Alex wakes up disoriented, weak, and bound to a surgical bed inside a dark lab.
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Darkness wasn't peaceful.
It pulsed.
It hissed at the edges.
And then it cracked open.
Alex gasped—his whole body seizing like someone had plugged him into a wall socket. His chest jerked upward, but something thick and cold pressed him back down. He coughed once—dry, hoarse, like he hadn't used his throat in months.
The lights above him burned white and surgical. Too bright. Too clean.
He tried to move.
Couldn't.
Thick straps crossed his chest, pinning him to a steel slab that vibrated softly underneath his spine. More restraints locked down his arms, his legs, his neck. The steel was cold. So cold it bit into his skin.
There was a sound—a low, steady hum. Machines. A ventilation system. Monitors beeping faintly somewhere off to his left. He turned his eyes without moving his head.
The walls were metal. Matte gray. Inhuman. A grid of cold lights above him flickered slightly, casting long shadows across a row of IV bags suspended over his head. Tubes ran down into his arms. Needles. Surgical wiring.
His breathing quickened. But he didn't scream.
He didn't know why. He just didn't.
His body didn't feel right. Too big. Too heavy. His skin tingled like static. When he clenched his fingers—barely—he felt joints pop that didn't feel like they used to. Like someone had rebuilt him with the same pieces in the wrong order.
He blinked.
What is this? Where am I?
His heart thudded against his ribs. Louder. Louder.
Then a memory—a flash.
Blinding lights on a street. A horn. Rubber screaming against wet pavement. The crunch of glass. Cold air rushing in.
Then nothing.
Then this.
A voice echoed overhead—digitized, flat:
> "Biometric stabilization at ninety-one percent. Muscle fiber calibration holding. Subject 16A remains compliant."
Another voice, this one closer, human, male:
> "Increase neural stimulant by point-three. Let's push him to ninety-five. No seizures yet."
Alex stared upward, unmoving.
He didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Just listened.
Another hiss—like gas being released.
Suddenly his blood burned.
A fire lit behind his eyes. His vision blurred, heart pounding so fast it sounded like thunder in his ears. The steel beneath him felt like it was humming now—resonating with something inside him.
He opened his mouth. A sound came out—a rasp, low and broken:
"...Where…"
The word scraped out of his throat like gravel.
He tried again, louder.
"Where… am I?"
No one answered.
Instead, the voices moved away. Footsteps faded. Lights dimmed. The hum stayed.
He turned his eyes slightly, to the corner of the room.
There was a reflective surface there—a surgical tray, polished to a mirror sheen.
And in it, a stranger looked back.
Golden eyes.
Blonde hair, unwashed and hanging low across one side of the forehead.
A face that looked sixteen… but held nothing childlike. Gaunt. Hollow. Strong.
He didn't recognize it.
He didn't recognize himself.
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