Serge's eyes fluttered open.

  Darkness.

  A single, cold light hung from the ceiling, casting a narrow beam onto him. Everything else lay hidden in shadow. He was balanced precariously on a metal chair, arms wrenched behind him, wrists bound so tightly the circulation had long since faded to pins and needles. His legs were bound too—ankles tied, spread just enough to rob him of leverage. Stripped of armor and gear, he stood shivering in nothing but his underwear.

  His mouth was gagged. The taste of old cloth and salt filled his throat. Panic swelled inside him like a tide.

  A hiss.

  The door.

  He snapped his head left.

  Only blackness lay beyond.

  Then he heard it.

  A slow, wet drip.

  A dragging thud.

  Something was walking.

  It stepped into the light.

  Serge’s heart stuttered.

  The thing was... wrong.

  It shambled forward on twisted, emaciated legs, its bloated upper body swelling with veins and grotesque pustules. Its arms were either fused to its torso or swallowed by rot. Tubes sprouted like tumors, twitching with each breath. Its head—if it could be called that—was craned backward unnaturally, jaw unhinged in a silent scream. It had no eyes. Just flesh stretched over bone, mouth forever howling.

  Serge froze, too terrified to even tremble. The monster lumbered in, swaying, sniffing the air with rotted nostrils. Blind.

  But not deaf.

  Serge's sweat dripped down his temple. Each drop felt like a drumbeat in the silence.

  The room was small.

  Too small.

  No escape.

  The monster stumbled—and collided with him.

  The chair tipped.

  He hit the floor hard, back first, breath knocked from him.

  And the thing was on him.

  It screeched, its bloated flesh pulsing with each frantic movement. Its smell—a combination of rot, oil and sour —made Serge retch beneath his gag. It pressed close, head twitching erratically, tongue writhing like a parasite tasting the air.

  He thrashed. Futile.

  Then came another.

  From the shadows, it emerged like a nightmare born of rust and horror.

  It was taller, skeletal, clad in shreds of flesh and corroded armor. A dark gel throbbed across its body like black veins. Its head resembled a malformed fish—clusters of barnacle-like eyes bulged from one side, while its mouth opened in a permanent scream lined with jagged, needled teeth.

  Its claws twitched.

  Then it moved.

  A blur.

  It slammed into to the other monster with impossible speed. They tumbled across the floor, a chaos of shrieks and wet tearing sounds.

  Serge watched, paralyzed, as claws ripped into the other creature. It screamed—high and piercing—as its belly split open. A gush of black, tar-like blood sprayed across the room, coating the floor and Serge’s bare skin. The stench was unbearable.

  It stopped moving.

  Its killer turned.

  And looked at him.

  Serge screamed, a muffled, animal sound. He struggled against the ropes until his wrists burned raw.

  The creature—this monstrous, fused being—cocked its head. One tendril slithered toward him, twitching in anticipation.

  It raised its clawed hand.

  Serge saw it in slow motion.

  All of it—his life—flashed in jagged fragments.

  The cold recruitment office at Carthage Industries. They’d said his record was perfect. Efficient. Cold. Useful.

  "The world is ending," they told him. "You’ll be one of the architects of the new one."

  He remembered the training. The deepwater black-ops.

  His breath hitched.

  The claw descended.

  The light flickered.

  Then—

  The claw stopped—just inches from Serge’s face.

  Frozen.

  The creature stood motionless, its jagged hand hovering mid-air, its grotesque face twisted in a permanent scream. Serge’s chest heaved, muscles locked in anticipation of a death that never came.

  Then he heard it.

  Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

  The hiss of the door.

  Out of the darkness stepped another figure.

  Tall. Towering.

  His presence filled the room like gravity.

  His black latex like skin glistened under the overhead light—lithe, inhumanly graceful, with overlapping plates that shimmered with quiet menace. Tendrils slithered from his back like living shadows, pulsing faintly with a blue glow.

  The monster stepped back instantly. Quiet. Obedient.

  It crouched in the corner, still as death. A loyal beast cowed before its master.

  He advanced, his expression none existent. His lenses reflected Serge’s trembling form.

  Two tendrils extended from Simon’s back with fluid grace, wrapping around Serge’s torso and chair. Effortlessly, they lifted him upright—his restraints groaning in protest.

  Serge whimpered, a raw sound barely audible.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Simon leaned in, just close enough for Serge to see his own reflection in those twin, inky lenses.

  His voice was calm—low and cold, but laced with steel.

  "Talk."

  The word echoed like a trigger.

  He let the silence drag.

  Then, with quiet menace, he turned slightly toward the monster.

  "Because if you don’t..."

  The beast stirred, claws twitching in anticipation.

  Simon turned his head back slowly, lenses narrowing.

  "It’ll finish what he started. And I won’t stop it this time."

  Serge’s eyes went wide. He thrashed in his chair, muffled by the gag stuffed into his mouth.

  Simon tilted his head.

  A tendril snapped the gag loose in one swift motion.

  Serge gasped, coughing blood and cloth.

  "I-I’ll talk! Just—keep that thing away from me! Please!"

  Simon said nothing. His silence was more effective than any threat.

  The monster let out a low, gurgling exhale from the corner.

  Simon’s voice came again, level and cold.

  "Start with Amy."

  Serge stared at him, shaking. Sweat poured down his face.

  The room was silent, save for the steady hum of the lights—and the quiet sound of tendrils twitching, ready to strike.

  Beneath Simon’s calm exterior, rage simmered like a storm held at bay by will alone.

  And Serge knew: one wrong answer, one lie—

  And he wouldn’t leave that room alive.

  Simon stood in the glow of the overhead light, tall and silent as a monolith.

  Serge, stripped of armor and confidence, sat bound and trembling on the chair, his face pale, still wet with cold sweat.

  Simon stepped closer.

  "Where did you take Amy?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

  "Site Prometheus," Serge blurted, almost too quickly. "Up north from here."

  Simon’s thoughts flickered. One of the two northern sites.

  He didn’t need to speak his next question. The silence itself demanded it.

  Serge swallowed hard. "It’s a high-security survival habitat. Built to house political figures, key scientists, the elite. People considered vital to reboot civilization or preserve knowledge. We took her there... to analyze her. To see how she’s still alive."

  Simon said nothing. The quiet that followed was surgical—precise, unbearable.

  His mind was faster now, quantum-layered, processing variables before Serge could even take another breath. And he let the silence press down.

  Then: "Do you know what structure gel is?"

  Serge looked confused, his brows knitting. "Structure... what?"

  Simon studied him. Either the man was genuinely clueless or Site Prometheus had kept that part of the equation hidden.

  "What’s your designation?"

  Serge blinked, chest heaving. "Serge Tanaka. Carthage Enforcer Unit 12A. Internal Security and Field Recovery."

  Serge Tanaka was a man cut from military precision—tall, lean, and compact with the coiled energy of someone always ready to strike. He stood just under six feet, built like a runner rather than a brawler, but every inch of him suggested training, discipline, and deadly efficiency. His skin was lightly tanned, wind-worn from years of surface deployments, with a few faded scars that told stories he never would.

  His face was sharp—angular cheekbones, a strong jaw, and narrow eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes, a deep steel-gray with an almost metallic glint, seemed perpetually calculating, as though always scanning for angles and exits. His jet-black hair was buzzed close on the sides, but slightly longer on top, combed back with ruthless neatness. Even when stripped of his gear, he held himself like he was still armored—shoulders squared, chin high, every breath measured.

  There was a Carthage serial code tattooed along his left forearm, small and almost elegant—just numbers and letters, but somehow colder than a barcode. A reminder that he wasn’t just trained by the company. He belonged to it.

  Simon nodded once. A fighter. Not a thinker.

  "Will the other group return?"

  Serge hesitated, then nodded. "They will. If they haven’t heard from us yet, they’ll already be on their way."

  Simon’s voice dropped a tone.

  "Any chance of diplomacy?"

  Serge paused. He seemed to weigh something. "Maybe. But only if they don’t see you first. You look like something out of a nightmare."

  Simon tilted his head. There was no offense in the words—just a statement of fact.

  Then Serge asked it.

  "What are you?"

  Simon stood quiet for a moment.

  Then he spoke.

  "I’m Simon Jarrett. Once, a man from Toronto. I suffered brain trauma in a car crash in 2015. My scan was preserved for research. Now, I am a digitized human consciousness. Embedded in a multi-layered neuromorphic architecture and housed in an advanced synthetic chassis reinforced with structure gel, carbon-fiber composites, and smart-alloy musculature."

  He took a step closer. The room seemed to shrink.

  "I have no pulse. No lungs. But my thoughts are my own. My memories are mine. I remember the coffee I used to drink. The sound of rain. The weight of grief. I’m not a simulation. I’m not artificial."

  His voice was steady now.

  "I’m still Simon. Just… changed."

  Serge sat frozen, mouth half open, unsure if what he was hearing was insanity or revelation.

  Simon’s lenses glowed faintly.

  "Now. Tell me everything you know about Site Prometheus."

  And this time, Serge didn’t hesitate.

  He told him everything.

  Layout. Access points. Personnel. Names Simon didn’t recognize—scientists, leaders, people who mattered in the old world. It was all noise. The only name that mattered was Amy.

  When Serge finally finished, breath ragged and shaking, he dared to ask, "What about my men?"

  Simon leaned forward again, the room dipping into silence.

  "They’re alive. Bound like you, in another room."

  Serge gave a shallow nod, relief short-lived.

  Simon’s voice dropped lower.

  "Do you know what a neurograph is?"

  Serge frowned. "No."

  Simon straightened slowly, the striations of his artificial muscles flexing like waves, betraying a coiled force waiting to surge.

  "It’s a digital scan of your brain. A replica of your thoughts, memories... soul, if you want to get philosophical."

  His chin motioned toward the corner, where the fish-like monster stood. Silent. Watching.

  "Many of the things around here have those inside them. Neurographs of people who couldn’t handle what they became. Their minds unraveled, screaming in silence. Their new bodies turning them into monsters."

  He stared at Serge, voice colder than steel.

  "So let me give you something to consider. If you lied to me—if you left anything out—I will scan your brain, put your soul into one of them, and watch you go insane."

  Serge’s breath hitched. Trained to withstand pain, yes. Torture, yes.

  But this? This was maddens.

  His eyes flicked to the beast in the corner. Those barnacle like eyes stared back without blinking.

  A slow shiver worked its way down Serge’s spine.

  "Th-there’s another site," he stammered. "Near Prometheus. Site Oubliette. I know where it is. But I don’t know what it does. I swear. Just that... it’s the most important one. That’s what they said. The others don’t even talk about it."

  Simon nodded, slowly.

  Satisfied.

  He turned and walked to the door.

  "Wait—what about that?!" Serge cried, gesturing with his chin toward the monster.

  Simon stopped.

  But he didn’t look back.

  "It’s a guard dog."

  His voice was almost casual.

  "Be careful with the noise. It gets twitchy when it hears movement—wants to sink its claws into whatever's closest."

  And then he was gone.

  The door sealed with a soft hiss.

  Serge sat there, paralyzed, unable to even turn his head as the fishlike creature shifted slightly—just enough to remind him it was still watching.

  Still waiting.

  Simon left the interrogation chamber in silence, the door sealing behind him with a hiss. He moved through the corridor like a shadow, tendrils retreating into his back.

  He reached the lab. The lights flickered on.

  Jonsy’s cortex chip sat in the scanner cradle, glinting faintly beneath the sterile white lights.

  His hands, steady, picked up the chip. No warping. No fractures. The neural lattice showed no corruption. Structural integrity: 100%.

  He slotted it into the reader.

  The system hummed.

  Then: connection.

  Simon closed his eyes.

  The simulation formed around him.

  Water shimmered beyond the glass walls of a gently lit room. Schools of silver fish drifted by like living poetry. It was peaceful.

  Jonsy stood near the window, watching the currents swirl beyond the glass. She wore her old uniform, clean and whole—her expression calm, contemplative.

  Simon took a slow step forward.

  "Jonsy?"

  She turned.

  Her eyes widened slightly—then softened.

  "Simon... You're okay."

  He nodded. A flicker of emotion passed through his voice.

  "They hurt you. I saw what they did. I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner."

  Jonsy shook her head. "You were. In the only way that matters."

  Silence passed between them.

  "They took Amy away," Jonsy whispered. Her voice trembled, low and fragile. "I couldn't do anything. They pointed those weird-looking guns at me and then..."

  Her voice faltered. She looked down.

  "My body felt strange. I couldn’t move right. It was like I was locked inside myself. Then they came at me. I didn’t feel pain, but I saw them—smashing their electrified batons on my shoulders, knees, elbows... even my head. I pleaded, Simon. I begged them. But it was like I wasn’t even human to them."

  She looked up at him again. Her eyes shimmered. "Then everything went dark."

  Simon clenched his fists. Tremors ran through his arms as rage and helplessness boiled under his skin.

  He had scanned and inspected those weapons. Advanced electromagnetic emitters, sleek and curved, with twin firing modes: one for specialized projectiles, the other for EMP bursts so powerful they could seek out and exploit even minor weaknesses in shielding. His new body could withstand one hit—maybe two—but it would still stagger him. Jonsy’s frame, his old body, was insulated but clearly not enough.

  "We have to save her," Jonsy said softly, but with conviction.

  Simon hesitated.

  The weight of it all settled on him. The systems he had rebuilt. The now friends he had almost lost. The world that no longer existed. His entire journey had been defined by isolation, uncertainty, survival. But this—this felt different.

  He looked at her. She wasn’t asking. She was offering.

  "I'm going to fix this. All of it," he said finally.

  "You don't have to do it alone," she replied.

  Simon opened his mouth—and for a moment, nothing came. No excuses. No arguments. Just the silence of someone who had carried the burden alone for far too long.

  He nodded.

  "I’d like that."

  Jonsy smiled, the edges still touched with pain but braver than anything he’d seen in a long time.

  Simon didn’t feel alone.

  He had someone worth fighting for.