They simply called it “The Laboratory.” There were no windows — only the hum of life-support systems and aquariums filled with lifeforms that defied classification. On evenings like this, Spacelunch would tune the setup, Cat would yank out unnecessary cables with his tail, and everything would freeze in anticipation of the signal. A deep, steady mix filled the space, seeping into reservoirs, consoles, and whispering sensors. Something flared, something trembled — as if the environment itself was trying to synchronize with the rhythm. Later, a new chapter would appear in the Professor’s log: “Sample 93.”
@asphalt_layer
