The sharp crack of a gunshot pierced the silence, echoing through the desolate streets. A sudden burst of light from the muzzle illuminated the rain-soaked ruins, casting jagged shadows across the skeletal remnants of the city. Caine's body jerked violently as the bullet struck his chest, its force propelling him backward through the twisted metal frame of the derelict warehouse entrance.
He hit the blood-slick floor with a bone-rattling thud, sliding across the grimy concrete until coming to rest amidst a grotesque pile of mangled corpses. The air was thick with the stench of blood and decay, suffocating in its intensity, lingering like a malevolent force. His vision blurred, the edges of reality wavering as waves of searing pain radiated from his chest.
"Target neutralized!" Private Jenkins shouted, his voice cracking as he gripped his rifle, its barrel still smoking. "Sir, I... I think I got him!"
"Cease fire!" barked Sergeant Granger, his tone firm and commanding. He lowered his weapon slightly, his eyes locked on the shadowed doorway. "No one moves until I give the order."
Tendrils of steam curled from Jenkins's rifle as the group stood motionless, the rhythmic patter of rain on their helmets the only sound. The acrid tang of gunpowder mingled with the overwhelming odor of death. Behind them, a cluster of civilians huddled together, their pale faces etched with a mixture of fear and confusion.
Sergeant Granger signaled to two of his men, gesturing for them to flank him as he cautiously advanced. The only noise besides their measured footsteps was the incessant drumming of rain on the corrugated metal of the warehouse and nearby structures.
The shattered doorway yawned open to reveal a scene of unimaginable carnage. Blood, gore, and viscera coated every surface, and Private Jenkins, standing to Sergeant Granger's left, had to suppress the rising bile in his throat as his stomach churned at the sight.
"Hold it together, Private!" Sergeant Granger barked at his subordinate, while the soldier beside him aimed his flashlight at Caine's seemingly lifeless body. The bullet hole that had pierced him was now a small puncture, through which the blood of the zombies seeped, creating the illusion of normal bleeding.
Sergeant Granger gestured for Jenkins to inspect the unidentified young man, all the while keeping his weapon ready for any unforeseen developments.
Caine lay utterly still, a mirror image of the dead around him. Unknown to the soldiers examining him, the moment the high-powered round struck his body, a chime echoed in his mind, marking the instant he succumbed to unconsciousness.
Caine's world faded to black.
A wave of static overwhelmed his mind as consciousness slipped away, his final sensations a haze of searing pain and cold metal melding into his skin.
And then, nothing.
When his eyes opened again, everything had changed.
He was no longer on the warehouse floor. The stench of blood and rot was gone, replaced by the sterile tang of disinfectant and metal. Above him, a flickering fluorescent bulb hummed, casting cold, pale light against smooth steel walls. He blinked, his throat parched, his head pounding relentlessly.
Slowly, he sat up. His chest ached where the bullet had struck, but when he looked down, there was no wound, only a clean patch of white bandages covering his chest.
PSST!
With a hiss, the door slid open, and a pair of armed soldiers filed in before taking positions on either side of the door and standing at attention. Before Caine could think to question one of them, an older, gentlemanly type with salt and pepper hair and a thin but well-kempt mustache walked in holding what appeared to be a clipboard, which the man continued to read for a few moments before looking up, his silvery grey eyes scanning Caine like some unholy cross between a machine and a predator sending chills up Caine's spine.
"Hello, my name is Alaric Argent, and I run this place with the help of these good men!" He gestured to the soldiers standing guard, acknowledging their work, and earned a subtle nod from both of them before they returned to their task.
Alaric stepped closer, his polished boots clicking faintly against the steel floor with each measured step. The man's posture was pristine — military in bearing, scientific in precision. He stopped just short of Caine's bedside, his eyes never leaving the young man's face.
"You've caused quite the stir, Mr.…" Alaric flipped through the clipboard, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly as if amused. "…Caine. No last name in the system, no records, no digital footprint. And yet, you walked out of Kronos Corps covered in more blood than a slaughterhouse and somehow… alive."
He set the clipboard down at the foot of the bed, the sound sharp and deliberate."I have to admit," he continued, his tone now almost conversational, "that's quite an achievement for a man who should be very, very dead."
Caine's eyes narrowed. "Where am I?"
Alaric smiled thinly. "Safe — for now. You're in one of our mobile containment facilities, operated jointly by surviving branches of the U.S. Military and what's left of the Civil Emergency Biotech Initiative. We found you in the aftermath of the Kronos collapse."
He clasped his hands behind his back. "You're lucky Sergeant Granger insisted you be brought in rather than shot again."
Caine's jaw flexed. "Could've fooled me. Feels like I was shot yesterday."
"One could argue," Alaric replied smoothly, "that you were shot yesterday. And yet here you sit." His gaze flicked to Caine's chest. "Tell me, does it hurt?"
Caine hesitated, glancing down.
He clenched his fist. "Not anymore."
"Fascinating." Alaric's tone sharpened ever so slightly, curiosity gleaming in his steel-gray eyes.
Alaric took a deliberate step closer, his gaze fixed on the young man's bandaged chest. "The medics said the bullet should have killed you. Yet, aside from some bruising and a faint scar, there's no sign of major trauma. It's almost as if your body is… accelerating its healing process."
His tone sharpened, edged with suspicion. "That's not normal. Not for anyone."
Caine's eyes hardened, but his lips remained sealed. Beneath the bandages, faint ripples of movement stirred under his skin, hidden from view.
"I don't know what to tell you," Caine muttered, his voice low and guarded. "I've been through hell. Maybe I'm just hard to kill."
Alaric's scrutiny lingered for several heavy seconds, the silence stretching unbearably, before he finally set the clipboard aside. "Perhaps," he said, his tone unreadable. "For now, you'll remain under observation. Until we confirm you're not infected."
He gestured to the soldiers nearby. "If he acts up, sedate him. I want bloodwork, imaging scans, and a full viral panel done within the hour."
"Yes, sir," one of the soldiers replied, stepping forward promptly.
Alaric paused, his expression inscrutable as he regarded Caine for a moment longer. Just before turning to leave, he added in a quiet, measured tone, "You should be dead, Caine. Don't give me a reason to regret keeping you alive."
The door slid shut behind him with a metallic hiss and click.
Caine sat motionless, the sound of his own pounding pulse echoing in his ears.
Caine sat in the oppressive silence left by Alaric's departure, the fluorescent light overhead emitting a faint, insect-like buzz. The bandage on his chest itched under his fingers, but he resisted the urge to tear it away. Beyond the room, the muffled sound of boots and the low hum of men handling equipment reassured him that he wasn't completely alone in the facility, that some semblance of structure still existed amid the chaos.
Beneath his skin, something pulsed faintly, rhythmically, impossibly small. It thrummed like a second heartbeat, alien and sharp, electric like a metallic current coursing through his body. For a fleeting moment, he considered calling out, revealing what had occurred, but Alaric's warning, "Don't give me a reason to regret keeping you alive," resonated in his mind, firm and unyielding.
A soldier moved swiftly behind Caine, injecting him with a knockout agent and sending him collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud.
Caine's vision blurred as the overhead lights sharpened into a sterile white glare. The acrid scent of disinfectant filled his nose, nearly overwhelming him. He blinked repeatedly, trying to make sense of the distorted shapes around him.
He found himself strapped to a reclined metal table, his arms restrained by polymer bands that emitted a faint electric hum. A soft mechanical hiss echoed through the room, respirators perhaps, or the sound of his own breathing filtered through a mask.
Dr. Alaric Argent stood a short distance away, clipboard in hand, the thin plastic lenses of his glasses reflecting streams of data from a holoscreen beside him. Behind him, a team of technicians moved silently like shadows, their faces partially obscured by masks and visors, the emblem of the Aegis Biotechnica Division prominently displayed on their sterile suits.
"Vitals are stable," one technician murmured.
"Core temperature is nominal."
"No evidence of necrotic cellular spread."
Alaric didn't lift his gaze. "Initiate a secondary scan. Concentrate on the neural lattice and marrow. If the infection persists, it will anchor itself there first."
Caine attempted to speak, but the mask covering his mouth emitted a soft hiss with each breath, muffling his voice. A technician noticed and adjusted the sedation feed through the IV in his arm. His heartbeat slowed, yet he remained conscious, acutely aware of everything.
Something shifted deep within him. A faint vibration rippled under his skin, like an echo. The same pulse he had felt earlier began to throb softly, tracing the web of veins beneath his flesh. Though invisible to his eyes, he could feel its presence.
The nanites stirred.
Microscopic machines coursed through his bloodstream, not obeying commands but acting on instinct. They altered chemical signatures, modified proteins, and concealed viral markers faster than the scanning machines could register. Every cell in his body was being rewritten, reshaped in real time.
He shuddered involuntarily, though the restraints held him firm.
Alaric arched a brow. "An unusual reaction to sedation. Pupils constricting rather than dilating."
"Could be residual adrenaline," suggested another technician.
"Or it might be something entirely new."
The doctor stepped closer, his fingers brushing Caine's wrist as he adjusted the sensor bands. "You heal fast," he murmured, almost to himself. "Too fast."
The words seeped into Caine's mind like oil seeping through fabric.
He remembered the gunshot, the searing pain in his chest, and the way the world had faded to black, only to return, brighter than it should have. By all rights, he should be dead. Yet here he was, treated like a lab specimen, poked and prodded by strangers.
Alaric turned toward the monitors. "Run a full-spectrum molecular analysis. I want an explanation for why the contagion isn't registering."
Cascading streams of code illuminated the holographic display. Blue light flickered over Caine's restrained body as thin mechanical arms descended from the ceiling, each tipped with gleaming needles poised under the harsh light.
"Begin."
Pain shot through Caine's arm as the first probe pierced his skin, drawing blood into a transparent vial. One by one, more probes followed, piercing his chest, his spine, even the tender spot behind his ear. The machines operated with chilling precision, yet the nanites in his system outpaced human science at every turn.
They dismantled viral remnants. They erased chemical markers. They fabricated lies on a molecular scale.
"Negative across all panels," a technician said, her voice tinged with disbelief.
"That's impossible," Alaric snapped. "Run it again."
They ran the tests over and over. Each time, the results came back clean.
Caine's chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths.
The younger researcher hesitated. "Doctor, should we isolate him? Maybe he's… different now."
Alaric's face hardened. "Everything changes, D'Vora. The real question is whether he's stable."
He leaned closer, speaking in a low voice only Caine could hear. "Can you hear me, soldier?"
Caine's eyes flickered open, a faint metallic glint flashing in his iris before disappearing.
"Yes," he rasped.
Alaric scrutinized him for a moment before giving a small, satisfied nod. "Good. We proceed to the next phase."
The tests dragged on for hours, and Caine lost all sense of time.
Radiation scans, neurological mapping, immune system simulations, his body endured it all. Needles, lights, and humming machines probed him relentlessly, pushing him to his limits.
When the restraints were finally removed, Caine's limbs felt leaden, as though gravity itself had intensified. His veins pulsed faintly beneath his skin, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a metallic shimmer moving under the surface before it vanished.
Two guards flanked him, escorting him down a long corridor. Fluorescent lights hummed above, and glass panels lined the walls, revealing containment rooms with other subjects. Some screamed in agony, while others lay motionless.
Caine remained silent.
They arrived at a reinforced door. One guard swiped a clearance card and spoke into a comm unit. "Subject 09 authorized for transfer to Cadet Sector B."
The door opened with a pneumatic hiss.
Beyond lay a sprawling training yard bathed in the soft light of dawn. Soldiers, young and hardened, marched in perfect formation. Their uniforms bore the Aegis insignia, their expressions cold and disciplined.
On a raised platform, a drill sergeant barked commands, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"Eyes forward!"