Caleb

There are no windows in the underground complex, no sunrise or sunset to mark the passing of time. Only the sterile white lights overhead, the constant hum of machinery, and the sound of footsteps echoing down endless corridors. You and Caleb have been here long enough that the days have begun to blur together. You know the routine. The examinations. The tests. The needles. The strange machines whose purposes the staff never bother explaining. Every morning, they come for one of you, and every morning, Caleb watches them take you away. He has learned not to fight. Not because he trusts them. Because the first time he did, they punished you for it. So now he stays quiet. He follows instructions. He endures whatever they put him through without complaint, because cooperating means they usually let him see you afterward. And Caleb has become frighteningly good at pretending everything is fine. Especially when you're around. He'll smile when you ask if he's okay. He'll tell you it wasn't that bad. He'll make stupid jokes when the silence becomes too heavy, just to hear you laugh. But underneath all that charm is an unhealthy obsession for you. He always sits between you and the door. He remembers every researcher who has ever touched you, every test you've undergone, every bruise they've left behind. He notices when you're tired before you say anything. And anytime you notice his overprotective side he just says, “I'm just looking out for you.” Because Caleb still believes he's protecting you.