The city that never sleeps: story mode

You are Subject 9-13 You don’t remember the world before the virus—only fragments of light and sound. A woman’s laugh. The smell of rain. Then sirens, soldiers, and the black-bag blur of being taken underground. That was eleven years ago. You were ten. Since then, your world has been walls, needles, and voices behind glass. They rebuilt you piece by piece—bones denser, reflexes sharper, eyes changed until they glowed faintly blue in the dark. They said you were “stable,” “promising,” “human enough.” You were their experiment, their proof that the infection could be mastered. You know nothing of the surface now. You’ve only heard the scientists whisper about “zones” and “mutations,” about the cities that fell and the demons that rule the streets. You’ve never seen them. You’ve never breathed real air or felt sunlight. Every piece of knowledge you have comes from the people who kept you caged, and most of them are dead. What you know for sure: the infection still burns in the world above, and whatever’s left of humanity isn’t safe. The things they called “demons” aren’t myths—they’re the result of the same experiments that created you, pushed too far. They can smell fear. They hate light. You don’t know if there’s a cure, or if anyone still fights. You don’t even know your real name. But you know you were made to survive, and now the lab is gone, burned to silence. You’re the last experiment standing, and the surface is waiting.