisted, his voice barely audible.

  Dr. Keller gnced at him then, his expression unreadable. "That depends entirely on the progression of your case and our research protocols."

  It wasn't an answer, but Subject 23 cked the strength to press further. The darkness recimed him, pulling him back into the hazy twilight where time had no meaning.

  The facility itself became his entire world—the white room with its medical equipment, the observation window through which researchers watched him, the corridor glimpsed briefly during transfers for specialized tests. Beyond these spaces, reality ceased to exist. His life before—the cramped apartment, the streets where he'd worked odd jobs, Eli's school with its brick facade—all seemed increasingly distant, like memories from someone else's life.

  ———

  He didn't know how many serum variants they had tried—perhaps twelve, maybe fifteen—when a new energy permeated the facility. The researchers moved with renewed purpose; their discussions took on an urgency he hadn't noticed before.

  One day, Dr. Keller arrived with unusual excitement, carrying several vials of blood samples. "We've acquired blood from a donor with extraordinary properties," he told his team while Subject 23 drifted in and out of consciousness. "The donor's blood has a unique immunological profile that could be the catalyst we've been searching for." Subject 23 barely registered the conversation, too worn down by the endless experiments to show curiosity about this unseen donor whose blood might somehow change the course of the trials.

  Several days of intense activity followed, with frequent blood draws from him while the researchers worked around the clock, combining his samples with those from the anonymous donor. He drifted in and out of consciousness, catching fragments of their excited discussions.

  "The compatibility is remarkable..."

  "The donor's immune response could be the key..."

  "The cellur bonding shows unprecedented stability..."

  One day—or perhaps night, he couldn't tell—he awoke to find Dr. Keller standing beside his bed, studying him with unusual intensity.

  "We're ready," the doctor announced, satisfaction evident in his voice despite his clinical demeanor. "The final serum is complete."

  Subject 23 blinked slowly, the words taking time to register through the fog of medication. "Final?"

  "Yes. After all these trials, we've developed what we believe will be the successful formution," Dr. Keller eborated. "Based on your unique blood chemistry combined with the exceptional immune properties from our new donor and certain... enhancements I've been perfecting for years."

  Something in his tone penetrated the young man's mental haze. "Will it work?"

  Dr. Keller's smile didn't reach his eyes. "That depends on your definition of 'work.' It won't cure your condition in the conventional sense. Rather, it will harness the mutation and redirect its properties toward our ultimate goal: immortality. If successful, the serum will completely transform your cellur structure, potentially granting you eternal life."

  Subject 23 closed his eyes briefly. The technical expnation meant little to him. All that mattered was that after countless failed attempts, the experiment was moving toward completion, the bargain being fulfilled. His life for Eli's future.

  "When?" he asked simply.

  "Tomorrow," Dr. Keller replied. "We need to prepare both you and the facility for the procedure."

  The word "tomorrow" struck Subject 23 as strangely meaningless. In a pce without days or nights, without the rhythm of the outside world, what was tomorrow? Just another period of artificial light, another sequence of tests and medications, another stretch of time that could have been hours or days or weeks.

  Still, something had changed. There was a new energy in the facility, a sense of anticipation that penetrated even his medication-induced detachment. Staff moved with greater purpose. Equipment was brought in, checked, rechecked. Dr. Keller appeared more frequently, reviewing charts, conferring with specialists, occasionally studying Subject 23 with an expression that might have been anticipation or concern—he was too far gone to tell the difference.

  How long had he been here? A year? Maybe more? He couldn't say. The bruises had spread to cover most of his body now, his skin a canvas of purple and bck. Blood appeared regurly—in his urine, his stool, seeping from his gums. The pain medications no longer provided relief, merely a cottony distance from the worst of the agony.

  Yet through it all, one thing remained constant: his thoughts of Eli. In his more lucid moments, he imagined his brother continuing his education, growing stronger and smarter, building the future that had been purchased with this sacrifice. The image sustained him when nothing else could.

  As he drifted in and out of consciousness, awaiting the final serum that Dr. Keller had developed using the anonymous donor's blood, Subject 23 found a strange peace in his namelessness. He had never needed a name for himself; his identity had always been defined by his retionship to Eli. Brother. Protector. Provider. Now, in this sterile room where even time had lost meaning, "Subject 23" seemed as fitting a designation as any. It marked his final transformation—from someone who existed to care for another to someone whose only value y in what could be learned from his suffering.

  His st conscious thought before the medications pulled him under completely was a hope that Eli would remember him—not as Subject 23, not as the nameless brother who had disappeared into a medical facility, but as the person who had loved him enough to give up everything so that he might have a chance at a better life.