Playtime. Co.(Evolution System)

The scientist, a man named Dr. Miles, cowered beneath Michael's cold gaze. Blood oozed from the numerous cuts Michael had inflicted, staining his pristine white coat a grotesque crimson. Fear, raw and palpable, emanated from him, a stark contrast to the clinical detachment he had displayed earlier.

Michael, however, felt no satisfaction. No thrill of victory. Only a chilling sense of purpose. Dr. Miles's revelations had painted a grim picture of Playtime Co., a company driven by a twisted ambition that extended far beyond the creation of simple toys. They sought to reshape humanity itself, to mold it into something more… malleable. More controllable.

The information packet had provided a basic understanding of the company's history and goals, but Dr. Miles filled in the gaps, revealing the darker, more insidious aspects of their research. He spoke of the experiments, the failed prototypes, the discarded creations deemed too unstable or uncontrollable. He spoke of the orphans, the unwitting subjects snatched from the streets and subjected to horrific procedures. He spoke of the Bigger Bodies Initiative, a project designed to create a workforce of giant, sentient toys, devoid of free will and driven solely by the company's directives.

Michael listened, his mind a steel trap, memorizing every detail, every name, every location. He was no longer just a fan of Poppy Playtime. He was a player in the game, and he intended to play it to win.

A sudden commotion outside the room broke the tense silence. Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the sharp clang of metal against metal. Dr. Miles's eyes widened in terror.

"They're here," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "The security forces."

Michael's grip tightened on the scalpel. He had anticipated this. Dr. Miles's prolonged silence had undoubtedly raised alarms. He had bought himself some time, but now the clock was ticking.

The door burst open, revealing a squad of heavily armed guards, their faces obscured by visors, their bodies clad in reinforced armor. They stormed into the room, their weapons trained on Michael.

"Drop the weapon!" one of the guards barked, his voice amplified by a vocoder.

Michael didn't comply. He stood his ground, his eyes locked on the guards, his expression unwavering.

"Subject 001," another guard said, his voice calmer, more authoritative. "You are to cease your aggression and cooperate with the security personnel."

Michael's lips curled into a sneer. "Cooperate? With the people who kidnapped me and turned me into this?" He gestured to his small, pale body.

"You are a valuable asset to Playtime Co.," the guard said. "Your cooperation is essential for the success of our research."

"Your research?" Michael laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Your research is an abomination. You're playing God, and you're going to pay for it."

The guards exchanged glances. They had clearly not expected such defiance from a child.

"Subject 001," the lead guard said, his voice hardening. "You are jeopardizing this operation. Comply, or we will be forced to use lethal force."

Michael's eyes narrowed. He knew he was outmatched. He was still weak, his body not yet fully adapted to its new form. But he had one advantage: surprise.

He lunged forward, his movements a blur of motion. He slashed at the nearest guard, his scalpel slicing through the fabric of his uniform and drawing blood. The guard cried out in pain, stumbling back.

The other guards reacted instantly, their weapons firing. Michael dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the barrage of bullets. He rolled across the floor, using the overturned equipment as cover.

He knew he couldn't win this fight. He needed to escape. He needed to find a way out of this room, out of this facility, out of this nightmare.

He spotted a ventilation shaft high on the wall. It was a long shot, but it was his only chance.

He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his side where a stray bullet had grazed him. He sprinted towards the wall, his small body surprisingly agile. He leaped, his fingers grasping the edge of the vent. He pulled himself up, his muscles straining, his body screaming in protest.

He squeezed into the narrow shaft, the metal grating scraping against his skin. He crawled forward, the darkness closing in around him.

He could hear the guards shouting behind him, their footsteps pounding on the metal floor. He pushed himself harder, his lungs burning, his heart pounding.

He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know what he was going to do. But he knew one thing: he wasn't going to be their puppet. He was going to be the puppeteer.

Meanwhile, in a sterile, brightly lit control room, a man with a stern face and piercing blue eyes watched the events unfold on a bank of monitors. Dr. Harley Sawyer, the head of research and development at Playtime Co., was not pleased.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice laced with fury. "Why is Subject 001 resisting?"

"We don't know, sir," one of the technicians stammered. "He seems to be… unstable."

Sawyer slammed his fist on the console. "Unstable? He was supposed to be our most promising subject! The culmination of years of research!"

He turned to another technician. "Prepare the Make-a-Friend machine for another cycle. We need to stabilize him. We need to bring him under control."

"But sir," the technician protested, "the machine is not yet fully calibrated. There's a risk of…"

"I don't care about the risk!" Sawyer roared. "Subject 001 is too valuable to lose. We need to secure him, no matter the cost."

He turned back to the monitors, his eyes fixed on the image of Michael disappearing into the ventilation shaft.

"Find him," he hissed. "And bring him to me."