Per 
The lonely man in the gray jumpsuit ran down the corridor away from the monster he had left behind him. It wasn't the monster he was afraid of, but the men in black who came to take care of the monster. He had no idea why he was afraid of them, but there was an instinctual urge to run, run as far away as possible, to run until he had no legs to run and then to run some more. They weren't like the men before, these men were clad head to toe in black and somehow emanated evil from every pore of their sick, miserable bodies. They had strange green apparatuses over their eyes, with patches of red across their arms and orange lights flashing across their backs.
Perhaps the security offices would have picked up on the strange man dressed in janitorial uniform covered in blood running with a firearm down a hallway, however all site members were more preoccupied with containing the previous entity, with security monitoring surface level entry to determine any foreign intrusion and keeping an eye on main access points to make sure that the entity would stay relatively contained.
A security guard would, a week later, take notice of the crazed man, however due to a simultaneous interger overflow error from a seperate recording system, it was determined to be nothing less then a technical oversight of hardware contamination, and the records were shipped off to be burned.
Perhaps the site-wide AI would have taken notice, but for some inexplicable reason, it consciously edited out its own memory from the hours of 1502 to 1508 under the pretense of a system error and subsequent reboot to remedy the error. When questioned as to its overall timing with the aforementioned security breach, AI denied all ties to the breach of containment, which so happened to be true.
The researchers questioning the AI, however, failed to think of any other motive a sentient being would for rebooting autonomously, so they jotted it down as a system mishap, and taking into consideration the short period of time the AI was inactive, overlooked it entirely.
But those 6 minutes were more then enough.
The lonely man in the gray jumpsuit took a sharp left, the white fluorescent lights replaced with a dangerous flashing red. The corridors were empty, and the noise of his footsteps was masked by the constant thundering of alarms. He finally found a bathroom, designated for "researchers". Normally he would never be allowed in here, but he wasn't sure if he was ever going back to his previous job either way, so he quickly slipped inside, and found to his surprise that the janitorial keys locked these bathrooms as well.
Safe inside the lime-colored room, he overlooked the immaculate stalls, the shining faucets and the pleasantly warm light emanating from the fixture on the ceiling. He looked behind him and noticed that he didn't leave any footprints behind him, giving him a little closure that he would be safe for at least a little while. He methodically counted the number of rounds within the pistol before setting it down on the bathroom sink.
18.
18 bullets left.
And he was in the middle of a facility god knew where.
Surrounded by people he was scared of.
In a bathroom that would be noticed within 30 minutes tops.
Taking in the situation, the man started to tremble a little, but steeled his nerves. He stared into the mirror for the first time in years and saw his face. He didn't know the man in the mirror, but perhaps he never really knew him to begin with. Fumbling around in his coat pockets, the man found a switchblade, the only weapon he ever managed to scrounge around. Not that he actually remembered how he came across it, but he remembered feeling fond of a different type of knife altogether…
With nothing much left to do, he took off his jumpsuit and shirt, stuffed them in the sink, and let the water run. Perhaps he didn't have much time, but he wouldn't be running around in bloody clothes. Not around this place anyways. He grasped for the knife and slowly started cutting away at the hair on his face. He started to scrape away the residual hairs when he saw what he actually looked like.
Staggering back a bit, he fell flat on his butt, before shaking his head. He was beginning to remember bits and fragments, but nothing coherent, nothing that made sense. He cut away what was left of his overgrown beard, then started on his hair, before stopping. For some reason he liked his longer hair, so he left it be, tying it back with a piece of wire before finally taking a proper look at himself. He was probably 20, which was surprising, given the dirty and unkept state he was in, and adding the beard when he first came into the bathroom he would have given himself over 35 if not 40. His broken and cracked voice didn't help either, not that he spoke much to begin with. He remembered having a softer voice, once upon a time, and it gave him a little hope to think that he might regain it if he started singing again.
Singing? Since when did he sing? The man shook his head. He stepped back to look at his body. Covered in scars, yet somehow quite soft and thin. He definitely wasn't part of any military or fighting force, that was for sure, not like the men in the containment cell, and definitely not like the men in black. Then why was he so well trained with a gun? Why did he manage to react better then the two guards who died right in front of him?
He didn't understand, but understanding was something he didn't need at the moment anyways. He pulled the white t-shirt and jeans he wore under his jumpsuit on anyways. He took out his knife, tore up the old jumpsuit, and flushed it down the toilet. He was sure that site filtration would most likely pick up the remnants.
As he was cleaning up the residual bloodstains he noticed he had nicked his wrist earlier in the confrontation with the monster. It wasn't bleeding profusely, but it was noticeable enough; the constant trickling would bleed him dry if he didn't do anything to stop it.
But for some reason, the warm crimson gave him a feeling of relief, perhaps even joy. He knew that he needed to close up the wound and get a move on, but a nagging feeling in the back of his head told him not to. He slowly started descending into a black fog, wrapping around his mind as he started poking and prodding at the cut, widening it to see how far it would stretch, before noticing scar marks littered across his arms, oh so very similar to the open wound he had now. He smiled. He smiled for the first time in at least a year, when he thought this whole madness started. His smile grew wider and wider as his pupils dilated, ignoring the alarms shutting off and the voice announcer shouting over the PA system.
In a moment of sheer reflex, he put the blade to the bleed, and cut deep in a single, well rehearsed motion. For a moment the pain snapped him out of his mindset, as the horror of his impending death set upon him, but slowly the inevitability of it all set in, and the man in the gray jumpsuit faded away, leaving only the manic boy in the bathroom, alone. The boy cutting again and again, slowly delving into a manic laughter with each stroke of his hand, his vision slowly narrowing as the blood loss started affecting his eyesight, the sway of his step increasing as he started slowly spinning around and around, blood splattering on the immaculately kept walls, his laughter growing louder and louder as he felt happier then he had in his entire life.
He remembered how much of a failure he was, what kind of a messed up psycho he was, as the voices started slowly trickling back into his skull, voices he had hoped once upon a time long long ago to be rid of, slowly overtaking him once more.
