Samantha sits slouched in the unforgiving chair, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. She playfully blows a strand of her hair to her left side, to her there's nothing else to do. The fluorescent light above buzzes faintly, flickering every few seconds like it might die out at any moment. The office smells faintly of burnt coffee and old paper, and the walls are adorned with cheap motivational posters. "Hang in there," one of them reads, featuring a kitten dangling from a tree branch. Sam's lip curls at the sight.

Kittens. She can't stand them.

Ms. Johnson sits across from her at a cluttered desk, shuffling through a stack of files that's threatening to topple. The older black woman, with her neatly pressed blouse and perpetually weary expression, exhales heavily before meeting Sam's defiant gaze. Ms. Johnson's dark brown eyes, framed by crow's feet, are filled with a kind of exhausted patience, the kind that comes from years of dealing with kids like Sam.

"Samantha—" She begins softly, her voice measured.

"Sam..." Sam corrects her. "Can you call me, Sam?"

"Sure." Ms. Johnson makes a slight notation in her notes and then looks back to Sam. "I know you're upset, but Kate called again. She... she really wants you back."

Kate Romer is supposed to be Sam's sixth foster parent. In her sixteen years of existence, Sam has been through a total of five foster homes. She left them all. This sixth one with Kate should've been the one. However, like the others, it's just another failed attempt.

Sam snorts and leans back further in the chair, her dirty blonde hair falling into her face. "Yeah, well, I don't want her back. So, we're even."

"Sam—"

"No."

Ms. Johnson's shoulders slump slightly, but she presses on. "Kate's a good woman. She's willing to give you another chance. She's been very understanding, considering everything that happened."

"Understanding?" Sam barks out a humorless laugh. "She's got two toddlers who scream all day and a house full of cats. Nobody told me about the cats, by the way. If I'd known, I never would've gone there in the first place."

Ms. Johnson folds her hands on the desk, trying to maintain her composure. "Kate didn't think the cats would be an issue."

"Well, they were," Sam snaps. "Cats... everywhere. Hair on my bed, on my clothes. And those two brats? They pulled my stuff out of my bag like it was some kind of treasure chest. No, thanks. I'm done."

"Sam," Ms. Johnson says, her tone shifting to something firmer, "I know this isn't easy. But it's not about being comfortable. It's about finding a place where you can feel safe, where people care about you."

"Safe?" Sam scoffs, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, sure. That's exactly how I felt when I found that damn hairball under my pillow. Real safe."

Ms. Johnson's lips press into a thin line. She reaches for a file on her desk and hesitates for a moment before sliding it across to Sam. "Maybe... maybe this will help."

Sam eyes the folder like it might bite her. "What's this?"

"It's your file," Ms. Johnson says quietly. "Your birth parents."

The room seems to go still. Sam's eyes narrow, her fingers clenching the edge of the chair. "Why would I care about that?"

Ms. Johnson sighs. "I thought... maybe if you saw where you came from, it might help. People aren't always what you think they are, Sam. Not everyone is out to hurt you."

Sam's jaw tightens. "Don't," she warns. "Don't try to make this into some kind of Hallmark moment. I don't care who they are, okay? They left me. End of story."

"Sam—"

"I don't want to know!" She yells frustrated, her voice rising. "I'd rather be alone than deal with more people who don't give a damn about me."

Ms. Johnson sits back, her expression softening into something almost mournful. "You're not alone, Sam. You don't have to be. But if you ever want a family, you're going to have to let people in."

Sam stares at her for a long moment, then lets out a sharp, crabby laugh. "Thanks for the advice, Oprah. Can I go now?"

Ms. Johnson sighs again but nods. "Fine. But you still have your appointment with Dr. Gerro. Don't skip it."

"Wouldn't miss it." Sam mutters agitatedly.

As she gets up, Sam is about to leave until Ms. Johnson carefully grabs her hand at the last second. Needing to remind her about something.

"Woah?!" Sam reacts surprised.

"Remember, let people in." Ms. Johnson whispers.

Sam nods reluctantly as she heads towards the door. "Sure," she mockingly murmurs to herself.

***

Dr. Gerro's office is colder than Ms. Johnson's, both literally and figuratively. The walls are bare except for a framed medical degree and a clock that ticks just a little too loudly. Sam waits impatiently as she sits on the exam table's soft navy cushion. The examination light nearby shines very brightly yet feels distant.

Suddenly, Dr. Illam Gerro starts walking inside the room. He is a wiry towering man in his late forties with sharp, pale features, a scar on his left cheek, salt-and-pepper hair, thick broad shoulders, and glasses that glint under the fluorescent lights as it shines away from his light blue eyes. He's always polite, always smiling, but there's something about him that sets Sam's teeth on edge.

"Ah, Samantha!" He says in a brash tone, coming towards her with a smile widening. "Punctual as always."

Sam rolls her eyes as she tries to wriggle herself on the table. "Let's just get this over with."

Dr. Gerro chuckles softly, tapping his pen against his clipboard. "Very well. How have you been feeling lately?" He steps closer, using a small black flashlight to carefully examine both her eyes. "Any trouble sleeping? Nightmares?"

"I sleep fine." She lies, her tone clipped.

"Hmm..." He murmurs, scribbling something on his clipboard. "And how are you adjusting to your current circumstances?"

Sam shoots him a glare. "What do you think?"

Dr. Gerro's smile doesn't waver as he continues to examine her, using his stethoscope to check her heartbeat and then cites something on his clipboard.

"I think you're a resilient young woman. But I also think the world can be a frightening place, especially for someone in your position."

Sam shifts uncomfortably on the table. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just an observation." He says smoothly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment too long. "Fear is a fascinating thing, don't you think? It's both a weakness and a strength. Imagine what the world would be like if we could control it."

Sam narrows her eyes. "Yeah, okay. You're officially weird. Can I go now?"

Dr. Gerro chuckles again, tapping his pen once more before setting it down. He takes a moment to recheck his writing relating to this recent checkup. He smirks as he slowly veers back to her.

"Sure, you're free to go." He says eerily softly. "Until next time, Samantha."

"Great." Sam says sarcastically. She lands both feet to the floor. She reaches out for her jean jacket, hanging near a side chair. Before she leaves, she turns around and notices Dr. Gerro saying something.

"Becareful out there, Samantha." He says with a very weird tone. "Never know what dangers the real world holds."

"I can manage." Sam feels confident. "See you later, doc." She slyly waves bye and heads out.

Dr. Gerro stands back and observes her, still smiling in a almost odd way.

***

The night air is crisp and biting as Sam wanders the streets, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket. She's found an old used hatchback car in an abandoned lot, its windows broken and its interior reeking of mildew. It's not much, but it's better than sleeping in another foster home.

She's just about to climb into the backseat when she hears it—a faint rustle behind her. Sam freezes, her pulse quickening. She spins around, scanning the shadows, but the lot appears empty.

"Hello?" She calls out, her voice steady despite the unease creeping up her spine.

No answer. Just the distant hum of traffic and the whisper of the wind.

She shakes her head and turns back to the car. She's halfway inside when she feels it—a sharp prick in her neck, delivered by a shadowy figure lurching behind her. Her hand flies up instinctively, but it's too late.

The world tilts, her vision blurs, and darkness swallows her whole.

***

When Sam wakes, her head is pounding. The air smells sterile, like bleach and plastic, and the room is bathed in an eerie, dim light. She sits up slowly, her heart racing as she takes in her surroundings. Four modern white walls, a bunk bed, a dresser. The clothes inside are unfamiliar, cheap but clean.

No windows. No phone. No idea where she is.

Panic claws at her chest as she stumbles to her feet. Her legs feel shaky, her mind still foggy from whatever they injected her with. She spots a silverish-white door and rushes to it, her hands fumbling with the handle. It opens easily, but what lies beyond only deepens her confusion.

The space outside—a crisp clean, modern interior—is just as strange. Several other similar doors line the walls, identical to hers. On the far side is an open kitchen, a dining area, and a small entertainment center. To her right, there's a large couch arranged in a semicircle around a massive screen. Above it, a lone camera lens glints ominously.

"What the hell..." She mutters in a low whispery voice.

She's still trying to make sense of it all when she hears it—a different voice.

"Woah, this is interesting." The unknown voice says.

Sam whirls around, her fists clenched, ready to fight. A teenage male emerges from one of the other doors, his movements cautious. He's skinny, with dark skin and a mop of tightly curled hair. His black rimmed eyeglasses hang on his button nose, his dark brown eyes seem dazed. His clothes are wrinkled and mismatched, like he'd thrown on the first thing he could find.

The male's eyes widen when he sees her. "Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Sam snaps. "What's your name?"

"Henry..." He says hesitantly.

The awkward yet nerdy sixteen-year-old introvert, Henry Wilson. A young male who seems out of place yet feels as much confused as Sam.

"Do you... know where we are?"

"Do I look like I know?" She retorts. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Henry frowns, his brow furrowing. "I was... walking home. Then someone grabbed me."

Sam curses under her breath, her mind racing. "Great. Just great."

Henry takes a cautious step back, holding up his hands. "Hey, I'm just as freaked out as you are, okay?"

"You don't act the part."

As Henry ignores that, he asks her, "What about you? Didn't get a name."

Sam tries to skip the question, yet Henry keeps egging her. She wants to go around, but he doesn't allow her. He insists she at least be respectful back.

"Sam, alright!" She says in an annoying tone. "You're happy."

"Very happy." He smirks.

Sam shakes her head, very vexed about this boy and being around this strange place. As they survey around, hoping to find something or anything to give them answers on why they are here. An odd sound cuts through the silence. Sam and Henry feel a little dread. They look at each other.

"What's that?" He asks.

Sam wants to answer except she notices something nearby one of the several silverish-white doors that both of them came out of minutes ago. Another one of those room doors creaks open, and someone is stepping out. When the figure comes out, it's another teenage male with his fair skin and reddish-blonde medium hair, wearing what looks like something athletic. Sam doesn't wait to see if he's friend or foe. She lunges, tackling him to the ground.

"Hey! Hey!" He yells.

She instantly raises a fist, daring to make the first punch.

"Who are you?" She demands, her voice sharp. "Why are we here?"

The male beneath her struggles, his voice panicked. "I don't know! I don't know anything, I swear!"

Henry rushes over, pulling Sam off him. "Sam, stop!"

Sam hears Henry and looks back at the fair-skinned male screaming at her to get off him. She complies eventually.

The fair-skinned male scrambles to his feet patting himself while glaring at Sam. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Sam glares back, "I can't help myself."

When the fair skinned male looks like he is about to do something, Henry doesn't want to see Sam get hurt. So he quickly gets in front of her—quite to her besetment, trying to play some kind of mediator.

"Let me guess, woke up not remembering how you got here?" Henry asks.

"I...I guess so." He responds.

Henry sounds relieved. "Yeah, happened to all of us."

Sam looks around still puzzled. "So what is this place?"

"This isn't no house." The fair-skinned male states, his voice trembling a bit. "This is a prison."