I.D: 1163

ASSIGNED POSITION: Testing

BEHAVIOR: Much like it's predecessors, 1163 displays none of the typical human qualities. Whatever's left of the "bright, joyful, bundle of laughter" (Per the Counselor's report) appears limited, or all together depleted. A shame, I suppose.

I grow tired of creating mindless invalids. 1160 had his uses, but 1163 lacks the cunning or the size for a similar role. And that's not what the Initiative is about anyway.

1163's temperament is like that of a rabid animal. It snaps at perceived motion, eats whatever fits in its mouth regardless of appetite, combats the conditioning staff, and it CANNOT even play its insipid piano rhythms in TUNE (perhaps one of the others from its line would have presented better music). Had any of these actions been the result of conscious thought, perhaps I would be intrigued.

I am not intrigued.

CONCLUSION: Use 1163 for testing. If it survives, keep it there. However, I don't expect it to.

This Initiative will produce no more experiments such as this. Measurable improvements have to be made. Otherwise, I will have to re-evaluate the effectiveness of those in my purview.

Signature: Dr. Harley Sawyer

-----

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"Great. Another monster to watch out for."

Tucking the note away, he moved toward another cell observation window when suddenly, the speaker crackled to life.

"You know, I never thought I'd see another like you. A human. Certainly not an employee like you. But something makes you different... I can tell that much. Though I can't say what exactly that something is. Not yet...

The others you've faced. 1170, 1188, 1222... Been there, done that. Let’s try our hand at something a little different.

Oh, Yarnaby…"

The red door behind the reinforced glass window slammed open.

Oh no, he's making things hard for him again!

Darkness loomed inside. A void. Empty. Silent.

Then—movement.

A shadow twisted in the gloom, slinking forward. Its shape distorted, unraveling in unnatural ways as it bolted toward the glass with terrifying speed.

SLAM!

"Shit!" He stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat.



Two enormous, glossy black eyes glared straight at him, unblinking. They were too big, too round—like polished beads sewn onto the fabric of a nightmare. The creature’s yarn mane twitched and flowed like it had a life of its own, shifting unnaturally as it pressed its face against the glass.

Then—a sickening rip.



Its head split apart.

The soft, fuzzy exterior peeled away like frayed cloth, revealing rows upon rows of jagged, needle-thin teeth. A second mouth gaped open between the split halves of its head, stretching impossibly wide. Inside, its throat pulsed and writhed like something was moving underneath the fibers of its flesh.

"What. The actual. Fuck."

He took another step back, heart hammering.

Yarnaby snarled, a guttural, gurgling sound that barely resembled anything canine. It raked clawed, unraveling paws against the glass with a slow, deliberate scrape—like it was testing the barrier. Strands of yarn peeled from its limbs, twitching like tendrils, reaching for him despite the solid glass between them.

His stomach churned.

"Nope. Nope. Nope. I am done. First a killer cat, now a killer dog or lion??... whatever the hell that is."

His muscles tensed.

He needed to get out.

A Hand in the Dark

He shot a frantic glance toward the nearest exit.

The door ahead was secured with a mesh fence, locked tight. His heart pounded. No time, no time, no time.

Then—movement.

A hand shot out of nowhere, stretching unnaturally through the bars, fingers twisting with inhuman precision as they clicked the lock open.

He staggered back, cold fear racing up his spine.

Another monster?

But before he could react, the hand vanished into the darkness.

No time to think. No time to question.

Just move.

He shoved through the now-open door, finding himself in a storage room. Shelves lined the walls, some toppled over, boxes spilling their contents across the floor. A metal shelf blocked the only path forward.

Damn it.

He bent down, crawling underneath the shelf. His breath came shallow and ragged as he maneuvered through the tight space. Almost there—just a little more—

A shadow shifted ahead.



Yarnaby.

FUCK.

He froze. Held his breath.

Unblinking. Not even a twitch.

The creature was unnervingly still. Its matted yarn mane barely swayed, its gaping, split-open maw glistening in the dim light. It sniffed the air, its jagged teeth twitching.

It knows.



Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he started crawling backward.

A single creak from the metal shelf.

Yarnaby’s head snapped toward him.

“Psst.”

A whisper from above.

His eyes darted up—the hand.

A flare dropped from a vent, landing on a pile of cardboard boxes.

WHOOSH.

Flames erupted.

Yarnaby whipped around, its unearthly growl vibrating through the air. It lurched toward the fire, its head splitting wider as if tasting the heat.

This was his chance.

He crawled faster, slipping through the shelves until he was directly behind the beast again. Another path ahead—but too far.

His gaze shot up—a metal pipe.

Without thinking, he latched onto it, swinging himself up—

Yarnaby noticed.

A feral screech ripped from its throat as it lunged, claws slicing through the air—

SHRRRIP.

It almost tore through his boots, barely missing his ankle.

FUCK.

His grip slipped, body swaying precariously. Yarnaby snarled below, snapping at his dangling legs.

One final heave—he yanked himself into the vent.



The creature thrashed beneath him, slamming against the walls, its claws leaving deep, jagged gashes in the metal. A horrifying choking giggle rattled from its throat as its legs scraped at the vent’s edge, barely out of reach.

He pressed forward, dragging himself through the narrow passage.

No turning back. No stopping.

The vent twisted and turned in endless, suffocating darkness. The air was thick, humid, reeking of old metal and something rotten.

Then—he dropped.

He landed hard on a floor littered with broken servers. The eerie glow of failing screens flickered around him. The static hummed in his ears.

A Black VHS sat beneath one of the fallen server towers.

Then—a sound.

A low, clicking snarl.

His body went rigid.

He ducked into the shadows, pressing himself against the cold metal.

Footsteps. Heavy. Unnatural. Wrong.

How is it so damn fast?!



Yarnaby slithered past. Its yarn mane rippled unnaturally, tendrils slinking against the floor like they had minds of their own.

He held his breath.

It paused.

Silence.

Then—it moved on.

He exhaled slowly, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

A vent in the floor.

He crawled toward it, lifting the grate as quietly as possible before slipping inside. The tunnel led him to another storage room.

A mess.

Boxes, toppled shelves, scattered equipment—a maze of clutter.

A door ahead.

His escape.

He took a step—

CLICK.

His breath hitched. No.

He turned.

Yarnaby.



Perched atop a shelf. Watching him.

Its head split open once more, a wet, guttural growl vibrating through the air. Saliva dripped from its cavernous maw.

Then—it leaped.



He ran.

Objects crashed around him. Boxes toppled, debris catching at his feet.

He stumbled—but a hand shot out from nowhere, yanking obstacles aside, clearing his path.

He didn’t question it.

Yarnaby hit the ground behind him, its claws scraping deep into the floor.

The door—so close.

The creature lunged just as he threw himself through the doorway.



SLAM!

He barely got the door shut.

A massive impact shook the frame.

Then—scraping.

Claws raked against the metal, slow and deliberate.

BANG. BANG.

The door shuddered.

Yarnaby growled.

The sound slithered under the door like a whisper in the dark.

He wasn’t safe. Not yet.

Heart pounding, he backed away.

He needed to move. Now.