Peter Johnson hunched his shoulders as he shuffled down the cracked sidewalk of Millbrook's main street, his small frame shrinking further under the weight of his oversized backpack. At eighteen, he still had the build of a much younger teen—short, skinny, with narrow shoulders that made hand-me-down clothes drape off him like a scarecrow's outfit. His mop of unruly brown hair half-obscured his eyes, which darted nervously from side to side, always on the lookout for threats.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the dilapidated storefronts, many of them boarded up and covered in graffiti. Millbrook had seen better days, much like Peter himself. Once a thriving industrial town, it now clung to existence by its fingernails, a ghost of its former self.
As Peter passed Gino's Pizza, the town's sole surviving restaurant, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce made his stomach twist. He hadn't eaten since the meager school lunch—a soggy sandwich and a bruised apple. The crumpled few dollars in his pocket were all he had for the week. Food was a luxury he couldn't afford right now.
His destination lay at the edge of town: an old playground, long abandoned by the community. It wasn't much, but it was one of the few places Peter felt safe. Or at least, safer than most places.
Peter settled onto a rusty swing, wincing as the chains groaned under his slight weight. He pulled out a worn paperback from his backpack—Ender's Game, a story about a boy who found strength despite overwhelming odds. Peter had read it a dozen times, each reading offering a brief escape from his own life.
But his escape didn't last long.
"Well, well, look who's here. Puny Peter, right where we left him."
Peter's heart leapt into his throat. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. Troy Milligan and his crew loomed in front of him, blocking out the waning sunlight.
Troy wasn't just a bully; he was the embodiment of every kid who had it all. Tall, broad-shouldered, the letterman jacket barely containing his bulk, and always surrounded by his cronies: Brad, Cody, and Derek. Troy's smirk was a familiar one—like a cat toying with a cornered mouse.
"Where you off to in such a hurry, Pete?" Troy's voice was low, smooth, the kind of voice that suggested menace without needing to yell. "Ignoring us? That's not very friendly, is it?"
Peter's mouth went dry. "I don't want any trouble. Please... just leave me alone." He hated how small his voice sounded, the fear so obvious in his words.
Troy's smirk widened, his teeth glinting in the fading light. "Leave you alone? But Peter, we're practically family by now. Right, boys?"
Cody chuckled while Derek elbowed Brad, who didn't seem to be paying attention. Brad hung back, looking more uncomfortable than usual. Peter caught a flicker of something in his eyes, but it was too brief to register fully. Guilt? Reluctance?
"I've been thinking," Troy continued, circling around the swing like a predator. "We're about to graduate, move on to bigger things. You? You'll still be here, in this dump." He leaned closer, his voice a mocking whisper. "Maybe we should give you a little... graduation present?"
Peter's pulse quickened, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He gripped the chains of the swing tightly, feeling the cold metal dig into his palms. His mind raced for an exit, but there was none. There never was.
Troy's hand shot out, grabbing Peter by the front of his sweater, yanking him off the swing with ease. Peter's feet scrambled for purchase, but the ground felt slippery beneath him. His book fell to the dirt, forgotten.
"We can't just let you off easy, now, can we?" Troy's breath was hot on Peter's face, the smell of mint and lingering pizza on his breath. "You've been so entertaining all these years."
Peter struggled in Troy's grip, his heart slamming in his chest. He wasn't the type to fight back. He knew that doing so would only make things worse. But the humiliation burned deep, the familiar feeling of helplessness gnawing at him.
Brad cleared his throat, taking a tentative step forward. "Troy... maybe we should cool it. We've messed with him enough."
Troy whipped his head around, eyes narrowing. "What's that, Brad? Going soft?"
Brad hesitated, his eyes darting between Peter and Troy. "I just... we're not kids anymore. This could... I dunno, backfire."
For a moment, Peter thought he saw Troy waver. But it was only a flicker. Then, Troy's smirk returned, sharper and colder than before.
"Backfire? Nah." Troy shoved Peter hard, knocking him to the ground. "The only thing that's gonna backfire is if Puny Peter doesn't get a proper send-off." His voice grew darker, more dangerous. "What do you say, Pete? Ready for your graduation present?"
Peter's whole body trembled as he looked up at Troy, dirt clinging to his palms. "You're pathetic, Troy. All of you. This doesn't make you strong... it just makes you weak."
The words surprised him. They seemed to come from somewhere deep inside, a place he rarely accessed. A place that didn't care anymore.
Troy's face twisted, his jaw tightening as he glared down at Peter. "You little piece of shit." He turned to his crew. "We're taking him to the factory."
"No!" Peter's voice cracked. He scrambled to his feet, but Troy's grip was like iron as he dragged Peter down the street, his feet scraping along the pavement. Panic rose in his chest, every instinct telling him to fight, to scream, but all he could do was claw weakly at Troy's arm.
The old Millbrook Manufacturing Plant loomed ahead of them, its rusted gates hanging open. Peter's heart thudded in his ears, his vision blurring as they neared the entrance.
Cody's nervous voice cut through the fog of terror. "Troy, man, this place isn't safe. It's... it's condemned."
Troy didn't slow. "Shut up, Cody. You wanna be next?"
Peter's feet hit the cracked concrete of the factory grounds, his knees buckling as Troy yanked him through the gates. The building loomed above them like a decaying beast, its windows shattered, weeds overtaking the once-busy parking lot.
"Troy, seriously..." Brad tried again, but his voice faltered. It was clear even he wasn't willing to cross Troy now.
Peter's breath came in ragged gasps. "Please... you can't leave me in there. It's... dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Troy mocked, hauling Peter towards a side entrance. "Don't worry, Peter. We'll come back for you... maybe."
With a swift kick, Troy wrenched the rusted door open. The screech of the metal hinges echoed through the factory lot, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. The stale, chemical-tinged air hit Peter's senses, and he gagged.
"In you go, Puny Peter," Troy sneered, shoving Peter through the doorway. Peter stumbled, his hands scraping against the gritty concrete floor as he hit the ground hard.
Troy stepped back, laughing as he barricaded the door. Peter's fists pounded against the metal. "Let me out! Please!"
But their laughter was already fading, swallowed by the silence of the factory.
Peter's chest heaved, his breaths shallow and frantic. The overwhelming darkness pressed in from all sides, and for a few moments, all he could do was crouch on the floor, his heart pounding in his ears.
Calm down. Think. Peter forced himself to breathe slowly. He had read stories like this—people trapped, desperate. They always found a way out. He could, too.
He rose shakily to his feet, feeling his way along the wall. The rough texture of the concrete scraped against his palms as he moved slowly through the darkness. His fingers touched something—metal, smooth, and cold. A door handle.
With a trembling breath, Peter twisted the handle. It gave way with a low groan, and a faint light spilled out.
Cautiously, Peter stepped through, his eyes adjusting to the dim glow of flickering emergency lights. The corridor ahead was long, lined with pipes and rusting equipment. A faint hum, barely audible, vibrated through the floor, tingling the soles of his feet.
Driven by a strange mix of curiosity and dread, Peter followed the sound. His footsteps echoed through the narrow hall, the only sound in the otherwise oppressive silence.
Finally, after what felt like hours of walking, Peter reached a door unlike any other he'd seen in the factory. Sleek, modern, with a glowing keypad beside it. His pulse quickened.
His fingers brushed the keypad. The faintest smudges of fingerprints on the numbers gave him a wild idea. With shaking hands, he pressed a series of numbers. On the sixth try, the keypad beeped, and the door slid open with a hiss.
Peter's breath caught in his throat as he stepped into a circular
Peter's breath caught in his throat as he stepped into a circular room that looked more like the control center of a spaceship than an abandoned factory. The walls hummed with power, lined with blinking lights and towering servers that pulsed with energy. In the center of the room stood a pedestal, and on it, a small silvery device, about the size of a smartphone.
It emitted a faint, rhythmic glow, casting eerie reflections on the metallic surfaces surrounding it. Peter's curiosity flared, momentarily overriding the fear that had gripped him since Troy shoved him through the factory door. What was this place?
He took a cautious step forward, drawn by the object on the pedestal. There was something hypnotic about it—like it was calling to him, pulling him closer.
Peter hesitated, but his hand moved as if it had a mind of its own. The second his fingers touched the smooth surface of the device, it pulsed—then, without warning, liquefied, spreading up his arm in a flash of silver. He screamed, trying to yank his arm back, but the liquid clung to his skin, rippling over his forearm like mercury, seeping into his pores.
"No!" Peter gasped, his voice breaking with panic. He clawed at his arm, trying to wipe it off, but it was too late. The substance vanished beneath his skin, leaving no trace.
And then the pain hit. Peter's entire body convulsed as white-hot fire ripped through his veins. It felt like his cells were being torn apart and put back together, his muscles twisting under his skin in ways they weren't meant to. He collapsed to his knees, his vision blurring as every nerve screamed in agony.
His last conscious thought was that he was dying.
---
Peter groaned as consciousness slowly returned, his body tingling all over. He lay on the cold floor for a moment, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing he remembered was the pain—the unbearable, burning pain that had consumed him.
But now, as he blinked into the dim light, the pain was gone. In its place was a strange lightness, as though his body was both entirely his and somehow... different. Slowly, cautiously, Peter pushed himself up onto his elbows, then to his feet. He expected the stiffness, the soreness of his muscles from being dragged and tossed around by Troy. But none of it came.
Instead, his movements were smooth and effortless. No aches, no weakness.
"What...?" He stared down at his hands, expecting them to tremble, to show some sign of what he had been through. But they looked... normal. The same hands he'd always had. Yet there was something about them now that seemed off. Different.
Peter flexed his fingers, his brow furrowing as he observed the way they moved—precise, almost mechanical. He ran his hands over his body, checking for bruises, injuries... something to explain why he felt so strange. But everything was fine. Better than fine, actually. He felt stronger. Lighter.
"What the fuck is going on?"
He stood up fully, looking around the room. The strange, circular space seemed to hum with power, the faint glow from the blinking servers reflecting off metallic surfaces. And then there was that pedestal, now empty, where the silvery device had been.
That's when the memories flooded back—of touching it, of the liquid metal flowing up his arm. The panic, the pain that followed... but there was no trace of it now. His arm looked perfectly normal.
He moved slowly toward one of the dark computer screens, catching his reflection in the glass. What he saw made him stop in his tracks.
He took a step back, his pulse quickening.
"What happened to me?"
Peter reached up, touching his face, running his hands over his chest, his arms—checking for any explanation for the change. There had to be something. Maybe the thing he touched had done something to him. That strange, silver liquid... Had it gotten inside him? Was that even possible?
His mind reeled with questions, none of which he could answer. But there was no denying what had happened—something had changed him.
He stepped away from the reflection, a creeping sense of unease settling over him. He looked down at his hands again, this time clenching them into fists. They responded perfectly, as if his body were a machine, moving with a precision and strength he had never known.
Peter's mind raced. None of this made sense. But one thing was clear: whatever had happened, it had made him different.
He glanced toward the exit, his thoughts shifting back to Troy, to the fear and helplessness he had felt earlier. The way Troy had dragged him through the dirt, the humiliation, the years of bullying.
But now, as he stood there, something shifted inside him. The fear was still there, but it was mingled with something else.
He wasn't the same Peter who had been shoved into this factory.