Under the guise of a classified government operation, a covert project was launched in the late 1950s—buried deep beneath layers of secrecy.
A select team of elite scientists, handpicked for their brilliance and loyalty, embarked on a mission with a singular objective:
To engineer a being with extraordinary abilities—something not unlike the legacy of Captain America, but built from a new vision.
Fueled by the belief that their work would redefine the future of warfare and human evolution, they poured themselves into the project. Relentlessly. Obsessively. They pushed the limits of biology, chemistry, and neuroscience—often at great personal cost.
Their hidden lab, buried somewhere off-grid, became more than a facility. It was a crucible of obsession. Days bled into nights as they conducted experiment after experiment, driven by the ambition to unlock the full spectrum of human potential. Their aim wasn't just super-strength or speed. It was something far more refined—adaptive combat mimicry. The ability to replicate any physical action or martial skill after witnessing it only once.
After more than a decade of setbacks, breakthroughs, and near-catastrophes, the team finally reached a critical milestone in 1972.
They had created Subject K4-712.
A being—or rather, a "boy"—who defied all expectations.
With the strength of twenty men, lightning-fast reflexes, unmatched agility, and the uncanny ability to master any fighting style after mere observation, K4-712—affectionately called "Luke"—was everything the scientists had envisioned... and perhaps something far beyond.
But Luke's success wasn't the product of science alone. It was also the result of something rarely factored into equations: compassion. Chief among those responsible was Dr. Faraday, the program director. Having lost his own son years before, Faraday poured all the love he had left into Luke, raising him not just as a subject, but as a child. In time, Luke saw Faraday not as a handler, but as a father.
Under Faraday's guidance, the team took a radically humane approach. Luke's environment was carefully controlled—strict but nurturing, disciplined yet understanding. Faraday insisted on preventing psychological trauma, a choice that built trust between Luke and the scientists. It worked. The boy didn't just grow stronger—he became emotionally stable, self-aware, and fully cooperative.
That bond between them was more than sentiment. It was the linchpin of the entire project. Luke's loyalty, his motivation, and his self-control were all rooted in the deep, mutual respect he shared with Faraday.
And it paid off. Luke's performance in simulations and real-world trials shattered every benchmark. On top of his adaptive combat abilities, he displayed astonishing regenerative traits—healing from wounds that would kill an ordinary person in minutes. Even more baffling was his slowed aging. Over time, it became clear: Luke wasn't just surviving—he was evolving. His genetic structure hinted at something the team had never fully anticipated.
He had become a living weapon. Capable of sustaining long-term missions without rest. Capable of overwhelming any target, adapting to any scenario, enduring conditions no human ever could. To the government, he was now a priceless asset. A miracle. A prototype.
Though to Dr. Faraday, he was still just Luke. A boy built by science—saved by love.
However, with such immense power came a heavy burden. Luke was entrusted with responsibilities no ordinary person could carry—tasks that demanded perfection, under constant pressure, with failure never being an option. And yet, he embraced it willingly. Not out of duty alone, but from a genuine desire to live up to the expectations of the man who raised him, and the legacy he was designed to uphold.
His training was unrelenting. From hand-to-hand combat and close-quarters combat (CQC) to an array of martial arts, Luke absorbed all that he could. What others spent years mastering, he internalized within months or even mere weeks. He quickly outclassed his instructors, leaving no doubt that he was evolving beyond the system that created him. And eventually, he was drawn to the discipline of the katana, Luke requested specialized training in swordsmanship.
Despite his extraordinary abilities, Luke remained, in many ways, a normal and well-adjusted young man. He was homeschooled by the scientists, Luke experienced something rare in the confines of a laboratory: a real childhood.
He laughed. He learned. He dreamed.
For Dr. Faraday, it was more than just a scientific achievement. It was a second chance. A way to raise the son he never got to keep.
Yet dreams, no matter how carefully built, can fall apart in an instant.
Tragedy struck without warning. News of an explosion at Dr. Faraday's private residence reached the team. The blast had left no survivors. Luke was inconsolable. The man he called father—gone. Just like that.
And the devastation didn't end there. That same week, every other key scientist involved in Project K4-712 was reported dead under suspicious circumstances.
It was no accident. Someone had tied up loose ends.
With nowhere else to turn, the government stepped in, taking full control of Luke and the remnants of the project. But the warmth and purpose that had once anchored him were gone. What remained was the sinking realization that he had become a pawn in a much larger, more dangerous game.
The parallels were impossible to ignore. Like Dr. Erskine before him, Faraday had created something the world wasn't ready for—and paid the price.
---
Luke's POV
~ Outside a coffee shop, New York City – June 1, 2010 ~
"You really sure about that? 'Cause if you're wasting my time, there'll be consequences. So think hard—yes or no?" Fury asked, sipping his coffee like he had all the time in the world. His one good eye was locked on me—sharp, unreadable, and annoyingly calm.
"For the love of God, Fury..." I muttered, trying not to roll my eyes as I stirred my cup. "I don't see any reason to get back out there. Nothing interesting's happening. It's quiet. Dead quiet. So tell me—why should I bother?"
Fury leaned back in his chair, lips twitching like he wanted to grin. "Who knows?" he said with a shrug. "Only a damn fool jinxes a mission by talkin' about it. But hell—maybe this time we'll actually get somethin' worth the trouble."
I scoffed, looking out at the street. Horns blared, people rushed by, and everything felt... normal.
Too normal.
"I honestly have no idea anymore."
Fury stood, brushing imaginary lint off his coat. His cup was already empty, like he'd been planning to leave the second I said no. He hit me with that signature stare. "Hundred bucks says somethin' happens."
I blinked, thrown. "You're betting on something happening?"
"Damn right I am," he said, matter-of-fact. "You've been stewin' in your own damn head too long. Convincin' yourself everything's fine just 'cause the surface looks calm. So here's the hard truth, kid—peace ain't nothin' but the universe holdin' its breath before the storm."
I stared at him, brows furrowed. "So you're seriously trying to bait fate? What—just to prove a point?"
He smirked. "Negative. This was your wake-up call. The fight ain't over 'til the world stops turnin'—and last I checked, it's still spinnin'. You drop your guard? That's when they come. And they always come."
That shut me up.
Then, as he opened the SUV door, I called out, "Make that five hundred."
Fury paused, turned his head slightly, eyebrow raised.
"And I'll double it if I lose," I added, firm. "I'm that sure nothing's coming."
He chuckled. "You're on."
Then he got in and disappeared behind the tinted glass like he always did—ghosting out of my life just as fast as he'd dropped in. I sat there staring at my coffee, the quiet somehow feeling a little too quiet now.
---
The steam from my forgotten coffee curled up into the New York air as I hopped on my bike, leaving the chatter of the café behind. The city moved like it always did—fast, loud, indifferent. I rode through it like a ghost, blending in just enough to be invisible.
Cruising past the park, I caught sight of some kids chasing each other through the grass, their laughter echoing off the trees. Just for a second, everything slowed. That sound—pure and untangled—hit me harder than I expected. It was a snapshot of a life I used to dream about. A life before injections, combat drills, classified files, and blood on my hands.
The wind rushed past me, tugging Fury's words back into my head. "Interesting," he'd said, all smug and vague like he knew something I didn't. Typical Fury. Was it just another weird assignment? Or was he hinting at something deeper—something already in motion? With him, nothing was ever as casual as it seemed.
I couldn't shake it. The tone in his voice, the bet, the way he looked at me before leaving. He wasn't just messing around. Fury doesn't joke. Not unless there's a reason.
Rolling past the same group of kids again, I found myself lingering on the moment. Their world was so clean. No secrets. No missions. No weight of national security on their shoulders. Mine had been different—calculated, curated, controlled from day one.
Though that's how it is, you don't get to pick your origin story. You just survive it.
As I pedaled toward home, that itch in the back of my mind kept flaring. The kind of feeling I've learned never to ignore.
I might look young—fresh-faced, early-twenties at best—yet I've lived through enough decades. The irony of a slowed aging process? You get to watch the world change while you stay the same while slowly rotting away. Sounds like a gift. Most days, it feels like a curse. There's only so much you can carry before time stops healing and starts piling up.
Still... I keep going. Because I have to. Because someone made me to.
Project K4-712...