The air was cold, each breath clawing its way through my lungs, and the shadows clung to me as if I were one of them. My body felt alien—slimy, yet dry. Cold, yet alive. A dissonance I couldn't quite name.
I struggled to open my eyes, the lids heavy as though weighted down by some unseen force. When I finally succeeded, I was greeted by a wreckage—a destroyed laboratory, shards of glass glittering like broken promises under the dim emergency lights. My gaze shifted to the ruined test tube behind me. It was large enough to fit a person, its shattered remains pooling with strange, viscous fluid. At the base of the tube, words were scrawled in bold, clinical print: KC.02.
A name? A designation? Whatever it meant, it was mine now.
I stepped forward, my balance precarious, my limbs swaying as though testing the limits of movement. Each step crunched against the remnants of glass on the ground, the sound sharp and jarring in the oppressive silence. I paused at the edge of a broken mirror propped against the wall, its cracked surface catching my reflection.
I leaned in closer, squinting to make sense of the person staring back at me. My hair was pale, disheveled, falling in loose strands that framed sharp features. Eyes—cold and predatory—stared back, their color an unearthly hue I couldn't place under the dim light. My lips parted, and I caught a glimpse of elongated fangs. Carefully, I ran my fingers along them. They were sleek, venomous, dripping with a faintly iridescent liquid. My tongue flicked over one out of curiosity, and the metallic tang that hit my palate told me it wasn't ordinary saliva.
My hands wandered to the rest of my body—lean, muscular, but not excessively so. The physique of someone who moved with deadly precision, yet carried themselves with elegance. My skin was smooth, pale as porcelain, and beneath it, something stirred—a latent power, coiled like a predator waiting to strike.
Satisfied for now, I turned away, the mirror forgotten as I ventured further into the lab. The next room was different—less destroyed. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with folders, loose papers scattered across desks. The faint odor of decay lingered in the air, but it was the presence of something human—or what was left of it—that caught my attention.
I scanned the folders, noting the identical images stamped on each one. My face—or rather, the face I had inherited—was on all of them. With measured precision, I selected one and flipped it open as I sank into the nearest chair.
Hirata Takeshi.
The name stared back at me in bold, black ink. The image of a younger, more innocent version of this body accompanied it, but the resemblance was clear. This was the man whose identity now belonged to me. A college student, the file said. Twenty-two years old. The details unraveled before me, piece by piece, as if I were peeling back the layers of another life.
He had been a student at Tokyo University, an ambitious one, majoring in biology with a minor in computational sciences. Smart. Capable. Driven. The kind of person who had dreams too big for the body they were trapped in. How ironic, then, that someone like him would end up here—emptied out like a vessel, his ambitions discarded like trash.
Hirata had grown up in Sapporo, an only child. His father worked as an engineer for some no-name company, and his mother had died when he was ten. They had lived a quiet life in the suburbs, their home address neatly typed in the file. I stared at the address for a long moment, committing it to memory. It didn't mean anything to me—not yet—but it might. His records listed hobbies: hiking, gaming, and reading obscure fantasy novels.
How quaint.
More notes filled the following pages, detailing his social circle—or lack thereof. A handful of acquaintances, no close friends. A girlfriend, briefly, but nothing serious. He had been a solitary figure, someone whose presence was easily overlooked. The kind of person who could disappear, and no one would bat an eye.
I closed the folder with deliberate slowness, my thoughts churning. Hirata Takeshi was dead. And yet, he wasn't. His body was my vessel now, and his life—his history—was little more than a framework I would either dismantle or manipulate as I saw fit.
My eyes drifted to the pile of folders stacked nearby. There was more. Much more. My fingers brushed against the edge of the next one, its label stark and foreboding:
"Purpose of Experiment: KC Project."
A thin smile curled my lips. Whatever the reason for my rebirth, I was about to find out.
Opening the thick folder, the first page greeted me with bold, formal lettering:
"Researchers Tasked with Experiment."
My eyes scanned the page with a detached curiosity, yet frustration simmered beneath the surface. The words offered nothing about the why—the burning question gnawing at the back of my mind. Instead, the page listed the names, roles, and credentials of those involved in crafting this grotesque masterpiece—me.
I read lightly at first, brushing over titles and qualifications. Most of them seemed… unimpressive. Academics, geneticists, biochemists, all with pages worth of accolades that felt meaningless in the context of the room I stood in—a dead, rotting tomb for their supposed brilliance.
Then, a name stopped me.
Noriyoshi Umejima.
Even on paper, there was something sinister about it, as though the letters themselves carried a weight that the others lacked. Next to the name was a portrait of the man. He looked like someone who had stared too long into the void—and the void had stared back. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken but alight with an unsettling intensity, the kind that only existed in people who lived for nothing but their work. His messy hair framed his face like the mane of a rabid animal, and a scar ran jaggedly across his left cheek, cutting through the deep lines of age etched into his skin.
What stood out most, however, was his unnatural smile. The photograph wasn't professional—it looked like a candid moment snapped during one of the lab's experiments. His grin stretched unnaturally wide, baring teeth that looked more fitting on a predator than a man.
The face of a madman, I thought. But then again, could someone who wasn't mad create something like this?
Shoving the page aside, I flicked through the following documents. Most were inconsequential. Names. Backgrounds. Nothing useful. My fingers itched for answers, but the text seemed deliberately sterile, as if any real information had been redacted.
And then I turned the page.
It was titled simply: "The Reason for the Experiment."
I paused for a moment, the words glaring back at me like a challenge. Taking a deep breath, I dove in.
The explanation unfolded like a nightmare painted in clinical terms. The researchers had been tasked with creating the ultimate weapon: a human-animal hybrid, one capable of unparalleled physical prowess, combat instincts, and regenerative abilities. These hybrids were designed to be the apex of evolution—monsters in human skin. Their purpose? To dominate the underground bloodsport known as Killing Bites.
My lips twisted into a faint, humorless smile as I read.
Human-animal hybrids? What kind of absurdity was this? The words themselves felt surreal, as though I'd stumbled into some sick parody of science fiction. But the memories of that shattered test tube, the venomous fang in my mouth, and the alien strength humming beneath my skin all whispered otherwise.
This wasn't fiction.
I leaned back in the chair, exhaling through gritted teeth. The page described the tournaments—secret spectacles where the rich and powerful gambled on the lives of the hybrids. Fighters tore each other apart for their entertainment, and the winners earned fame, wealth, and influence in the shadows of society.
More importantly, they represented an opportunity for investors—political figures, corporations, and crime syndicates—to back the hybrids and reap the rewards of their victories. These experiments weren't just about creating monsters; they were about creating commodities.
And I'm one of them, I thought grimly.
The realization settled in my gut like a stone. My eyes closed briefly, and an image of that test tube flashed in my mind. The strange, viscous fluid coating my skin. The sterile air. The way my limbs moved, as though they weren't entirely my own.
I raised a finger to my mouth, brushing against the sharp fang that had already marked itself as unnatural. A faint drop of venom clung to its tip, glinting in the dim light.
"What am I, then?" I murmured, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
I shook off the thought and forced my focus back to the folder. Answers wouldn't come from despair; they would come from knowing everything.
The pages that followed delved into the experiment itself—its logistics, its funding, its marketability. This wasn't just science; it was a product. And like all products, it came with a price tag.
A detailed financial breakdown filled the next section. My eyes skimmed the lines of text:
Projected Cost per Hybrid Creation: ¥3.4 billion
Funding Allocation: 62% genetic research, 25% bioweapon engineering, 13% training facilities
Expected ROI (Return on Investment): 175% over a five-year tournament cycle
Each point was presented in cold, calculating language, framed to entice the greed of potential shareholders. Diagrams accompanied the text, illustrating hybrid capabilities: enhanced musculature, accelerated healing, venomous adaptations, and heightened combat reflexes.
A footnote at the bottom caught my attention:
"Subjects were selected based on genetic compatibility and potential for adaptability. Of the original candidates, only two—KC.01 and KC.02—demonstrated viability."
My jaw tightened. KC.02—that's me. But what about KC.01?
The file made no further mention of the other subject, leaving the mystery hanging over me like a guillotine.
Flipping the page, I found another chart detailing the products used in the hybridization process. The jargon was dense, but the implications were clear: synthetic serums, gene splicing technologies, and animal DNA samples—all crafted with precision and obscenely expensive resources.
One note stood out among the rest:
"Prototype Venom Compound: VN-13."
I glanced at my fang again, instinctively licking my lips. The taste of metal returned, sharper this time. It was venom. My venom. A product of their experiments.
The final section of the folder was meant to reassure investors. It promised the hybrids would be "obedient, loyal, and perfect for combat scenarios," though I found the claims laughable. Loyal? If anything, the part of me that had clawed its way back to life felt only contempt for these people.
As I neared the end of the folder, I paused, my fingers brushing against the cover of the next one in the pile. Its label sent a chill down my spine:
"KC.02 Hybridization Report."
This was it. The key to understanding what they had turned me into. My heart thrummed with a strange mixture of dread and anticipation as I opened the cover.
Inside, the words "King Cobra" and "Komodo Dragon" leapt off the page, scrawled in bold as though they were brands burned into my skin.
So that's what I am, I thought, my lips curling into a sharp smile.
The thick folder in my hands exuded an unsettling sense of authority. Its contents were both my origin story and my instruction manual, though not one I'd willingly signed up for. Each flip of a page peeled back layers of what I had become, blending fascination and revulsion into an addictive cocktail. I couldn't stop reading.
The page in front of me described the benefits of the hybridization process—what I had been made into. It was thorough, clinical, and unsettlingly enthusiastic in tone, as if the researchers had written it with the glee of creators marveling at their magnum opus.
"King Cobra DNA: Dominant Strand" was highlighted in bold at the top of the page. Beneath it was a detailed explanation that practically dripped with reverence.
The King Cobra—the apex predator of the snake kingdom—was chosen for its unparalleled lethality. Its venom, an intricate cocktail of neurotoxins and cytotoxins, could paralyze and kill prey within minutes. This wasn't just a bite designed to kill; it was designed to dominate, to inspire fear. That was their intent for me, to embody that dread. My fangs, it seemed, had been enhanced with specialized venom glands, far more potent than any natural snake. A single bite would be lethal to most, even creatures immune to conventional venom. And then there was my reflexes, faster than any human could comprehend, fine-tuned for survival and attack.
The folder elaborated on the Jacobson's organ—the sensory enhancement common in snakes. I could already feel its effects, a faint, tingling awareness of scents and movements in the room, far beyond what my human brain had once been capable of processing. It was eerie but intoxicating, like knowing the secrets of the world through nothing more than a flick of my tongue.
And yet, it wasn't just the King Cobra that defined me. The Komodo Dragon DNA was the silent architect behind my monstrous frame. It was my foundation, my unshakable fortress. While the King Cobra made me lethal, the Komodo Dragon made me unstoppable.
My hands instinctively brushed over my skin, which now bore a texture that was subtly ridged, almost scaled. According to the document, this was a blend of human skin and Komodo hide—tough enough to resist slashes, blunt trauma, and even small-caliber bullets in some areas. Beneath that, the Komodo's raw power pulsed through me. They'd specifically chosen this creature for its size and strength, stretching my body to a towering height of nearly seven feet. My bones were denser, my muscles packed with power far beyond what my previous frame could have ever achieved.
I flipped to the next section, curiosity overwhelming me as the document flowed seamlessly between the two animals' contributions. The King Cobra's agility met the Komodo Dragon's durability. The snake's speed and precision combined with the lizard's monstrous endurance. The researchers described it as a "perfect predator balance." Speed to strike. Power to dominate. Endurance to outlast.
My physiology was a battlefield where these two predators had merged, each reinforcing the other's strengths and erasing their weaknesses. The King Cobra's natural fragility was negated by the Komodo Dragon's sturdiness. Meanwhile, the Komodo Dragon's lack of venom and slower reactions were overwritten by the cobra's precision and toxins.
I couldn't help but smirk as I read further. They had even accounted for the Komodo Dragon's infamous bacteria-filled bite. I chuckled, wondering what poor soul had been assigned the task of ensuring that trait wouldn't rot me from the inside out. Instead, my venom—refined and weaponized—had replaced the bacterial element, turning my bite into a weapon that could incapacitate and kill in ways no predator on Earth could resist.
Turning the page, I found a chart titled Weaknesses and Strengths. It was color-coded, green for strengths and red for weaknesses. The green practically consumed the page, while only a few modest red bars dotted the chart.
I leaned back, pressing my fingers to my lips as a chuckle escaped me. It was low and sinister, slithering out in waves. "Kukukuku… HAHAHA." The laugh grew louder, echoing through the silent lab like a predator announcing its reign. It was intoxicating to know I had the upper hand against most creatures.
The green categories listed every advantage I had: venomous potency, physical resilience, towering strength, and unparalleled senses. In combat, I was a force to be reckoned with—able to overpower most predators, evade traps with speed and precision, and endure blows that would shatter human bones.
But the red categories? They were fewer but not insignificant. Large apex predators like tigers, polar bears, and elephants posed threats due to their sheer size or power. Even coordinated pack hunters like wolves or hyenas were listed, though with the caveat that their success depended on numbers.
Still, it was clear: I was designed to win.
I turned the page again, now engrossed. The next section revealed the exact percentage of hybridization. "Hybrid Composition: 65% King Cobra, 35% Komodo Dragon." It explained that the cobra DNA was dominant because of its lethal traits, agility, and sensory enhancements, while the Komodo Dragon DNA played a supporting role by reinforcing my frame and physical durability.
I nodded as I read. It made sense. The King Cobra was the blade, and the Komodo Dragon was the shield. Together, they were unstoppable.
I closed the folder, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The knowledge was empowering, but it also came with a strange weight. What was I now? Not human, not entirely animal. Something else. Something superior.
As my thoughts swirled, my eyes landed on a nearby metallic cabinet. It reflected my shadow—tall, imposing, and undeniably inhuman. I reached for the handle and opened it, finding nothing of interest, but the motion itself sparked a new thought.
Testing.
I needed to see if all of this information held true. Without hesitation, I clenched my fist, feeling the raw power surge through me. My gaze fell on a steel table nearby. It was bolted to the ground, a sturdy thing that would take serious effort to move.
I approached it, placing my hands on its edge. My fingers curled around the cool metal, and I applied pressure. Slowly at first, testing my strength. The table groaned in protest, the bolts creaking as they began to lift from the ground. With a burst of effort, I hoisted the entire table into the air and threw it across the room. It slammed into the wall, leaving a dent before clattering to the floor.
I smirked. The strength was real.
Next, I focused on speed. I sprinted across the room, my feet barely touching the ground as I moved with a speed that made my surroundings blur. Stopping abruptly, I flicked my tongue, tasting the air. Every molecule seemed alive, painting a vivid map of the lab around me.
Finally, I reached for a glass vial. Holding it delicately, I squeezed the base of my fang. A drop of venom oozed out, landing on the glass. It hissed and smoked, eating through the material within seconds.
I straightened up, my mind racing with possibilities. Whoever had created me had given me power beyond measure. But they had also given me freedom, and that was their mistake.
I turned back to the desk, spotting the final folder still sitting there. Its label read:
Hybridization Details: King Cobra & Komodo Dragon.
A slow smile spread across my face. "Time to see what they left out."
The final folder lay open before me, its contents spread like an autopsy report on my soul. Each word was another incision, carving deeper into the truth of what I was and why I existed. My heart—if I could still call it that—beat with the slow, deliberate rhythm of something unshaken by morality. I had been built to hunt, kill, and dominate. And now that I understood myself, it was time to move forward.
Standing up from the desk, I glanced around the room. My gaze caught on a black outfit hanging in a locker across the lab. It was immaculate—a long trench coat paired with a tailored suit, crisp shirt, and a slim tie. Polished shoes and gloves completed the ensemble, as if someone had left it for me to step into this new identity, this predator in human form.
I approached the locker, running my fingers over the smooth fabric of the trench coat. It was sturdy but flexible, built to move with me in the heat of battle or the cold calculus of a hunt. Whoever had prepared this had done so with my new form in mind. Practicality merged with precision—this was more than clothing; it was a mask for the life I was about to embrace.
Stripping away the remnants of the ragged hospital gown, I began to dress. The shirt slid over my broad shoulders, and I couldn't help but notice how the Komodo Dragon's contribution to my physique made every movement feel powerful and deliberate. The suit fit like a second skin, and as I fastened the buttons on the trench coat, I saw myself reflected in a nearby shard of shattered glass. The image staring back at me was both alien and familiar. A towering figure with sharp, predatory eyes and an unsettling presence. The slight glint of my fang when I smirked added a dangerous edge. This was who I was now.
A faint chuckle escaped my lips. "Kukuku… now that's more like it."
Gloved hands reached for the drawer that housed the lighter. I found it beside a few crumpled cigarettes—perhaps once owned by the researchers. Flipping open the lighter, I thumbed the flame to life and held it steady for a moment, watching it flicker. There was something symbolic in that flame, something cleansing.
Turning back to the desk and the folders stacked there, I began to gather every piece of documentation related to my creation.
Pages upon pages of charts, observations, funding approvals—each one a testament to the arrogance of humanity's meddling with nature. I piled them high in a metal bin, the kind used to dispose of hazardous materials.
Before lighting it, I paused. My eyes traced the name stamped at the top of the first document. Noriyoshi Umejima. The head researcher, the man who had spearheaded this grotesque masterpiece. A part of me wondered where he was now—if he was even alive. Did he know his creation had survived? Did he feel pride? Fear? Or had he left these experiments behind, content in the knowledge that his legacy was walking, breathing, and very much hungry for answers?
With a flick of my wrist, I dropped the lighter into the bin. The fire caught quickly, consuming the papers in a hungry blaze. The heat radiated against my face, and the scent of burning paper filled the room. I watched until the flames died down to embers, ensuring that nothing remained. My existence would leave no trace in this lab.
Once the fire had done its work, I turned to the lab's central terminal. It was password-protected, of course, but nothing could stop me for long. My enhanced reflexes made typing a blur, and within minutes, I had bypassed the security protocols. The database unfolded before me—files upon files of research notes, genetic blueprints, video logs of my transformation. Disgusted, I selected them all and deleted every last byte of data.
As the screen went blank, I pulled a USB drive from the terminal. It was the only copy I would keep, a backup of their sins. Not to preserve their work, but as leverage. Should I ever need it, I would have proof of what they had done.
With that, I turned to the door. My boots echoed against the cold tile floor, each step punctuated by the soft creak of leather. I felt the weight of the new body I carried, but it was not a burden. It was a weapon waiting to be unleashed.
Stopping by the exit, I turned back one last time to survey the room. The place where I had been born, or perhaps reborn, was now a tomb. Flames danced in the bin, their light casting jagged shadows on the walls. This place had served its purpose, but it no longer held anything for me.
"Goodbye," I muttered, more to myself than to the room. "And thank you for the second chance."
With that, I stepped into the corridor, leaving the past behind. My coat swayed with each step, and the steel door hissed shut behind me, locking away the lab and everything it had been. The air outside was different—cooler, freer. I flicked my tongue instinctively, tasting the world around me.
This was the start of something new.
The tournaments they spoke of—Killing Bites—awaited me. If this world wanted a monster, I would give them one. Not just a fighter, but a hunter. And now, it was time to see how this predator played the game.