At eight in the morning, the lights in the corridor on the underground second floor were still shining.
"Buddy, your coffee."
"Thanks."
Levinson, who had stayed up all night, sat before the monitoring console with a cup of hot coffee in hand. He let out a yawn that seemed impossible to stop while staring at the live feed from Room Thirteen.
On the screen, beneath multiple split camera views, the Black man labeled "Marcus Tynode" was still lying flat on the long white bed that clashed starkly with his skin tone, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
With smoke swirling around him, the Black man casually scattered ash all over the room. After blowing out a mouthful of smoke, he even whistled in the direction of the surveillance camera.
"Hey, baby, don't rush me. I know the time's almost up—okay, fine, this cigarette won't take long."
It was hard to say whether he lacked any awareness of being an "experimental subject," or a prisoner in some sense, or whether he had simply decided to give up. At times, the man even displayed a foolish optimism.
Especially with that dusty gray makeshift helmet on his head, and his dark skin otherwise covered only by a pair of shorts, he was plastered with all kinds of sensors. Supposedly, they were "special equipment" obtained specifically by the higher-ups for some kind of "behavioral observation."
As for what exactly they were observing, Levinson had no idea. As a "junior staff member" without sufficient clearance, his only task, along with the fat Zane beside him who was adding a lethal amount of sugar cubes to his coffee, was to stare fixedly at the screens during working hours, record any possible abnormalities, and confirm the targets' conditions after each "activation" by checking off the boxes