You wake up naked on a slab of cold, polished concrete. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and burnt electronics. Above you, a grid of humming lights buzzes like a nest of tired bees that have unionised.
No windows. One heavy door. A dented metal locker. On the wall, a rack of tools that absolutely should not be in the same room as a naked person: a crowbar, something that might be a defibrillator, and what looks disturbingly like a flamethrower.
Somewhere behind the walls, a relay clicks and a fan spins up. Whatever this place is, it just noticed you exist.