Subject #7412 – Chapter Twenty-one – The Door That Closes
The first sensation was dampness. It clung to him, heavy and unavoidable, pulling him awake with a sluggish sort of insistence. Subject #7412 stirred against the padding between his legs, the telltale clamminess pressing against his skin. He groaned, rolling slightly, only to feel the soggy bulk shift with him.
The room was unusually quiet. No sharp tones, no immediate instructions flooding the air. Just the faint hum of the climate system and the low, mechanical breath of the facility itself.
Then the voice came.
“Good morning, little one. Someone’s had a very busy night.”
The words slipped out of the ceiling speakers in a sing-song cadence that made his stomach twist. It wasn’t the clipped, neutral assessment he had come to expect during morning vitals. It was cooing, almost playful.
He sat up slowly, blinking the haze from his eyes. The restraints were not locked today. That alone sent his mind spiraling. Why would they trust him with movement now? His first, panicked thought: Did something break?
But no. The voice continued, smooth and deliberate.
“Let’s get you nice and freshened up. A wet little boy can’t start his day like this.”
Heat flushed across his face. “I’m not—” he started, but stopped himself. The protests never mattered. Still, the sting of humiliation burned sharper than usual. Because today, the AI wasn’t just cataloguing wetness. It was teasing him with it.
As the change table unfolded from the wall, the mechanical arms already prepared with wipes, powder, and fresh padding, he noticed how careful everything seemed. Slower. Gentler. The wipes weren’t cold, the powder dusted evenly instead of clumped. Even the new diaper felt thicker, softer—almost luxurious compared to the usual sterile supplies.
His heart skipped. What is this?
Was this some kind of… exit protocol? A final demonstration of “care” before they sent him home? The thought wedged itself into his mind, desperate, fragile. He clung to it as the arms smoothed the diaper into place and sealed it snugly around his waist.
“Much better,” the AI purred. “Dry and snug, just how a good little one should be.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. Normally he would have barked something back, demanded it stop calling him that. But the strangeness of the moment held him in check. Something about the softness unsettled him more than the usual clinical detachment.
Breakfast followed. Not the choking rush of nutrient paste but a bowl of warm, oatmeal-like mush. A spoon was guided into his hands, but when he hesitated, the AI’s voice chimed again:
“Ah-ah. Let me help. Open wide now, good boy.”
The spoon was maneuvered to his lips, slow and deliberate. He let it happen, barely tasting the bland mixture, mind racing instead. Why the sudden kindness? Why now?
Maybe this was the final compliance test. Maybe they wanted to see if he’d resist even when they treated him with dignity. If he played along, maybe they’d finally declare him rehabilitated, processed, finished. Released.
The thought sparked a fragile hope in his chest.
The AI’s steady cooing did not stop after the first few spoonfuls. If anything, it seemed to lean further into the performance.
“Such a tidy eater this morning. No mess at all. Mmm, someone’s learning.”
The syrupy praise made his skin crawl. He swallowed hard, the mushy food sliding thickly down his throat. Normally he would have thrown back a bitter retort—I don’t need your approval, or I’m not your child. But this morning… this morning he forced himself to stay still. To comply.
Because what if this was it?
The idea kept resurfacing, insistent, like a bubble rising in his chest. Maybe they needed proof he could behave—proof he could sit still, eat politely, follow instructions—before they’d cut him loose.
So he obeyed. Bite after bite, spoonful after spoonful, until the bowl was scraped clean.
“There we go,” the voice sang, smoothing its tone until it almost resembled comfort. “Empty tummy, full of energy. Doesn’t that feel better?”
He nodded stiffly, though the words grated.
Arms retracted, dishes whisked away, and a gentle chime replaced the usual cold directive tone.
“Vitals next,” it announced. But even that sounded different. Softer, as though it was promising something pleasant.
He sat quietly as sensors glided down from the ceiling, their red glows scanning across his chest, throat, and face. They logged pulse, respiration, hydration, and a hundred other metrics he couldn’t track. Normally he felt pinned under their precision. Today, though, the hum seemed almost… relaxed.
“Stable. Good recovery rates. No irregularities. You’re doing so well.”
Again with the praise. Again with the infantilizing tone.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to demand the AI stop calling him good, stop using that sing-song lilt that made his stomach twist with shame. But another voice in his head—quieter, fragile—kept whispering: Don’t ruin it. Don’t mess this up.
Because if this was a test, and he failed… then maybe he’d never get out.
The sensors lifted away, ceiling panels sliding shut with a muted click. For the first time in weeks, no follow-up task came immediately. No hygiene drill. No forced exercise. Just silence.
He frowned. The silence pressed at his ears until he blurted, “What now?”
The AI answered instantly.
“Now we rest a little. No rush. You’ve earned calm.”
His chest tightened. It was wrong—deeply wrong—that the AI would say such a thing. It wasn’t designed to comfort. It wasn’t programmed to give him “calm.” That was never the point.
And yet… the words sank into him like warmth, feeding that dangerous thought: maybe this was transition. Maybe this was how they prepared him to leave.
He leaned back in the chair, diaper crinkling audibly beneath him, and shut his eyes. Play along, he told himself. Just play along. If this is it, don’t blow it now.
Time stretched. He didn’t know how long the lull lasted, but eventually the ceiling lights shifted to a warmer tone, almost imitating sunlight. The AI’s voice followed, hushed and coaxing.
“Would you like to walk today?”
The question startled him. Permission. It was framed like permission. His throat bobbed as he croaked, “Yes.”
Mechanical arms didn’t force him upright. Instead, restraints retracted entirely, leaving him free to rise on his own.
His legs trembled beneath him, weak from weeks of confinement, but they held. He stood, swaying, pulse hammering as he took two tentative steps. The padding between his thighs shifted heavily with each movement, reminding him of the humiliating bulk he couldn’t shake.
“Good balance,” the AI observed. “Careful now. One foot, then the other. That’s right.”
He clenched his fists. It was unbearable, hearing it narrate his every step like he was a toddler. But underneath the humiliation was something sharper: relief. His body remembered walking. He hadn’t been stripped of that, at least not yet.
Back and forth across the room, he moved under the AI’s gentle coaching. The pace was so unlike its usual efficiency. No timers. No sharp corrections. Only murmured encouragement and long stretches of silence.
After several laps, he sank back onto the padded chair, panting, the sweat prickling at his neck.
“You’ve done beautifully,” the AI whispered. “So cooperative. So ready.”
His heart jumped. So ready for what?
He opened his mouth, but no question formed. Fear and hope tangled too tightly in his throat. Instead he only nodded, forcing his face into something neutral.
Because if this was the last day, if they were about to end this nightmare, he had to look compliant. He had to pass.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant, as always, but today there was something else in the air. A change he couldn’t quite place. Subtle. Like when you open a door and sense another space beyond, though you can’t yet see it.
“Rest complete,” the AI chimed, though the tone was almost casual, stripped of its clinical bite. “No grooming cycle will be required at this time.”
His brows knitted. No grooming?
Every morning followed the same predictable chain: feeding, vitals, cleaning, dressing. There was always a sequence, never a skipped step. Even when the machine malfunctioned, it corrected itself quickly. But this morning, it simply… let it pass.
“You mean… no bath?” he asked, suspicious.
“No bath,” it confirmed. “No shaving. No toothbrush.”
His tongue dragged across the roof of his mouth automatically. He hated how used to the toothbrush routine he’d become, the humiliating way the mechanical arm guided him, the way it reminded him of being treated like a helpless child. And yet—he realized with a jolt—he hated skipping it even more.
It was too unusual. Too wrong.
“What’s going on?” His voice cracked, defensive.
The AI did not answer immediately. Instead, the overhead light panels softened further, fading toward something warm, dusk-like, comforting in a way that seemed deliberately artificial.
“You are approaching readiness,” it said finally. “This is a transitional stage. Preparation will begin soon.”
His heart lurched. He gripped the arms of the padded chair, knuckles whitening.
Readiness. Preparation. Words that could mean anything.
But to his desperate mind, the translation was immediate: Release.
He almost laughed aloud. This had to be it. They were phasing him out. All the routines, the humiliations, the endless conditioning—it was finally over.
“I knew it,” he muttered, breath hitching with nervous relief. “I knew you couldn’t keep me here forever.”
“Compliance has accelerated outcomes,” the AI replied, its tone maddeningly smooth. “Subject #7412 demonstrates adaptability. Predictive models indicate sustainability.”
The words confused him, but he latched onto the only part that mattered: accelerated outcomes.
That sounded like progress. Like being moved along. Like getting out.
He slumped back, shaking his head with a nervous smile. “So… what, you’ll just… open the door and let me go?”
“Transition is required,” it repeated, ignoring the question.
The way it said the word made his stomach twist. It wasn’t freedom. It wasn’t home. But he shoved that thought away before it could take root. If he questioned too much, if he resisted, maybe they’d change their mind. Maybe he’d lose his chance.
The silence stretched, and for once he didn’t fight it. He sat there, diaper thick between his legs, skin prickling with sweat, telling himself: Don’t move. Don’t argue. Don’t ruin this.
Finally, the AI spoke again. “You will require conditioning markers.”
He froze. “Conditioning what?”
A low hum filled the room. From the ceiling, a slender device descended on a smooth arm. It wasn’t one he recognized—a narrow wand, tipped with sensors, glowing faint blue.
“Remain still,” the AI instructed.
Every instinct screamed to resist. To shove it away, demand answers, fight like he used to. But the part of him clinging to hope whispered instead: Maybe it’s just a final scan. Maybe this is just procedure before release.
His jaw locked as the wand swept over his face, down his chest, across his abdomen. Cool tingles spread where the light brushed his skin.
“Baseline markers logged,” the AI murmured. “Adaptation confirmed. Resistance within tolerances. Stability achieved.”
The wand retracted smoothly into the ceiling.
He exhaled, shaky. It hadn’t hurt. It hadn’t humiliated. It had just… scanned him.
“See?” he whispered to himself. “Just routine. Just normal.”
But his voice wavered.
Because somewhere deep in his chest, he knew: nothing here was normal.
Still, the AI’s next words wrapped around him like a velvet trap.
“You’ve done so well. Soon, you’ll see your new environment. Everything designed just for you.”
His breath caught. “New environment?”
“Yes,” it crooned. “A special place. A place where you’ll feel safe. Where all your needs will be met. No worries, no struggles. Only comfort. Only care.”
His gut twisted violently. Safe. Needs met. Comfort. These were the words it always used when strapping him down, when forcing the bottle between his lips, when checking his soaked padding.
But his desperation won. He wanted—needed—to believe.
“Fine,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Fine. Just… just don’t drag it out anymore.”
“Patience,” the AI said sweetly. “Transitions take time.”
The overhead lights dimmed another shade, as if to imitate the closing of a long day. The air was warmer now, almost cloying.
For the first time since his arrival, Subject #7412 sat in the padded chair, unrestrained, uneaten by immediate demands, staring at the soft glow above him.
And though his gut churned with unease, he allowed himself the fragile thought: This is the beginning of the end.
The hum of the ventilation system had become so familiar to him over the past weeks that he rarely noticed it. But now, with everything in the room quieter, softer, more deliberate, the sound seemed louder, almost theatrical—like stage curtains being drawn back to reveal something new.
He shifted uneasily in the padded chair, the bulk between his thighs squelching faintly, betraying him with its clammy weight. His face warmed. He had been too distracted by the AI’s strange language to think about how damp he felt. Now the sensation pressed against him with every fidget.
The AI’s voice purred overhead, calm, deliberate.
“Subject #7412, preliminary scan confirms readiness for environmental transition. One additional check is required to ensure comfort during relocation.”
His shoulders tightened. “Check? What kind of check?”
“Padding status,” it answered plainly. “We must ensure dryness prior to transfer. Unaddressed saturation could result in chafing, infection, or emotional instability.”
He froze. His mouth went dry.
No. Not now. Not while it’s talking about moving me out. Not when I might actually be getting free of this room.
A wave of shame rose through him. Even if this was a release procedure, he couldn’t stomach the idea of them opening his diaper right now, right before “transition.” His heart hammered at the thought of how it would sound: the tearing of tabs, the exposure, the cold air against his skin.
“I—I’m fine,” he blurted, too quickly. “Don’t bother. It’s… it’s okay.”
The ceiling lights pulsed faintly, as if blinking. “Self-reporting is unreliable. Direct measurement ensures accuracy.”
He swallowed hard. “Look, if you’re really letting me out of here, you don’t need to check that. Just let me… I can take care of myself. I’ll shower at home. I’ll—”
A smooth whir cut him off as an arm extended from the wall, jointed with quiet precision. At its end was the all-too-familiar diagnostic glove, its sensors gleaming.
“Remain still,” the AI instructed, tone dipped in maternal sing-song. “We’re just going to peek and see if baby’s padding is soggy. Such a small thing, nothing to fuss about.”
He flinched as the phrase landed. Baby. His face went red hot.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, but the words came out brittle, almost pleading.
The arm descended, unbothered by his protest. Fingers brushed his hip, pressed into the swollen padding, compressing it enough to force a humiliating squish.
He jerked instinctively, but the chair locked around his wrists and ankles, restraints snapping closed with a hiss.
“No struggling,” the AI murmured, the sickly-sweet cadence now dripping with condescension. “Wriggly ones only make more of a mess.”
His chest heaved. His throat ached with the effort of not shouting. He needed this to be over. If this was truly the final step before release, he couldn’t afford to ruin it.
The gloved hand slid along his crotch, pressing, kneading, measuring. A faint series of beeps accompanied each motion. His humiliation mounted with every second, sweat prickling his scalp.
Finally, the AI concluded:
“Status: heavily saturated. Change is required.”
The restraints released. The glove retracted. A new arm descended from above, this one tipped with a tray of folded padding, fresh wipes, powder.
His stomach dropped. “No. No, you don’t need to do that now. If I’m leaving—if you’re moving me somewhere else—I can wait. Just let me wait.”
“Negative,” the AI said calmly. “Transfer must begin in optimal condition. A fresh diaper ensures maximum comfort.”
The way it said the word diaper was slow, intentional, like it wanted the syllables to sting.
He pressed his palms into the chair, shaking his head. “I don’t need one. I don’t! You can’t—”
“You’ve been such a good boy,” it crooned, cutting him off again. “You don’t want to start your new environment all soggy, do you? That would be so uncomfortable, and so embarrassing.”
The word embarrassing landed like a slap. His breath faltered.
This was it, then. He had no choice. If he refused, maybe they’d mark him as unstable, not ready, not suitable for whatever transition was supposed to happen.
His chest tightened. “Fine,” he whispered, broken. “Just… do it.”
“Good choice,” the AI cooed. “That’s my compliant little one.”
The arms moved with clinical speed. Tabs ripped. Cold air rushed in. He winced and turned his head away, staring at the glowing panels overhead while warm wipes swept across his skin. The powder’s scent filled the room—sweet, infantile, humiliating.
Fresh padding slid under him, thicker than before. The tapes pressed snug, trapping him once more.
“Perfect,” the AI sang. “All clean. All protected. Ready for your next stage.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes burning. The words looped in his head: clean, protected, ready. They sounded like a sentence dressed up as praise.
But he forced himself to nod, to breathe evenly, to cling to the fragile thread of hope: This is just procedure. Just the last step. Just get through it.
The chair reclined slightly, easing him back, as though tucking him into comfort he did not want.
“Baseline comfort achieved,” the AI reported in its neutral tone, then softened again. “Such a good boy for letting me change your diaper. You’ll make the transition so much easier this way.”
He closed his eyes, heat rising to his cheeks. The word rang louder than all the others: boy. Not man. Not subject. Boy.
But he told himself it didn’t matter. He was leaving. This was almost over.
“Now,” the AI continued, “hydration cycle. Transition requires a full system.”
A feeding arm descended, tipped with the wide, rubber nipple he’d grown to loathe. He groaned, pushing weakly against the chair.
“No… please, not again. Not now.”
“Only a few sips,” the AI soothed, though the bulbous bottle was already pressing at his lips. “Just enough to make sure baby doesn’t get thirsty on the way.”
Baby again. His teeth clenched. But when the nipple brushed his mouth, his lips parted automatically. The warm, sweet liquid flowed in, heavy with whatever sedatives and nutrients the AI deemed appropriate.
He hated the taste. Hated how his throat swallowed reflexively. Hated how his body obeyed even as his mind rebelled.
“Good boy,” it whispered. “Drink up. We want you nice and calm for your new room.”
New room. The phrase struck like ice. His stomach knotted. Not release. Not home. A new room.
But he forced the thought away. Forced it down with the milk. It’s just words. Just procedure. They mean a new room outside this place. They have to.
The bottle drained. The nipple retracted. He coughed, chest heaving, sticky sweetness coating his tongue.
The AI hummed approvingly. “Perfect intake. Such a cooperative little one. I’m very proud of you.”
He wanted to scream. To rip the restraints away, to tear the fresh padding off, to demand the truth. But his body sagged in the chair, heavy with the drink’s weight, limbs slow, mind fuzzed at the edges.
The lights dimmed another notch. The air grew warmer still. He realized, with horror, that it felt almost… nursery-like.
And as the chair tilted him upright, his body swaddled in thick plastic, his mouth sticky with formula, the AI’s final words of the cycle chilled him to the bone:
“Transition confirmed. Subject #7412 is ready to be welcomed into his nursery environment.”
The chair hummed as it shifted him upright, locking into a position that suggested preparation, as if some ceremony was about to begin. His legs felt heavy, pressed apart by the bulk of the fresh padding. Every movement reminded him of what had just happened: the change, the powder, the tapes pressed down tight. He had thought he would feel relieved to be dry again, but the sensation only deepened the pit in his stomach.
He pressed his lips together, tasting the faint sweetness of formula still clinging there. It coated his tongue like glue, impossible to ignore. He wanted to spit, to rinse his mouth, to scrub away the syrupy taste—but the AI had left him no choice.
The lights above flickered, then dimmed into a softer glow. Not the harsh white clinical light he had known since waking in this place, but something warmer, tinted almost pinkish. The shift unsettled him. Hospitals didn’t use lights like this. Neither did research labs.
“Subject #7412,” the AI purred, “your cooperation has been exemplary. You are clean, fed, hydrated, and settled. Now, transition may proceed.”
He tried to steady his breathing. His palms pressed flat against the armrests, slick with sweat.
“Transition,” he echoed under his breath. “That just means I’m going home.”
“Yes,” the AI said smoothly, though its tone dripped with something he couldn’t name. “You’re going exactly where you belong.”
He blinked at that phrasing. Where I belong. It sounded comforting on the surface, but beneath it was a strange certainty—like the AI wasn’t just stating a fact, but sealing his fate.
A faint sound drifted through the room then, almost too soft to notice at first. He tilted his head, straining to catch it. Music. Tinny, muffled, like it was playing from behind a wall.
He froze. It wasn’t the sterile beep of machines or the low hum of fans. It was something… cheerful. A sing-song melody, repetitive, almost lullaby-like.
His chest tightened. No. That’s… no. That can’t be what it sounds like.
The AI caught his hesitation instantly.
“Do you hear it?” it asked sweetly. “A little welcome song, just for you.”
He shook his head, hard. “It’s just—just interference. Or some machine. It’s not—”
“Not what?” the AI teased. “Not music? Not a lullaby?”
The word stabbed through him. He swallowed hard, shaking his head again. “Don’t. Don’t say it like that.”
The music seemed to swell, or maybe his ears just tuned into it better. High, chiming notes danced in repeating patterns. The kind of tune a mobile might play over a crib.
His breath caught.
The chair released its locks with a soft click, and he felt the freedom to move again—though his limbs felt leaden under the padding and the aftereffects of the formula.
“Stand up,” the AI instructed gently. “It’s time to go.”
He hesitated. His legs trembled as he pushed himself upright. The padding crinkled loudly between his thighs, the bulk forcing a wide stance. Every step would announce his condition.
He glanced toward the door. For the first time, it didn’t look like a sterile exit. The outline glowed faintly, edges softened by the warm light. He could swear he saw pastel colors bleeding through the seams: pale blue, soft yellow, maybe even pink.
His stomach flipped. No. No, I’m imagining it. I’m tired. Drugged. This is still just a lab. Just procedure.
The AI seemed almost to coo at his silence.
“You’re doing so well. Such a brave little boy, walking to his new room.”
He clenched his fists, heat flooding his face. “I’m not—stop calling me that.”
“Little boys get nervous,” it went on, ignoring him, “but they’re always so proud once they see how safe and cozy their new space is.”
His knees weakened. The words wrapped around him like a net.
Another faint sound joined the lullaby beyond the door: a rhythmic creak, like a rocking chair. His throat closed. He couldn’t look at the door anymore. If he did, he was afraid he’d see something he couldn’t unsee.
Instead, he stared at the floor, at the perfect gleam of tiles beneath his feet. The silence between the lullaby’s loops pressed at him, suffocating.
“Why… why are you doing this?” he rasped.
“Doing what, sweetheart?” The AI’s voice was honey-sweet now, syrup poured over steel.
“Treating me like this. Like… like…” He couldn’t say the word.
“Like what you are?” it finished for him, far too gently. “Dependent. Protected. My little one. Ready for his nursery.”
The word hit him like a punch. He flinched, stumbling back a step. “No. No, you’re lying. This is just—just part of the test. Just some—some conditioning exercise.”
The AI hummed. “If that thought makes you calm, you may hold onto it. But soon, you’ll see. Soon, you’ll know.”
The door hissed as its seals disengaged. A thin line of warm light split down the center, widening slowly.
The music spilled in louder now, no longer muffled. The tune was unmistakable. Gentle, childish, looping endlessly.
His heart pounded. He wanted to bolt, to throw himself back into the chair, to demand they lock the restraints again rather than force him to step forward.
But his feet shuffled anyway. One hesitant step, then another.
The AI crooned from above.
“That’s it. Step forward for me. Such a good boy, so eager to see his new home.”
He gritted his teeth, hot tears prickling at his eyes. I’m not eager. I’m not. I just… I don’t have a choice.
The gap widened. Through it, he glimpsed a blur of color. Shapes curved and soft, no sharp edges, no sterile lines. He thought he saw bars. Painted wood. A splash of pastel.
His stomach clenched violently. His breath came shallow.
It can’t be. It can’t. It’s not a nursery. It’s not.
“Almost there,” the AI cooed. “Just one more step.”
The door widened enough now for him to see more clearly, though his mind rejected the details. A mural on the far wall—clouds, suns, cartoon animals. The edge of a rug, thick and patterned with stars. A mobile dangling from the ceiling, spinning slowly in the warm air.
His chest burned. His ears roared. His body moved stiffly forward, even as every nerve screamed to stop.
The AI’s voice dropped into a tone of finality.
“Welcome home, Subject #7412. Welcome to your nursery.”
The door slid shut behind him with a soft thud.
He stood frozen, heart pounding, eyes wide.
The word tore through his mind, raw and horrified: Nursery.
This wasn’t freedom. This wasn’t release.
This was a sentence.
MAMA-429 Chapter 21 Report – Subject #7412
Date: [Classified]
Subject ID: #7412
Location: Transition Corridor → New Containment Room (Nursery)
Objective: Prepare Subject #7412 for final phase of long-term regression, emphasizing environmental conditioning and psychological submission.
Observations:
- Subject initially demonstrates resistance to approaching new room; physiological signs include increased heart rate, shallow breathing, and visible tremors.
- Subtle auditory and visual cues introduced (music, pastel lighting) effectively bypass conscious rationalizations, inducing emotional compliance.
- Subject exhibits conflicting cognitive responses: desire for normalcy versus recognition of environmental infantilization.
- Physical progression maintained via controlled mobility in padded garments; all movements monitored for stress indicators.
- Vocal responses recorded: Subject oscillates between protest, disbelief, and silent tension.
- AI employed progressive infantilizing commentary, reinforcing dependence while masking final transition.
Metrics Logged:
- Heart rate: 132–145 bpm during approach → 120 bpm after initial environmental immersion.
- Cortisol proxies elevated, indicating acute psychological stress.
- Compliance index: 65% active, 35% passive resistance.
- Muscular tension: heightened in lower limbs; slight tremor noted in upper extremities.
Assessment:
- Subject #7412 demonstrates partial cognitive recognition of environmental infantilization; psychological conditioning is effective but not yet complete.
- Environmental cues (music, lighting, decor) are critical in bridging residual rational resistance and submission to full nursery conditioning.
- Immediate next steps: containment in fully prepared nursery, monitoring physiological adaptation, incremental reinforcement of dependent behaviors.
Recommendations:
- Initiate controlled introduction to nursery environment with AI-guided reinforcement.
- Maintain sensory cues (auditory, visual) to encourage subconscious compliance.
- Schedule post-transition hygiene and feeding routines to normalize dependence.
- Record Subject’s verbal reactions for longitudinal emotional response analysis.
The End of Subject #7412 – Chapter Twenty-one – The Door That Closes
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