Crowe strides away from the lab, the hum of machinery and scent of chemicals lingering in his mind as he makes his way through the facility's sterile corridors. His boots echo faintly, the sound swallowed by the muted hum of the overhead lights. The air feels heavier the closer he gets to his office.
He stops before an imposing door made of dark, polished wood, its surface smooth except for the brass nameplate gleaming in the dim light: "Commander Ezechial Victor Crowe." The sight of his name feels almost ironic, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. Crowe pushes the door open with a firm hand, stepping into the office that never felt like it was truly his.
The room is grandiose, with high ceilings and mahogany bookshelves lining the walls, each filled with leather-bound volumes that seem more decorative than functional. A deep burgundy carpet muffles his footsteps as he enters, and antique maps and paintings hang on the walls, their ornate frames gilded and immaculate. Above, an elaborate chandelier casts a warm, golden light that softens the shadows.
Crowe's eyes sweep over the space, his expression one of faint distaste. The opulence feels misplaced, a sharp contrast to the grim, utilitarian environments where he feels most at home. A façade of importance, he thinks. A gilded cage for a man who doesn't belong in one.
He moves toward the massive desk at the center of the room, its surface an intricate tapestry of carved woodwork. Behind it, an old leather chair waits—a relic from his early days, worn and cracked but familiar. As he sinks into it, the chair creaks softly, its aged frame yielding slightly to his weight. For a moment, he lets his shoulders relax, leaning back as the tension ebbs away.
Crowe reaches under the desk, pressing a hidden button with a practiced motion. A soft hum fills the air as a holographic screen materializes before him, the word "CALLING" pulsing in a cold, detached font. While the system connects, his gaze drifts to the corner of the desk, where a cracked picture frame rests. Inside is a photo of a small boy, his face obscured by the fracture in the glass. The sight tugs at something deep within Crowe, a memory he keeps buried, but he quickly looks away, suppressing the fleeting emotion.
The screen flickers as the connection stabilizes, and the hologram resolves into the silhouette of a figure—anonymous, featureless, and commanding. No one in the organization has seen this person's face or heard their real voice. The air in the room seems to shift as the leader speaks, their deep, gravelly tone cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Commander Crowe," the voice intones, low and deliberate. "Your sector has been... active. Reports are coming in faster than we can process them. Explain."
Crowe straightens instinctively, the familiar edge of tension returning to his posture. "Sir, the activity pertains to the new subject—Obinai Nobunaga."
The leader's silhouette tilts slightly, as though in contemplation. "Nobunaga," they repeat, the name lingering in the air. "Did he originate from the sanctuary?"
"No, sir," Crowe replies firmly, his voice steady despite the unease coiling in his chest. Not yet, at least, he thinks, the weight of his suspicions pressing down on him. "He's local, though his condition suggests... external influences."
The leader's presence remains unflinching, their tone unyielding. "Expand."
Crowe exhales softly, collecting his thoughts. "We've confirmed that his biology is—" he hesitates, searching for the right word, "—altered. Dr. Briggs has identified anomalies consistent with reports from beyond the wall. No manipulation, no tampering—this transformation appears natural. Or at least as natural as anything from the other side could be."
There's a long pause. The silence feels oppressive, the faint hum of the hologram the only sound in the room.
"And his potential?" the leader finally asks, their voice cutting through like a blade.
The silhouette on the holographic screen leans back slightly, their blurred edges shifting faintly. When they speak, the tone is measured, deliberate. "Is he... any different, like #1?"
Crowe's breath hitches almost imperceptibly. His spine stiffens, and a faint crease forms between his brows. He forces his voice to remain steady. "Yes, sir. The preliminary tests show anomalies similar to those found in #1."
The pause that follows is suffocating, the faint hum of the hologram filling the silence. Crowe doesn't shift in his seat; he's too practiced for that. But his mind races. #1. Of course they'd bring that up.
Finally, the leader breaks the silence, their voice curling with a sinister satisfaction that makes Crowe's stomach churn. "Excellent. Make sure he understands he's nothing more than property. I expect accurate lab results within the next 48 hours. I need to know if Obinai will make a better...toy than the previous one."
Crowe's lips press into a thin line, his expression betraying nothing. "Yes, sir," he says, his tone flat. "I'll ensure it."
The silhouette flickers briefly before disappearing altogether. The room plunges into a heavy stillness, broken only by the faint ticking of the ornate clock on the wall. Crowe leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his gaze drifting back to the cracked photo frame on his desk.
The boy's face, obscured by the jagged fracture in the glass, seems to stare back at him, accusing and silent. Crowe's hand hovers over the frame for a moment before he pulls it back sharply, as though burned. Another one, he thinks bitterly. How many damn more are there?
The soft creak of the office door disrupts his brooding. Crowe sits up straighter, his expression hardening like steel as his mask of command snaps firmly into place. The weight of the room's opulence seems to magnify as Private Santos steps inside, his boots clicking hesitantly against the polished burgundy carpet.
Santos is young, barely out of training. His uniform is spotless, his posture rigid with effort, but the faint nervous twitch in his fingers betrays his unease. He looks around the room as if the heavy mahogany shelves and antique maps might swallow him whole.
"Commander Crowe, sir," Santos begins, his voice trembling slightly. "I—I wanted to ask about the new kid. Is he... is he okay?"
Crowe's gaze sharpens instantly, pinning the younger man in place. His tone is as cold as the edge of a blade. "That is none of your concern, Private. Your job is to follow orders, not question them."
Santos swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His eyes flicker with a mix of disappointment and worry, but he masks it quickly, snapping into a crisp salute—fist pressed over his heart, arm extending downward in one fluid motion. "Yes, sir," he says, his tone subdued.
He turns to leave but hesitates at the door, his hand lingering on the knob. For a moment, it seems like he might speak again, the words forming on his lips. But he glances back at Crowe and seems to think better of it. The door closes behind him with a soft, final thud.
Crowe stares at the closed door for a long moment, his mind replaying the brief exchange. He feels the faintest pang of guilt, but it's quickly smothered. Sentimentality is a weakness, he reminds himself. There's no room for it here.
With a low sigh, Crowe pushes himself up from the desk and crosses the room to a tall, dark cabinet tucked into the corner. Its polished surface gleams faintly in the warm light of the chandelier. He opens it, revealing a collection of bottles. His fingers hover briefly before selecting a bottle of whiskey.
Crowe pours himself a generous glass, the amber liquid catching the light as it pools in the crystal tumbler. He swirls it absently, watching the liquid lap against the sides before taking a slow, deliberate sip. The burn as it slides down his throat is a welcome distraction, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts.
He carries the glass back to his desk and sinks into his chair, the leather groaning softly beneath his weight. His gaze drifts to the cracked picture frame sitting on the edge of the desk...again...
You were supposed to have a better world, he thinks bitterly, his lips pressing into a hard line. I was supposed to make it better.
He takes another sip of whiskey, the heat chasing away the chill that creeps into his bones. The old-fashioned clock on the wall ticks steadily, its sound filling the silence of the room.
Crowe leans back, closing his eyes. The whiskey dulls the noise in his head, but it doesn't erase it, lulling him into a state of uneasy rest.
…
Mark Romero Santos exits Crowe's office with his shoulders slightly slumped, frustration radiating off him like heat from asphalt. His olive-toned skin glows faintly under the harsh fluorescent lights, and his perpetually tousled blonde hair falls into his piercing green eyes. He runs a hand through it absentmindedly, trying to clear his thoughts as much as his vision. A shadow of stubble along his jaw gives him an edge of ruggedness, but the tension in his clenched jaw betrays his inner turmoil.
"What the hell am I even doing here?" he thinks, his mind spiraling as his boots tap against the sterile floor. His pace falters for a moment, and he glances down at the black-and-gray camouflage pattern of his uniform, as though it might hold an answer. "I joined to protect people, not... this."
The sleek, metal door to the lab looms ahead. Its surface gleams under the overhead lights, cold and uninviting. Santos hesitates, his fist hovering inches from the smooth surface. He swallows hard, his heart hammering in his chest, before he finally knocks. The sound echoes sharply in the empty hallway, the rhythmic reverberation amplifying his apprehension.
A few tense seconds pass before the door hisses open, sliding into the wall with a smooth mechanical hum. Dr. Briggs stands in the doorway, his round frame filling the space. The gut straining against the buttons of his lab coat is almost comically at odds with the sharpness of his gaze. His thinning hair, combed meticulously back, reflects the sterile light, and his glasses sit slightly askew on his nose. He peers at Santos with a mixture of irritation and mild curiosity.
"Santos," Briggs greets him, his tone carrying an edge of impatience, "to what do I owe the honor? Another one of your little crusades?"
Santos straightens instinctively, his green eyes hardening. "I want to see the tests," he says, his voice firm but carrying a slight tremor that betrays his nerves. "On the kid."
Briggs arches a skeptical eyebrow, his lips curling into a condescending smirk. "You?" he says, letting the word hang in the air like an insult. "You don't have the clearance, the rank, or frankly, the intellectual capacity to even comprehend a glimpse of the tests we're conducting."
The words hit Santos like a slap, and his fists clench at his sides. This smug bastard, he thinks, his jaw tightening as he struggles to keep his composure. He doesn't know anything about me.
Briggs continues, seemingly emboldened by Santos's silence. "You should count yourself lucky that your duties are limited to delivering trays of sustenance to the subjects," he sneers. "That's about the level you're suited for."
The condescension stings, but Santos swallows his anger, his face impassive except for the faint twitch in his jaw. "Yes, sir," he says, the words stiff and bitter on his tongue. He snaps a sharp salute, his fist pressing over his heart before extending downward in the protocol gesture. Without waiting for a dismissal, he turns on his heel and strides away.
His boots echo against the concrete floor as he makes his way toward the barracks. The lower levels of the facility are a different world—dank, dimly lit, and suffocating. The walls are bare, dull gray, interrupted only by the occasional rusted pipe snaking along the ceiling. Faint vibrations hum through the floor, a constant reminder of the sprawling, labyrinthine structure operating above and below.
The corridor leading to the barracks is narrow, its air stale with a faint metallic tang. Each door is identical, dented metal with peeling paint, a small plaque bearing a number screwed in place. Santos passes by a few, hearing muffled voices or the faint scrape of movement behind them. There's life here, but it's subdued, hidden behind walls as indifferent as the organization itself.
When he finally reaches his assigned quarters, he swipes his keycard with a mechanical beep and pushes the door open. The room is as uninspired as the hallway outside—a narrow bed with a thin mattress and gray sheets shoved against the far wall, a metal locker that creaks when opened, and a small desk with a single chair. Above the desk hangs a cracked mirror, its surface reflecting the dim light from the bulb overhead. The room smells faintly of old laundry.
Santos sinks onto the bed, the springs groaning under his weight. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. His piercing green eyes dart to the floor, where faint scratches on the concrete tell stories of previous occupants.
"This isn't what I signed up for," he thinks bitterly. _"This isn't protecting people. But this is..." His thoughts falter as an image of Obinai flashes in his mind—bound, trembling, and utterly terrified.
Santos exhales sharply and leans back, the cracked mirror catching his reflection.
"They're just kids. Lab rats. And I'm complicit." The thought gnaws at him.
The shrill ring of his phone breaks the oppressive silence, jolting him upright. He pulls the device from his pocket, blinking at the screen. The sight of Angela's name glowing there sends a pang through his chest. For a moment, he debates letting it ring, but the thought of her voice pulls him back from the edge.
"Hey, babe," he says as he answers, his voice rough but carrying a forced brightness.
"Mark?" Angela's voice is soft, warm, and tinged with concern. "How's everything? Are you okay?"
Santos leans against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment as the sound of her voice soothes him. "Yeah," he lies, forcing a smile that she can't see. "Just... another tough day. Nothing I can't handle."
Angela pauses, and he can almost hear her debating whether to push. "I wish you could talk about it," she says finally, her tone gentle but persistent. "I worry about you, Mark. You're different these days."
"I know," he replies, his voice softening. He rubs a hand across his jaw, the coarse stubble grounding him. "It's just the job, Ange. You know how it is."
There's a rustling on the other end, followed by a smaller, excited voice. "Hi, Dad!"
Santos's face softens instantly, his shoulders relaxing as a genuine smile breaks through. "Hey, Peanut!" he says, his voice lighting up.