Six Months Ago. Night of the Escape

  The lab was steeped in half-light. Everyone had cleared out—except for Strob. As usual. Telling him to call it a night was useless. He’d ignore it anyway.

  The stranger had been waiting for exactly that.

  He broke in without a plan. Or maybe that was the plan: remove anyone who got in the way. Quietly. Efficiently. As he moved, he launched a distortion pulse across the internal grid—camera feeds should’ve glitched and died. He checked—turns out, they were already offline. Even better. No cleanup.

  The security room held just two men. He took them out fast—no noise, no hesitation. Just necessity.

  The stranger had been waiting for just that.

  He came in without a plan. Took out everyone he encountered. No noise. No hesitation. As he moved, he sent a pulse of distortion through the internal grid—camera pixels broke down, feeds cut. He checked: they were already offline. Good. Less work.

  The security room held just two men. He killed them quickly—no noise, no remorse. Just necessity.

  "What now?" Strob muttered, not even turning around. "Told you not to bother me with your existential crap. I’m busy."

  Silence.

  He turned—and saw the visitor. Annoyance flared in his eyes, but he didn’t voice it.

  "You again?" he grunted, tired. "How the hell did you get in? Security will throw your ass out. I already told you—she’s not a blank slate. She’s got a core. Active, even if it’s unknown. This is my breakthrough. I’m close."

  A glint of fanaticism crossed his eyes.

  The visitor didn’t answer. No point in talk. The choice was made. Time to move.

  Strob rose fast.

  "I’m a scientist. And you—what are you? Who the hell are you to decide who gets studied?"

  The response came in motion—precise, silent, predatory. A born killer at work.

  The hand—half-shifted, clawed like blades. Movement controlled but fluid. Power amplified by restraint. Half his face distorted—predatory, inhuman. The meds dulled it, but couldn’t hide what he was. His form grew, heavier, broader. Every move was pure calculation.

  "Goodbye, Elias Strob. You were never a good man. And as a scientist? Mediocre."

  He lunged, giving no chance to react. The clawed hand sliced through air—and bone. The sound—a wet, sliding snap. The skull broke open like overripe fruit. Blood hit the ceiling. Splattered the glass. The walls. The floor. Strob’s body flew back, hit a divider hard, and slid down, leaving a thick red smear.

  No scream. No agony. Just a bubbling gasp, and a last twitch. Blood pooled beneath him. Dripped from the edge of the table. His brain slipped from the cracked skull, spreading across the floor.

  The intruder watched, his gaze flat, unnervingly calm. The job was done. Efficient. Detached. Just as it should be.

  Silence.

  Only broken by the soft burble of blood trickling off the table—and the uneven, deep breathing of Subject Y-05.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Flesh splattered the glass, droplets clinging to the ceiling. Torn, scorched—unrecognizable. Just right: uncontrolled transformation. An accident. A flare. Chaos. The perfect cover.

  Subject Y-05... A girl, strapped to the operating table, wired to monitors. He’d almost been too late. Idiot. Strob had likely planned to start dismantling her in the morning.

  She lay pale, eyes closed. He’d given her a full dose of a fast-acting sedative—clean, no side effects. Enough to keep her under, even if death came knocking.

  He extracted her blood—exactly 400 milliliters. Enough to simulate death. Splattered it with precision, by the book. Then removed two fingers from her left hand. A single slash from a claw. Perfect angle, perfect depth. He paused, eyes on her palm. Not enough. The mask on his face didn’t twitch, but something deep inside did.

  Fine... They’ll grow back by morning. Regeneration’s already active.

  After a moment, another finger—from the right hand. That would do. He made the tear look real—uneven edges, stretched fibers, the raw mess of loss-of-control shifting. Bits scattered as if her body had detonated in release. Nothing neat—just chaos and trauma, like the transformation had torn her apart.

  The mask stayed still. But inside, something clenched. This wasn’t his way. But realism mattered more. If it didn’t fool them, it might at least buy time.

  He lifted her into his arms. Light. Too light for the force sleeping in her. Stupidity. Or betrayal? How did she end up in their hands? No answers yet.

  He left the lab, vanishing into his own shadow. The air smelled of smoke. Peat fires again?

  Tomorrow, they’d blame her. And Strob. Case closed. No footage. No trace. Girl—dead.

  But the truth? She slept. Deep beneath the night’s hush. And with luck—she wouldn’t remember.

  For a second, the sky tensed. A moment—and a vast shadow slipped silently over the lab’s yard. Nothing unusual.

  *******************************************************************************************************************************************

  He stayed beside her for over a day, tracking her vitals. The regeneration booster kicked in fast—fingers grew back, skin pale but whole. No scars. On track. The explosion—glass, gore, soaked walls—surged up as a memory, then locked itself back down in the dark where it wouldn’t get in the way.

  He traced a claw along the ampoule. Inside—murky yellow liquid. A refined inhibitor formula, originally Strob’s. The first version was unstable, toxic. Junked. But he’d found a revised one—stabilized, minimal side effects. Reliable enough. It could block transformation. Put initiation on hold.

  "A year, maybe more. Should do," he muttered. "Hope it holds."

  Instincts stopped him from killing her. A rare case. Too rare to waste.

  He closed the drawer. Stored the ampoules. Pulled a blanket over her. When she woke, she’d think it was just the flu.

  Let her live. He’d come back later. For now, he had bigger problems to finish—before the Citadel turned its gaze on him. He didn’t know why, but they were far too interested in her.

  Dawn was breaking. She’d wake soon.

  He slipped out of her apartment, door clicking shut behind him. No need to wake the neighbors

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  Present Day. Chris and Gerda

  The silence between them stretched like a tight wire. Neither rushed to speak—not because there were no words, but because there were too many. Every word could break something, change the air between them, expose something raw. Gerda was afraid of hearing something terrifying about herself, while Chris simply waited, unsure how to begin without scaring her off.

  She realized she was shaking. Something warm and persistent had flared low in her belly. If Chris reached for her now—if he made a move—she wouldn't stop him.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I barely know this guy. Well, guy... right, more like a predator on the hunt. A male who didn't bother hiding what he wanted. Should've punched him in the face the first time we met. Oh, instincts? Yeah, sure.

  She took a deep breath.

  No! No-no-no. That's not why I'm here. I came for answers. To figure this out. Not to be one more notch on this gorgeous, annoyingly smug man's belt. Inhale... exhale.

  Meanwhile, Chris kept watching her, reading every little flicker that crossed her face. Her scent was all over the place—phasing in and out, like her pheromones couldn't decide what they were doing. Heat. Hesitation. Sparks. All tangled up in the air around her. He caught the exact second she leveled out, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Alright then. Decision made...

  Heh. Not tonight? Fine!

  He leaned in—not for a kiss this time, but to speak.

  "So... maybe we hit pause on that whole intense introduction," he said with a lopsided grin, like the air between them hadn't just crackled. "C'mon, let's head up to the balcony. It's quieter. Better place to talk."

  He didn't wait for her to say yes—just stood up calmly, like he already knew she'd follow. And no matter how hard Gerda tried to put her walls back up and remind herself who was in charge, her legs were already moving. Damn it. Pull yourself together, girl.