The emergency lights in the small bio-containment lab flickered weakly.

The reinforced glass specimen container had been smashed from the inside. Shards of thick glass and yellow amniotic fluid were scattered across the floor.

You stood frozen near the back wall.

From the wreckage of the container, a long, pale, snake-like creature suddenly burst out.

The Chestburster.

It was about the length of your forearm — a ribbed, segmented, off-white body with two small clawed arms near the front and a long, powerful tail. Its eyeless head ended in a mouth full of sharp, needle-like teeth.

The moment it hit the floor, it didn’t attack.

Instead, it panicked.

The Chestburster let out a high-pitched, wet screech and immediately began slithering away at shocking speed. Its body moved in rapid, serpentine undulations, using its small arms and tail to propel itself across the tiles toward the far side of the room.

It was clearly trying to escape.

You watched as it darted under the overturned examination table, then shot toward the ventilation grate in the lower wall. Its small claws scraped desperately against the metal as it tried to squeeze its slick body into the narrow opening.

It was terrified. Desperate.

For now, it wasn’t interested in you — it just wanted to hide.

But the ventilation grate was partially blocked by debris. The Chestburster thrashed violently, screeching again as it struggled to force itself inside. Its tail whipped back and forth, splattering yellow fluid across the floor.

It was stuck in the room with you.

The creature paused for a moment, its long head turning blindly in your direction. Its inner jaw clicked open and shut rapidly — not in aggression, but in clear distress.

It was looking for a way out.

And you were the only other living thing in the sealed lab.