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"wake up you lazy little p***k!" yelled the old man, through the speaker in the whitewash, sterilised wall beside the plain white bed, which reeked of bleach and sat just under an uncovered energy saving bulb which similarly shone on the rest of the plain white room, from the top corners byt the ceiling to the new and not-yet dusty corners of the icy, brushed steel floor.
"Go away, I'm not interested," Mumbled Raiko, through his, now overturned, white pillow.
"You get a choice in the matter when the cards are in your favour, now get up or so help me I'll..." The last few words had some, or rather a lot of interference, which made no difference because, by now, Raiko had got the idea of what would be coming next: death threats, cursing, insults with the occasional cough and wheeze which, to be honest, was what made Raiko's day.
He let out a snicker and rolled off the bed, still dressed in his black and white checkered hoodie, his baggy dark jeans and his old no fear t-shirt, the same clothes he'd been wearing for what looked like three days now, but who was counting. His short, dark-ginger hair was even scruffier than usual, but he could admit that he'd only gone arund one extra day without washing it. His eyes had pale bags underneath them, a little darker than his pastey grey morning skin, but the extra sleep he was getting had really taken the dark off of them.

He'd lived like this for a while now, staying oblivious to time, or what was going on outside, the old man said it would be better that way, for when the research showed some results.

For the time Raiko had been here he had slept when he was tired, eaten when he was hungry and gone when he needed to go, unless he was working with the old man (apart from the going part, he could take a break to do that in the middle of work.)

"Fine. I'll get up out of bed and walk to the door, by myself, with my own two legs and maybe my arms a little, but only because you can't be bothered!" he yelled, finally standing up and pounding the mic-box beside his face.

He walked over to the whitewash, sterilised plastic door and slid it open by the panel, before trudging down the sterilised, whitewash corridor, which still smelled strongly of bleach, rubbing his forehead and pulling down his face with one hand he gave his hair the occasional ruffle about at the back.

His feet pounded heavy against the brushed steel floor, ocasionally not even lifting off it, but instead just sliding along with a sort of half-step, until he got to a small plastic door.

The door in front of him was, effectively, exactly the same to the one at the other end of the corridor, by his room, however, this door had much more value because behind this door, lay the door.