Do aliens have human rights?
Well, when a massive warship hovers above Earth with all its cannons locked on the surface, then yes—aliens have HUGE human rights. Imperial negotiations? Absolutely on the table.
But if it's just a lone alien who landed quietly on Earth, forget about rights. They'll be treated like a lab rat, nothing more.
That's exactly the situation of the transmigrator codenamed Ennyuno Odin isolated, imprisoned in a sealed room, cut off from the world.
The Room
The environment isn't what you'd call comfortable. The cell contains only a bed, a sink, and a toilet—the kind of barebones setup you'd expect in a movie prison.
Still, it's not your average prison either. The walls are painted an obsessive shade of white, the bed sheets are pristine, and the steel fixtures shine like mirrors.
Strangely enough, the cell is larger than the apartment the protagonist bought with a thirty-year mortgage in their previous life. But there's no decoration, no partitions—just cold, sterile minimalism.
Even the lights aren't under their control. On or off—they follow an external schedule, dictated by the researchers outside the room.
As for clothing, the protagonist only ever gets two options: completely naked or wearing a white, straight-cut shift that resembles a surgical gown—except that it covers the butt.
In infancy, staff would bottle-feed them milk. After weaning, every meal became a monotonous, nutritionally balanced paste. Bland. Unsatisfying. Always too little.
And since the place is too sterile, there's not a cockroach, gecko, or rat in sight. Nothing to even try to catch for food.
At one point, they considered... the unflushed waste in the toilet. But no, not that desperate yet. At least the flush button still worked. That was one thing they could control.
Time here isn't marked by calendars or clocks. Just the lights turning on and off, and meals delivered on schedule. No seasons, no temperature changes. The room maintains a perfect, unwavering climate.
The gown and thin blanket keep them just warm enough. They don't get sick—but they're not healthy either. Always in that gray area of sub-health: not starving, never full.
Isolation
Human contact? Almost nonexistent.
Aside from occasional blood draws and physical checkups, nobody talks to them. Even in person, everyone avoids eye contact and keeps their lips sealed.
Cleaning the room? Done while they're away during those medical exams. Any attempt to leave marks, hide food, or scrawl a note—immediately wiped away or taken for analysis. After a while, the transmigrator stopped trying.
At first, they didn't understand the silence. Why wouldn't anyone try to get information from them?
Then it hit them: who would interrogate a baby?
They were picked up as an infant. What could they possibly know? Nobody's asking about the "experience" of flying through space in diapers or probing for tech secrets from their home planet—this is not some Hollywood drama.
In truth, the only valuable assets are the spaceship that brought them here and their alien physiology. No wonder everyone treats them like a potential threat. Every close-contact staff wears airtight suits. Those in lab coats stay behind thick glass.
They tried once—tried expressing love for the red flag, admiration for harmony, the whole patriotic routine. But quickly realized something chilling: what if this isn't the Earth they knew?
Sure, people looked Slavic. They spoke Russian. No alien apes, no Martian gibberish. But who's to say this is their Russia? Not knowing the rules is dangerous. Especially when revealing they know too much might raise suspicions.
In a world like this, the wrong words could make a dissection table their final destination.
So they kept their mouth shut.
Obedience and Endurance
After working through more than a decade of life as a humble "cow-horse" on Earth—slaving away with 996 hours (or was it 007?), suppressing dreams and biting the bullet—this new life wasn't so different.
They used to fantasize about sugar mommies and anime. Now? No shows. No games. No phone. No sugary drinks or spicy skewers to bring comfort.
Yet, oddly enough, they didn't complain.
They thought this strange, sterile routine would continue until death. Just medical tests, silent rooms, and the occasional probing.
But everything changed when their physical growth hit a plateau.
Suddenly, the scientists shifted gears.
The Torture Begins
At first, the procedures were mild: minor cuts, shocks, physical endurance tests. But that didn't last.
Soon came the bone fractures—arms, legs, anything to test healing speed. Burns, deep lacerations, electric shocks to determine thresholds.
This wasn't interrogation. Torture was the test itself.
The researchers weren't asking questions; they were cataloging regeneration, immune responses, physical limits.
As someone who only knew stress, overwork, and mild physical wear in their past life, the transmigrator quickly realized: psychological suffering is one thing—outright pain is something else entirely.
And it was escalating.
From external injuries to deeper damage, the testing pushed them to the brink. Disabling limbs. Nerve damage. You could see the pattern: next would be organs, infections, biological warfare.
They might be turned into a living gu pot, a cauldron to cultivate viral plagues.
Eventually, they'd become a dissected specimen. Best-case scenario? Just a display. Worst-case? Sliced thin and studied under microscopes.
Either way, the outcome would never be in their hands.
The Breaking Point
Still, it's hard to say which phase was worse—the endless solitude of childhood or the unbearable torture of maturity.
Even Tom Hanks had a volleyball named Wilson. But in this white-walled hell, there was nothing.
Their only solace was memory. The movies, novels, music—once dismissed as "spiritual opium"—now became life preservers, replayed over and over in their mind to stay sane.
But pain eats away at the soul. The mental abyss deepened. Despair began to bloom.
Was this the punishment for past sins? After all that effort on Earth—endless striving, silent suffering—was this the karmic result?
They didn't know how long they'd been here. But one day, something changed.
The lights stopped turning off. No more food came. No explanation. Just… silence.
The water still flowed, but that couldn't cure starvation.
Their body, already battered and malnourished, began to collapse. An arm still splinted from a previous experiment. No rest. Constant light.
Their body broke. Their spirit shattered.
They longed for the torture again. At least it meant food afterward. At least someone acknowledged their existence.
They would've screamed if they had the strength. Just a final cry: "Kill me if you must, but give me a last meal."
Even grass, bark, or Guanyin clay would've sufficed. But here? Nothing.
At some point, a desperate thought surfaced—Could I eat myself?
But their limbs were too thin, their jaw too weak, their teeth too dull. No way to bite down.
Their mind broke. Without warning, consciousness slipped away.
Heartbeat slowed. Breathing faded.
Eventually, everything stopped.
At least they were unconscious when death arrived. No suffering in that final moment.
No regrets.
Just hunger.
"I'm so hungry…"
That was the last thought.