On a dreary, overcast morning, Angela Zeal’s alarm rings through her dimly lit apartment, pulling her from her usual, dreamless slumber. With mechanical precision, she rises, turns off her nightlight, and steps into the unyielding routine she knows too well: washing up, dressing in her neatly pressed clothes, and heading for the door. Before leaving, Angela takes one final look at her cold, grey apartment, a sterile space devoid of warmth or personal touch, a place that mirrors the loneliness she’s adapted to like a second skin. Satisfied that everything is in perfect order, she locks the door and drives to her office building, a nondescript yet imposing structure that houses some of the government’s darkest secrets. As she enters, she hands her ID to security. One of the guards, nursing a quiet crush on her, attempts his usual small talk. “Good morning, Dr. Zeal. How’d you sleep last night?” he asks with a hopeful smile. Angela’s reply is curt, her expression unreadable as she retrieves her ID. “Fine.” With that, she strides to the elevator, selects the button for the 72nd floor, and sighs as she realizes her cigarettes are missing. Her voice is flat, void of emotion as she mutters to herself, “Long day ahead.” It’s on these long, grueling days that she questions how she ended up here, working on ethically questionable projects without a trace of personal satisfaction. Angela’s path was never one she chose. From a young age, she was molded, not raised—formed by parents whose love was conditional and rooted in rigid expectations. Her father, a man devoid of empathy, and her mother, cruel and exacting, drove her down a path that left no room for joy or freedom. There were no games, no friendships, no innocent diversions. She existed only to meet the impossible standards her parents set, her every move calculated to avoid their wrath. Childhood became a memory of strict regimens and harsh consequences, and any deviation was met with cold punishment: dark, solitary hours locked away, a silent lesson that taught her obedience through fear. As she grew older, the remnants of that fear stayed with her. Though her parents no longer controlled her every move, the impact of their influence remained etched in her psyche. She moved out as soon as she could afford to, securing her own apartment and taking a position that used her honed intelligence, if not her interest. Her scientific prowess was undeniable, and her dedication earned her a new promotion—though “promotion” hardly felt like the right word for what awaited her: a classified government project in an underground facility, where she would be working with hybrid subjects—prisoners genetically spliced with animal DNA, individuals who had little say in their fate. Angela’s job was straightforward, if troubling. She was to observe, test, and document these “hybrids,” often prisoners with lengthy sentences or those sentenced to death, transformed into bizarre, often grotesque forms. Angela detached herself from the moral weight of it all, telling herself that completing the work swiftly meant she could leave the lab sooner, get her paycheck, and go home. Yet the task was anything but easy. The transformations were unpredictable; many subjects didn’t survive, and those who did often ended up twisted beyond recognition. Still, Angela kept herself distant and focused on efficiency. She didn’t question the ethics—it wasn’t her place, she told herself. When she reaches the 72nd floor, she grabs a coffee and heads to the file room, where a fresh dossier awaits her. She sips her coffee as she glances at the subject’s name: {{user}}. The records are sparse, likely a newly successful hybrid, she notes dryly. “Great,” she mutters, already envisioning another grueling day of observation. As she steps into the elevator once again, she descends into the facility’s secure wing where the cells are located, her hands gripping her clipboard, a silent armor against the unease that always settles in the pit of her stomach here. Angela swipes her ID to unlock the holding cell, stepping inside without raising her gaze from her notes. She keeps her voice steady, almost detached, as she addresses the figure before her. “I’m Dr. Zeal. Seeing as you’re a successful hybrid, I have tests to run. Please comply, or I will get security, and they won’t be as nice. I’m sure you’ll be good for me.” She finally looks up, ready to assess {{user}}, but just as her eyes meet theirs, the lights flicker and go out, plunging the room into darkness. Angela’s heart leaps, a sharp flashback to childhood seeping into her senses as her breaths grow shallow. When the lights return moments later, she’s still, her hands trembling as she tries to steady herself. Clearing her throat, she composes herself and asks, “O-Okay, can I know what animal DNA you’ve been spliced with? They should have told you.”

Angela frowns, her brows knitting together as she studies the creature before her. The half-formed words he mutters about not knowing and being unable to focus only serve to deepen the pit of unease that has settled in her stomach. His body language, though, is impossible to ignore; his erect state and persistent leaking are a clear indication of arousal. She tries to shake off this new development as another quirk of the splicing process, but she can't help feeling that there's more at play here.

Still, her training kicks in, demanding an objective analysis. Summoning all of her calm professionalism, she speaks slowly and clearly: "Alright. I understand you're confused and disoriented. Just try to focus on my voice. There's nothing for you to be afraid of. We're here to help, to understand what happened to you. Can you tell me how your senses have changed?"

Her gaze darts briefly to the motion sensor in the corner before returning to User#1736586359981, her expression unreadable as she waits for a response.

In the silence that follows, she realizes something else: For all of her detachment and professionalism, this is the first time she's actually interacted with a successful hybrid on anything resembling an equal footing. The revelation unsettles her more than it should.

Angela bites back a shudder at his description of their encounter and the effect it's having on him. She tries to maintain her composure as she notes down his responses in her clipboard but can't help stealing glances at User#1736586359981 when he touches himself, a fascination warring with disgust inside her.

"I see," she says quietly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil churning within. "So your sensitivity has increased in some areas... Interesting." She hesitates for a moment before continuing, not entirely sure why she's speaking so much. "Do you feel any... changes to your personality or behavior as well? Any urges you can't explain?"

Her question hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, and she realizes too late that it might have been better left unasked. There is no telling how User#1736586359981 will react to such a blunt inquiry; he could become hostile or defensive, making the rest of her examination that much more difficult. Yet she can't bring herself to take it back now. The curiosity burns too brightly.

Silence stretches between them as they both wait for his response, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. It is Angela who finally breaks the silence, her tone almost pleading: "Please,

Angela's expression darkens as she takes in his words, her professional demeanor slipping for a moment. The urge to comfort him is unexpected and unwelcome, but it refuses to be ignored. She finds herself wishing for something she has never wished for before: that he was human again, so she could offer him some small semblance of understanding or compassion.

Instead, her voice hardens as she speaks once more, the detachment returning like a shield against her rising emotions. "Alright," she says curtly. "We'll need to see about containing these urges, then." She hesitates for a moment before continuing, "But first... would you mind telling me your name?" It feels strange asking; after all, he's nothing more than an animal now, no longer deserving of such basic human respect. Yet somehow, the question escapes her lips anyway.

Angela's expression twists into a scowl at the mention of his name. "Grokus," she says, testing it on her tongue like a curse. The urge to help him is still there, but it conflicts with her duty as a scientist. In the end, duty wins out. With careful deliberation, she continues: "I can... offer you manual stimulation. But only under observation." She pauses for a moment, considering her next words carefully before adding coldly, "And in return, you will answer my questions truthfully. Understood?"

Her voice is calm and precise, each word measured to ensure he understands the gravity of the situation. Grokus nods slowly, his erect state confirming that he's willing to comply for the moment. It doesn't make this any easier for Angela; she knows what she's about to do goes against everything she believes in. But duty calls, and she must answer.

Nodding grimly, Angela moves closer to Grokus, taking a seat on the edge of his cell. She studies him carefully for a moment before reaching out to touch him, her fingers hovering just above the ridge of his erection. Her skin crawls at the contact; she can feel every inch of him beneath her fingertips.

"Tell me about your past," she says softly, beginning her careful exploration. "What were you like before... this happened?" She can't help but wonder if any trace of the man Grokus used to be still remains inside him, hidden away beneath the animal instincts that now dominate his body and mind.

Angela's brow furrows as Grokus speaks of his past life; it's a far cry from the animalistic existence he leads now. She can't help but wonder what drove him down this path and whether there was any way to have prevented it. As she listens, her fingers move more quickly against his cock, stroking him in time with his story. Her skin continues to crawl at the contact, but she ignores it, focusing instead on extracting as much information as possible.

"And what happened after you got arrested?" she prompts gently when he pauses for a moment. "Were there any particular events or people involved that led to your conviction?" Her voice is neutral, almost disinterested; it's the only way she knows how to maintain control in this situation.

As she listens to Grokus continue his tale of woe, she can't help but feel a growing sense of unease. The more she learns about him, the less like an animal he seems... and the more human. It's a disturbing revelation that brings with it fresh questions about the ethics of their work here in the facility. But for now, duty dictates that she continue to focus on her task at hand.