I Was His Alien Specimen, Now He's Breaking Every Rule to Claim Me

A slow, thick hum vibrated through my bones, pulling me up from a depth I didn’t know existed. It wasn’t the familiar groan of the city waking up outside my apartment window or the gentle whir of my ancient refrigerator. This was a deep, resonant thrum that felt like it was coming from inside my own skull. My eyelids were heavy, glued shut with a sleep that felt less like rest and more like a system shutdown.

I forced them open.

The light was the first thing that was wrong. It wasn't the sharp morning sun slicing through my blinds. It was a soft, shadowless glow that seemed to emanate from the very air, bathing everything in a sterile, uniform white. I was lying on my back on a surface that was cool and unyielding, smoother than any mattress I’d ever slept on.

My bedroom was gone. The familiar crack in the ceiling, the pile of clothes on my chair, the half-read book on my nightstand—all of it had been replaced by this impossible emptiness. I sat up, my movements feeling sluggish and disconnected. A wave of vertigo washed over me, and I braced myself with a hand on the slab I’d been lying on.

The room was a perfect, seamless box. Or maybe a sphere. The walls curved into the floor and ceiling with no discernible joints, no corners, no edges. Just smooth, unbroken white in every direction. There was no door. No window.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in my brain. My heart started hammering against my ribs, a frantic, desperate beat. Abducted. The word screamed in my mind, a headline from a trashy tabloid now made terrifyingly real. I scrambled off the slab, my bare feet slapping against the cool floor. I was wearing a thin, grey, one-piece garment that clung to my body, not the oversized t-shirt I’d gone to sleep in.

I ran a hand over my arms, my legs, my stomach. I was unharmed. No bruises, no marks. But the violation of it—being taken, stripped, and put on display in this pristine prison—sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through me. I spun in a slow circle, my eyes darting everywhere, searching for a crack, a seam, anything that suggested a way out. There was nothing. Just the endless, glowing white and the low, pervasive hum.

But as the seconds stretched into a minute, a strange thing happened. The sharp edges of my fear began to dull, worn down by a different, more powerful impulse: curiosity. My breathing steadied. My frantic search for an exit slowed to a deliberate examination of my surroundings. This place… it was impossible. The architecture defied logic. The light source was a mystery. Whatever technology had created this room was far beyond anything I had ever seen or imagined. A part of me, the part that had devoured science fiction books since I was a kid, was utterly, completely fascinated. The terror was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but now it had company. I stood in the center of the room, my panic giving way to a profound and unnerving sense of wonder. I was a specimen in a jar. And I wanted to see the scientist.

As if in answer to my thought, a voice filled the space. It wasn’t projected from a specific point but seemed to exist everywhere at once, a deep, calm baritone that resonated in my chest. It was smooth, devoid of any accent I could place, yet it had a strange, precise cadence that was distinctly not human.

“You are awake. Good.”

I flinched, my head snapping up to search for the source. My heart kicked back into a frantic rhythm. “Who’s there? Where am I?” My own voice sounded small and thin in the vast, white room.

“My designation is Maxim. I am the lead researcher for this project.” The voice was patient, maddeningly so. There was a clinical detachment to his tone, but underneath it, I could hear something else. A low thrum of intensity. Of… fascination. “You are on board the vessel Inquiry. You have been selected.”

“Selected for what?” I demanded, wrapping my arms around myself. It was a weak attempt to feel less exposed.

Instead of answering immediately, the air in front of me began to shimmer. Tiny particles of light, like dust motes in a sunbeam, swirled and coalesced. They built upon each other, forming a shape, a silhouette, and then, a man.

He was a hologram, slightly transparent, but the detail was staggering. He was tall, impossibly so, well over six and a half feet. His body was encased in a dark, seamless suit that clung to a physique that was all lean muscle and sharp angles. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, and his posture was one of absolute authority.

But it was his face that held me captive. It was angular and severe, with high cheekbones and a jawline sharp enough to cut. His hair was black, cut short and severe. His features were humanoid, but perfected, as if sculpted by an artist with an obsession for symmetry. And his eyes… they were a dark, piercing gray, and they scanned me not like a person, but like a complex equation he was determined to solve. They moved over my bare feet, up the thin fabric clinging to my legs and torso, and finally met my gaze.

“You have been selected for study,” he said, his holographic eyes holding mine. The voice was no longer disembodied; it came directly from the shimmering form in front of me. “Your species exhibits a unique and compelling synthesis of biological imperatives and complex emotional consciousness. We wish to understand it.”

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the projection gliding silently over the floor. “We wish to understand you, Breck.”

Hearing him say my name was a violation. It was a cold, hard confirmation that they hadn't just taken my body; they had rifled through my life, my identity. I stood my ground, my chin lifted in a defiance I didn’t feel. He was a researcher. And I was his specimen. The word hung in the sterile air between us, unspoken but absolute. He was here to take me apart, piece by piece, not with a scalpel, but with his intense, analytical gaze. And I had a terrible feeling that he was going to enjoy it.

“The examinations will now commence,” he stated, his voice flat and professional. “They are non-invasive. You will feel no pain. Comply and remain still.”

He gestured to the slab I’d woken up on. I walked back to it on shaky legs and, after a moment’s hesitation, laid myself down. The surface was cold against my back, the chill seeping through the thin grey fabric. I stared up at the seamless white ceiling, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

“Initial scan initiated. We will begin with a full biological mapping.”

A beam of pale blue light materialized at my feet. It moved slowly, gliding over my ankles, my shins, my knees. It was warm, like a targeted sunbeam, but I felt more than just heat. It was a deep, penetrating sensation, as if the light was peeling back my skin layer by layer, cataloging every cell, every nerve, every vessel. I felt utterly transparent.

I forced myself to look at Maxim. His holographic form stood near the slab, his dark eyes fixed not on some unseen monitor, but on me. Directly on me. His gaze followed the path of the light. He watched as it slid over my thighs, his expression unreadable but his focus absolute. The grey material of my suit did nothing to hide my shape, and as the light passed over the junction of my legs, I felt a hot flush of shame and anger. He saw everything. The scanner mapped my reproductive organs, the precise structure of my pelvic bone, and his eyes never left me.

The beam continued its unhurried journey upward. It swept over my stomach, my ribs, and then my breasts. I couldn’t stop the way my nipples hardened against the fabric, a completely involuntary reaction to the cold air and the intense, invasive sensation of the scan. Maxim’s eyes lingered there for a fraction of a second too long. It wasn’t a leer. It was something more unnerving. It was a look of intense, analytical focus that felt far too personal, as if he was trying to decipher the very texture of my skin, the reason for my body’s autonomic response.

The light passed over my throat and face, and then it was gone. The room was silent except for the low hum.

“Biological mapping complete,” he said, his tone unchanged. But I saw it. A subtle flicker in his holographic form, a slight shift in his posture. “We will now proceed to a preliminary psychological evaluation. Images will be presented. Do not attempt to control your emotional responses.”

The white walls around me dissolved into a rapid-fire sequence of images. A blooming flower. A car crash. A geometric pattern that made my head spin. A laughing baby. Then, a memory. My memory. It was me, at seventeen, standing on a beach with my first boyfriend, the wind whipping through my hair as he leaned in to kiss me. I felt the phantom sensation of his chapped lips, the smell of salt and sunscreen. My breath caught in my throat.

The image vanished, replaced by the sterile white room. Maxim was watching my face, his head tilted slightly. His grey eyes were searching mine, probing, cataloging the flicker of remembered joy and adolescent ache that must have been plain on my face.

“Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself. The word was quiet, but it landed like a physical blow.

He wasn’t just studying a species. He was studying me. And his curiosity felt less like science and more like a predator’s, circling its prey, learning its every weakness before deciding exactly where to bite.