The dim light of Himawan's lab flickered, casting shadows that seemed to move with his thoughts. Each one stretched and curled like specters, trailing behind him as he stood deep in contemplation. The new knowledge from Dr. Hojo had opened doors he'd only glimpsed before—a pathway into realms of science where ethics blurred, where limits were an illusion, and curiosity was the only law.
He took a seat, leaning back as he mulled over the projects he now had the means to pursue. But tonight was different. He felt the weight of each experiment, each formula, as though the knowledge itself carried a darkness that settled onto him. The system hummed nearby, its display glowing faintly as though urging him forward, yet he hesitated. Dr. Genus had given him a blueprint for enhancement, a foundation that he had built upon to create powerful serums. But Hojo's insights pushed him deeper, past the realm of enhancement and into transformation. This was not merely an upgrade; it was the rewriting of nature itself.
For hours, he sat silently, lost in thought as the faint hum of the system echoed in the room. The line he walked had never been so stark, so divisive. He knew the dangers of blending non-human genomes with human DNA—the outcomes were unpredictable, volatile. He could create unimaginable strength or irreparable monstrosities. This level of genetic manipulation went beyond physical enhancement; it toyed with the very essence of humanity.
"System," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. "Is there an ethical framework for research of this nature?"
The system, cold and indifferent, responded mechanically: "Science is amoral by nature. It is the practitioner who defines moral limitations."
Himawan's lips twitched slightly at the response. It was the answer he expected, but hearing it spoken aloud forced him to confront it. As a scientist, he had long embraced the pursuit of knowledge, believing that understanding outweighed moral constraints. But something gnawed at him, a faint shadow of doubt lingering beneath the surface of his determination.
Memories of his past experiments surfaced, the faces of subjects who had failed to withstand his enhancements flashing through his mind. Some had died; others had suffered, caught in the throes of half-completed transformations. He remembered how he had pushed these thoughts aside, rationalizing that each casualty was a necessary step toward progress. But now, armed with Hojo's knowledge, the stakes felt higher, the consequences graver.
He looked down at the vial in his hand—a prototype based on Hojo's research, a substance that, in theory, could grant extraordinary powers by integrating the DNA of extraterrestrial organisms. But the unpredictability made it a double-edged sword. He would need human subjects, not just willing but expendable. People who wouldn't be missed, whose lives he could shape—or end—without consequence.
Yet, even as he thought it, a flicker of guilt rose unbidden, like a faint voice challenging his resolve. It was almost laughable. In the Marvel universe, where superhumans threw around buildings and gods clashed in the skies, how much did one life matter?
And yet…
"No." He shook his head, dispelling the sentiment. Morality had no place in the realm he was exploring. Those who stood on the edge of greatness did not waver; they forged ahead, reshaping reality as they saw fit. But beneath his conviction, the faint flicker of doubt remained, unextinguished.
He rose, the soft creak of the chair filling the silence, and crossed to a nearby table. There, a collection of files lay scattered—a dossier he'd compiled on potential test subjects he'd identified in the city. People overlooked, individuals with no ties, no connections. His selection had been meticulous, focused. They were lost, forgotten souls who would be, in many ways, reborn through his work. Their lives might have been insignificant before, but under his hand, they would serve a purpose, become something greater—or die in the process.
"Sometimes, the cost of discovery is blood," he murmured, almost as if trying to convince himself.
The next morning, Himawan's plan took its first step. He slipped into the crowds of the city, blending seamlessly as he moved through the unassuming alleys of New York. His carefully curated list of subjects guided him, each individual's address and daily habits mapped out in his mind. He watched, observing those he'd chosen with clinical detachment, studying their movements, their reactions, calculating how best to approach each one.
Hours passed as he walked among them, a silent shadow in their world. To them, he was just another face, another stranger, unremarkable in every way. Yet he saw them not as people but as data points, variables in an experiment he could barely contain his excitement for. There was a twisted satisfaction in knowing that he alone held their fates in his hands, that he could unlock secrets hidden within their very cells.
At dusk, he returned to the lab, each detail of his observations etched into his mind. The city's rhythm had been mapped, and the time for action approached. The system awaited him, displaying his experiment draft with the same cold indifference it always had, a silent testament to his resolve. But even as he reviewed the data, refining the parameters, his mind strayed back to the question that had lingered in the darkness.
What separated him from the heroes he detested? The heroes who claimed to protect but shackled themselves with rules and ideals, leaving true progress strangled by their own hands? He dismissed the question quickly, but it lingered like a bitter aftertaste.
Late into the night, he prepared the lab for the first subject. The room was meticulously arranged, tools and vials lined in perfect rows, each piece of equipment reflecting his desire for control over the chaos that would soon unfold. He glanced at the vial in his hand, a mix of pride and trepidation filling him.
The subject, a man in his mid-thirties, homeless and forgotten by society, had been easy to lure with the promise of a meal and a warm place to sleep. As he lay unconscious in the lab, hooked up to various monitors and machinery, Himawan felt the thrill of creation, the ecstasy of playing god. This was the limit he'd chosen to cross—the point at which his morality faded, replaced by pure scientific hunger.
He inserted the syringe into the subject's arm, watching as the liquid slowly disappeared into his veins. It was a modified serum, carefully engineered to merge with his genome, enhancing his strength and reflexes with extraterrestrial DNA strains he'd acquired from his recent study of Hojo's work.
The subject's body reacted almost immediately, his veins darkening, his muscles tightening as his system absorbed the foreign DNA. His breathing quickened, a sharp intake followed by shallow gasps, and Himawan watched, fascinated, as the serum took effect.
But then the convulsions began. The subject's eyes rolled back, his body thrashing violently against the restraints as though rejecting the very life Himawan was forcing upon him. The monitors flashed erratically, beeping in discord as his vitals spiked and fell in unpredictable waves.
Himawan frowned, his expression turning cold as he adjusted the serum flow, tweaking the variables in real time. This was part of the process—trial and error, the breaking down of flesh and will to create something stronger, more resilient.
After several agonizing minutes, the subject's thrashing slowed, his breathing settling into a weak but stable rhythm. Himawan allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. This was only the beginning. If the serum stabilized, he would have a baseline to build from, a formula that could be replicated and improved.
He sat back, his eyes scanning the monitors as he recorded each change, each adjustment. In that moment, the flicker of doubt vanished, consumed by the euphoria of creation.
As he watched the subject's vitals steady, he knew he had found his path. There was no morality here, no hesitation. Only the thrill of discovery, the raw, unfiltered power of knowledge unchecked by conscience. And for Himawan, that was the only path worth walking.