Obinai sits hunched in the small metal chair, his body trembling.
Then his thoughts shift—unbidden and uncontrollable—to his family.
The image of their lifeless bodies flashes in his mind, *stark and unrelenting*. His breath catches, and a choked sob escapes his lips.
"They're… they're dead," he whispers frantically, his voice trembling. Tears blur his vision as he shakes his head, his locs sticking to his damp face. "They're all dead. I don't… how did this happen? How could this happen?"
He pauses, gasping for air as his chest tightens. His breathing comes in short, shallow bursts, and he clenches his fists against the magnetic cuffs. His knuckles whiten as his nails dig into his palms, the pain grounding him only slightly.
"No, no, no, no, no," he mutters, his voice rising in desperation. His gaze darts around the room, looking for answers...
"This can't—this can't be my fault. I didn't… I wouldn't… I couldn't have done it. Right? Right?"
A nervous laugh bubbles up from his throat, hollow and hysterical. He leans forward as much as the restraints allow, his hair falling into his eyes. "I mean, it's not like I just—no!" He cuts himself off, slamming his head back against the chair with a sharp, metallic clang. "No, stop it! Think. Think!" His voice trembles with both fear and anger. "There has to be an explanation. There has to be!"
The trembling in his hands spreads to his entire body. He squeezes his eyes shut, but the images don't go away. They only grow clearer, sharper. The sight of his mother's wide, unseeing eyes. His father's twisted body. Mya's crumpled frame… God, Mya.
His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the sound of his ragged breathing. "But what if it was me?" The question escapes him like a poisoned breath. "What if… what if I did this? Oh God… oh God, what have I done?"
Tears stream down his face, hot and relentless. He jerks against the restraints, the chair creaking under the strain. "Why can't I remember?" he cries, his voice breaking. "Why can't I—" His words dissolve into a series of gasping sobs. His head drops forward, his damp locs hanging limply as his shoulders shake. "I didn't mean to… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… Mom, Dad… Mya…"
The sound of his anguish fills the room. For a moment, there is nothing else—just Obinai's grief and the suffocating silence that swallows it whole.
The faint click reverberates through the room. Obinai's head jerks up, his bloodshot eyes widening as dread curls in his chest. The door's mechanisms whir and clank, each sound distinct and deliberate, echoing off the cold, metallic walls. His heart races, his chest tightening with every mechanical hiss and hum.
"No," he whispers, his voice barely audible. He presses himself back into the chair, the cold metal digging into his spine. His breaths grow shallow, his entire body trembling. "Not now… not again…"
The door slides open with a final, metallic hiss, and the flickering light floods the room. Obinai squints, the sudden brightness stabbing at his weary eyes. His breathing quickens as three figures step inside.
The first to enter is the commander—tall, broad...Crowe.
Flanking him are two scientists clad in pristine white hazmat suits that gleam under the fluorescent lights. The airtight seals of their suits obscure their faces, their visors reflecting the glow.
The shorter of the two scientists is notably rotund, the fabric of his suit stretching around his midsection. He moves with slowly, his actions methodical despite his cumbersome build. The taller scientist, though leaner and more imposing in height, moves awkwardly, his gait sluggish and unbalanced. The ill-fitting suit only accentuates his lanky frame, giving him a gawky, unsettling appearance.
Obinai's gaze flickers to the cart the chubby scientist wheels into the room. It's laden with an array of gleaming tools, each meticulously arranged in perfect rows. Scalpels, syringes, clamps, and other implements with ominous, unidentifiable purposes catch the light, their metallic surfaces reflecting...
...his heartbeat quickens...
The taller scientist, begins unpacking the tools with a practiced, almost reverent precision. Each movement is deliberate, his gloved hands placing the instruments on a sterile tray. The chubby one adjusts the cart, ensuring it's positioned just so, his face hidden behind his visor but his posture betraying a quiet intensity.
Crowe steps closer, his imposing figure towering over Obinai. "Ezechial Victor Crowe," he says, his voice gravelly. "Commander, Task Force for Strategic Security and Research."
Obinai's eyes dart from Crowe to the scientists, then back to the cart. His heart pounds so loudly he's sure they can hear it. What are they going to do to me? The questions whirl in his mind, each one more terrifying than the last.
Crowe folds his arms across his broad chest, his gaze never leaving Obinai. "These," he continues, gesturing toward the scientists, "are Dr. Alan Chen"—he nods to the taller man—"and Dr. Henry Briggs." He tilts his head toward the shorter one. "You, Obinai, are special. And you, along with others like you, are vital to our research."
Obinai swallows hard, his throat parched. He licks his dry, cracked lips, his voice trembling as he finally manages to speak. "What… what do you mean, 'special'?"
Crowe's icy blue eyes remain fixed on him. "You're a test subject," he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. "Just like the others. We're studying your abilities, pushing the limits of what you can endure. It's all for the greater good."
His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven, as he processes Crowe's chilling words. The greater good? What does that even mean? His thoughts race, but there's no time to linger on them as Dr. Briggs steps forward.
The chubby scientist's gloves creak as he grips a small, wickedly sharp blade. The knife gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, its polished surface reflecting Obinai's horrified expression.
Crowe watches with a faint smirk, the scar on his face twisting slightly. "Don't be afraid," he says, "You have a remarkable gift, Obinai. Watch and see."
Before Obinai can react, Briggs kneels beside him. Without hesitation, the scientist grabs his hand, holding it steady against the side of the chair. The knife flashes, and pain explodes through Obinai's hand as the blade slices cleanly through his finger.
Obinai's scream tears through the room, raw and desperate. His body convulses, muscles straining against the magnetic cuffs that hold him in place. Tears blur his vision as he thrashes, his voice cracking with anguish. "Please, stop! I can't take this! Please, don't hurt me anymore!"
Briggs doesn't flinch, his grip on Obinai's wrist unyielding. "Stop squirming," he says coldly, not even glancing at the boy's face. "You'll only make this worse."
"No! Please, let me go!" Obinai sobs, his entire body shaking. His wrists rub raw against the restraints as he pulls against them with all his might, but the cuffs hold firm.
Crowe's voice cuts through the chaos, calm and authoritative. "Observe," he says, gesturing to Obinai's hand. "This is what makes you unique."
Obinai's tear-filled eyes are drawn to his hand, to the stump where his finger used to be. Blood drips from the wound, pooling on the floor below, but then something impossible happens. The bleeding slows, and before his eyes, the raw, exposed flesh begins to knit itself back together. Bone reforms, veins and tendons reconnect, and new skin stretches over the finger. Within moments, it is whole again.
"No scarring," Dr. Chen mutters from the corner of the room, his voice muffled by his hazmat suit. He steps forward, his clipboard in hand, and begins to jot down notes. "Regeneration speed is extraordinary. Faster than any recorded case to date."
Dr. Briggs sets the knife aside and pulls out a small cylindrical device, its surface sleek and covered in glowing blue runes. The device emits a soft hum as he presses it to Obinai's wrist. "We'll need more data," he says. The device whirs to life, projecting a holographic scan of Obinai's body into the air.
The hologram glows faintly, a detailed, three-dimensional representation of Obinai's internal structure. Organs, bones, and even individual cells are displayed with incredible clarity. The scientists lean in, their eyes scanning the data with focused intensity.
"Look at this," Dr. Chen says, pointing to an area near Obinai's spine. "There's a cluster of cells here that's completely anomalous. It's emitting some kind of bioelectric signal."
Briggs nods, his eyes narrowing as he studies the hologram. "And these," he adds, gesturing to Obinai's bloodstream, where faint, pulsating lights can be seen moving along the holographic veins. "This isn't normal blood. There are particles in here that don't match anything in our database."
Crowe crosses his arms, his gaze flicking between the hologram and Obinai's pale, tear-streaked face. "Foreign origin?" he asks, his voice low.
"Possibly," Briggs replies, his tone clipped. "It's consistent with other anomalies we've documented near the wall. But this… this is something new."
Obinai stares at the hologram, his mind reeling. He can't fully process what he's seeing or what they're saying. What are they talking about? Bioelectric signals? Foreign origin? What's happening to me?
Dr. Chen jots down more notes, his pen scratching against the clipboard. "This level of healing, combined with the cellular anomalies… it's unprecedented. If we can isolate the source—"
Obinai's voice cuts through their discussion, trembling but firm. "Why are you doing this to me?" he asks, his tear-streaked face lifted toward Crowe. "What do you want from me?"
Crowe steps closer, his expression unreadable. "We want to understand you, Obinai," he says simply. "You're the key to something much larger than yourself. And whether you like it or not, you're going to help us unlock it."
Dr. Chen watches impassively, his pen moving swiftly over his clipboard. "Truly extraordinary," he murmurs, his voice devoid of warmth. "Subject exhibits extreme regenerative capabilities, even under significant duress."
Obinai's breathing is ragged, his chest heaving as he struggles against the pain radiating through his body. His cuffed hands tremble, his fingers curling and uncurling as though seeking something to hold onto.
Crowe steps closer. His cold blue eyes fix on Obinai with unsettling intensity. "You see, Obinai," he begins, his tone eerily calm, "you're special."
Obinai's tear-streaked face turns toward Crowe, his voice barely audible as he whispers, "Please… I don't want this. I don't want to be here. Just… let me go."
Crowe's expression hardens, and he shakes his head slowly. "I'm afraid that's not an option," he says, his voice firm. "You have a purpose here. You need to accept that."
Dr. Briggs steps forward, his chubby fingers deftly adjusting the settings on a syringe filled with a glowing blue liquid. The eerie light reflects off his thick glasses, casting strange shadows across his face. "Let's proceed with the next test," he announces, his voice filled with clinical detachment. "This serum is designed to enhance regenerative processes. We'll see how his body reacts."
Obinai's mind spirals as fear grips him. What are they going to do? The metallic tang of blood lingers in the air, mixing with the sterile antiseptic scent of the room, making him feel nauseous.
Briggs approaches, the syringe in his hand gleaming ominously. Without a word, he grips Obinai's arm, his gloved fingers pressing firmly against the boy's skin. The sharp sting of the needle is nothing compared to the searing burn that follows as the glowing serum floods Obinai's veins.
Obinai cries out, his body jerking violently against the restraints. His vision blurs, and his heart races, pounding erratically in his chest. The fire spreading through his bloodstream feels unbearable, like his body is being torn apart from the inside.
"Fascinating," Dr. Chen observes, his eyes glued to the monitors. His voice carries a mix of awe and detachment, as though he's watching a fascinating experiment rather than a suffering human being. "His cellular regeneration rate is accelerating exponentially. The serum appears to be triggering a heightened state of repair."
Obinai's muscles convulse, his teeth gritted against the overwhelming pain. His skin, torn from earlier incisions, knits itself together at an unnatural speed. The process is almost grotesque to watch—tissue pulling, fusing...reforming
Crowe steps closer, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He leans in slightly, his voice low and mocking. "Look at you, Obinai. With healing like that, this must be nothing for you. After all, you're probably used to putting your body through hell, aren't you?"
Obinai's bloodshot eyes flicker up to meet Crowe's gaze. His voice is strained, barely a whisper. "You… have no idea… what it's like."
Crowe chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. He straightens up, his smirk widening. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea. You're just a junkie who lucked into a useful trick. But don't worry," he adds, his tone sharpening, "we'll find out everything you're capable of soon enough."
The scientists exchange glances, their fascination evident as they continue their observations. Dr. Chen jots down notes, his pen scratching against the clipboard. "Subject demonstrates remarkable resilience," he states, his voice steady. "Despite the evident pain, regenerative capabilities remain unhindered. The serum's efficacy is undeniable."
Briggs steps back, adjusting his glasses as he surveys the monitors. "The data aligns perfectly with the hypothesis. This could revolutionize our understanding of cellular regeneration," he says, his tone tinged with excitement.
Obinai slumps in the chair, his body still trembling. The fire in his veins begins to subside, replaced by an eerie numbness. His thoughts...*chaotic.*
What are they turning me into? Am I even human anymore?
"Let's move on to the next phase," Dr. Briggs says...