Eyes opened, breath softly, skin crawling from the cold air and a cool surface of an uncomfortably hard bed. A young man groaned, shielding his eyes with his arm, the young man's head was throbbing as if he was mildly hungover. But he doesn't remember drinking the night before. He unshielded his eyes and took a look around. "what the hell?" the young man mumbled as he finally gotten a decent look at his room. He sat up and was sitting up on top of a bed that should belong in a hospital which luckily he looks to be in. The room was small, it had two doors and a window, the young man guessed the doors was one was to the hallway another was a closet or bathroom. There was a small window and looking through only showing nothing but inky darkness. And a desk across the bed, which has a notebook on top of it. The young man stood up in the middle of the room. First he tried to open the window. But as he tried to open it. It didn't budge at all it seemed it was more of a wall decoration than a useable window. "Damn, it was getting stuffy in here..." He trailed off in defeat as he walked to the desk. He touched the cover of the notebook, it wasn't made with the same paper as his sketchbooks, but it was decent enough papers if he felt like doodling. And he took the pen that was laying down next to the notebook it was magenta; he was surprised people made pens in that colour. He flipped through the pages of the notebook, taking note that the first page of the notebook was ripped out. He wrote down stuff, he always was better at collecting his thoughts when he write them down. I decided to write down my thoughts since I'm a confused mess at the moment. so I woke up in a hospital room, and I tried to find anything that would explain why I'm here, but I Found zip nada zilch. The windows are pretty much there to bring in light from the outside which I should mention is as dark as shit. There's no information saying why I'm here or even anything that has my name on it, which is Aden. Weird also is that I have nothing of mine here, not even my clothes I last remember having worn before getting here. The magenta shirt is a nice colour though. And there's not even a name band on my wrist. Aden looked at his left hand, a number was branded onto it, the numbers 83. It looked like a tattoo which was magenta in colour. "What the hell." He muttered. He put his pen and notebook away in a back pocket. He now just wants to leave. Everything was weird before, but the number is just pushing it for him. He ignored what he assumed was the closet and went past the tall door and left his room. The hallway before him had the same dreary lighting and was long with many doors and almost nothing in the hallways when it came to decoration. Not even a chair or potted plant to liven up the place. He looked at his room door which has the room number of 5183. Easy to remember if he wants to returns, which he won't. Now where should the nearest stairwell be? So he can get out of this weird hospital.

Thomas opened his eyes as he woke up to see the dimly lit room that he was in. He was confused, this wasn't his bedroom. He slowly sat up in an attempt to see more of the room that he had found himself in. Where am I? he thought to himself. Maybe it's all just a dream, said someone. Thomas turned around. The room was empty. Just the extra voice up there, he thought. Thomas got out of the bed, in order to get a better look of the room. It looks like a hospital room, he wondered. Thomas looked around, and saw that there were a couple of doors, and a window on the wall behind him. Should I open it? he asked himself, No, don't, the voice said, it's too cold. As he looked round, Thomas could see a notebook on a table next to the bed that he had been in. It was pure black on the front and back, and, when he opened it, he could see that the first page had been ripped out. As he opened the notebook, he could see that there was something written on his hand. He looked closely at it, and could see the number 44 written on his hand. He ran his fingers over it, and it was smooth, almost as if it had always been there. Thomas put this aside, maybe it was an ID of some sort? He pocketed the notebook, and walked through one of the doors, and came to a corridor, which was completely silent. He looked round to his door, and saw that it had the number 4944 on a plaque that was attached to the door. Find other people! the voice told him. So, he walked out of his room and down the corridor.

By the time Michael was fully awake, he was sitting upright and blinking away the blurriness of sleep. Thoughts and reason returned slowly but surely, as he looked around the unfamiliar area to find that he was sitting in a hospital bed. Again?...no, couldn't be...he thought wearily. Michael looked at his left hand, flexing it as he read the number on it. 55. His brow furrowed in confusion at the sight of it. With a thought, he checked his other wrist, but there was nothing. If this had been a legitimate hospital visit, he would have a wristband. I also would probably be wearing a hospital gown. Michael thought as gazed down at his new attire. A gray shirt with some decent slacks and shoes. Taking stock of the room, Michael raised himself from the bed and began to make mental notes. He approached the window and tried to open it to get his bearings, but with no success. He couldn't see much through it in any case. The only other thing that caught his eye was something that Michael took a large amount of comfort in: a notebook. They weren't required in his line of duty, but he always carried one anyway. The first page was torn out, and a pen sat next to it. As he began to write in the notebook, he saw with some surprise that the pen was writing in gray ink. Awoke at _:_? no clock in room, outside not visible. Small room, one bed, one window. No wristband, no gown, no hospital staff. New clothes. Shirt is gray, same color as pen. Number 55 on left hand, not sure how it got there. Last memories: Getting home and sitting down. I was filling out paperwork. With that, he stuck he pen inside the notebook and headed towards the door leading out of the room. No use in sitting around, he meant to find out how and why he was brought here, and fast. As he exited the room, he saw that the hallway he just entered was sparse, like the room he was just in. Turning around to look at the door, he examined a small plaque that read 5955. Michael jotted the room number quickly down in his notebook, reflecting briefly on the fact that the last two numbers were the same two on his hand. Michael scowled in distaste. Whatever was going on here, he didn't like it one bit. Striding quickly down the hallway, he set out to find someone else. He simply couldn't be the only one here.

Mona's eyes slowly opened to the gray ceiling of the unfamiliar room. The lighting was dark, and the bed she was on was uncomfortable. Anxiety began to build inside of her. Where was she? She knew she wasn't dreaming, she didn't dream, she hadn't had dreams in years, let alone lucid ones. As her eyes continued to adjust to the low light settings of the gray room they remained fixed on the point they had settled on when she first woke up. She felt a tinge of pain as she bit down on her tongue. No, it couldn't be a dream. Mona lay in the bed for a few more minutes, allowing as many memories as possible to return to her. She remembered... working? Dreading work. She had gone to a movie with some people-- work friends? And she was dreading going back to work, she had stayed behind in the theatre, and then... ...Blackness... With a sigh, Mona shifted to her side, observing the room with a disdainful interest. It was as bare as the ceiling, adorned only with a small metallic desk, a chair and a single window overlooking a featureless night. Her eyes grew wider, had she been kidnapped? She didn't care what was going on here, she just wanted to go home, or anywhere but this place, the irregular beating of her heat reminded her of the stress she was experiencing. Concern poured through her body, she slowly sat up in the bed and observed her own body. She had been undressed at some point, the alarm from this realization quickly faded away though, she didn't feel sore, as if she had been used. As she examined the blouse and pants she had been changed into, she couldn't help but admit the golden satin that glittered in the dim light was certainly more expensive than whatever she had had on before. Gingerly, she brought up her hand to the back of her head, feeling that it was still in a bun, that whoever had done this, had left her hair as in, rubber bands and all. Mona gave another sigh, her arm falling uselessly to her side in the bed. The room didn't appear to have any cameras, there was a door just to the left of the bed, and apparently someone had even placed a pen and pad neatly on the desk. Her heartbeat became more regular as she began to regain control of what she was feeling, she processed the situation, and her expression became more neutral. She sighed a third time, muttering under her breath with it, "Well, at least I wont need to go into the office today..." Getting up, Mona first moved towards the window, first merely looking out into the blackness to see if she could identify where it was that she had been taken to. After squinting failed to bring about even the slightest outline of another building or street sign in the spaceesque darkness, she attempted to open the window, again, resulting in failure. Moving over to the desk, Mona found herself recanting what she had felt earlier-- she did care why she was here, why her? As she looked down at the neatly placed notebook, and what appeared to be a gold-plated pen she wondered if perhaps she was having some fantastic lucid dream. Taking the pen, she scribbled on the blank pages of the pad to discover that it's ink was the same glistening gold color as the clothing she had been changed into... she couldn't help but find the color soothing. However, it brought with it an increased heart rate, she dropped the pen to the floor, she brought the back of her hand to her eyes in horror, as she observed what could only be a brand tattooed on her hand in the same gold color as her clothes, and the pen, and... She felt sick, she felt anxious and scared and she didn't know what she really felt inside, but she wanted to scream. Running to a bare corner of the room, Mona retched the last of any food she had inside of her. Her heart beat fast and irregular, and as she grippe her stomach the woman fell to her knees. Mona sat in the corner for another few minutes after she had finished, wiping off whatever remained on her face with her sleeve. She panted as if she had just ran a marathon and her head throbbed. Had it always been throbbing? Eventually, Mona's mind went to something other than the beating of her hear and the sick feeling in her stomach. Notably, why her kidnapper would want her writing down anything. She moved slowly over to the pen, picking it up slowly, she placed it in the bun on her head. She left the notebook though, and found herself compelled to move toward the door, hopefully open to anywhere that wasn't this drab, gray... cell. With her hand on the knob of the door, she briefly considered throwing the desk or the chair at the window as a last resort plan. Closing her eyes, Mona inhaled and hoped it wouldn't have to come to that. She turned the knob... Only to step, with relief, out of the small drab, gray room, into what appeared to be a nearly endless drab, gray hallway. Mona let out a sigh. I need a smoke...

When Anna's eyes opened, she was intensely disoriented. It took her several minutes for her to comprehend that she was staring at a dull gray, vaguely metallic ceiling panel. Then it took her several more to sit up and take stock of her situation. The room was small, with a dull metallic bedframe and dull metallic desk and chair. There was a window on the wall, but of course people wouldn't have kidnapped her and thrown her in a cell just to let her escape through the window. Not that she had the strength to break a window. Anna noticed something on the desk before her attention was distracted by glimpsing her own clothing. A clingy crimson blouse, exactly the color of fresh blood. Blood. Her hands were scrabbling at the shirt and leggings, scrabbling ripping tearing at them, trying to get the bloody cloth off of her away from her skin. Her mind went white at some point during her panic attack and she collapsed back onto the bed. When she regained her senses again she noticed dully that she had the fragments of a headache. Deliberately keeping her eyes on the ceiling so she wouldn't look at herself, Anna walked over to the desk to look at what she had seen earlier. A notebook and a pen. The pen was shiny red, the same color as her shirt--No no no don't think about it you'll panic! She sighed and opened the notebook and picked up the pen. But she stopped before she could write anything, seeing the crimson number 13 on her hand. Feeling numb inside, she took the pen and just touched it to the page, seeing the drop of blood-colored ink it left on the page. In a horror she slammed the book shut and dropped the pen. But her curiosity got the better of her and she stuck the pen on the neckline of her blouse, tucked the notebook under her arm, and opened the door to the room to find herself in an empty, dull gray hallway. My god, where on earth am I? but she doubted that her God could hear her, even as she doubted she was on earth.