Alone again, Alex finally studies his body. What he sees confirms what he feared—this isn't just imprisonment. It's transformation. And whoever he was before, that version of him is gone.
---
The sedative wore off slowly.
The world returned piece by piece—colors sharpening, walls focusing, the ever-present hum of surveillance crawling back into his ears.
Alex lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling.
He hadn't moved in hours.
He didn't feel tired.
Just… wrong.
Every movement he made, every breath he took—none of it felt familiar. It was like borrowing someone else's bones.
He sat up and pressed his hands to his face.
Long fingers. Scarred knuckles. Wrist tendons sharp beneath too-thin skin. There were faint burns circling both forearms, like they'd tested heat resistance and forgot to bother healing it properly.
He stood slowly, crossing the room to the reflective surface embedded in the far wall—a polished vent panel that gave back a warped version of his face.
Blonde hair.
Tangled. Dirty. Shaggy bangs falling near his brow.
Golden eyes.
Not just amber. Glowing faintly in the dim overhead light. Almost metallic.
Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that looked like it belonged on a grown man, not a sixteen-year-old.
He didn't recognize any of it.
He turned sideways, looked at his profile.
His arms were longer than they should be. His shoulders too wide for someone this young. His chest was muscular under the grime, but the ribs still showed. Like a statue half-starved but still carved for war.
Alex brought a hand to his collarbone.
He traced a line down his sternum. Felt the pulse of something beneath the skin—deep and heavy, like a slow-moving engine.
He opened his mouth, just to hear his own voice again.
It came out rough, hollow.
> "Who..."
His lips stayed parted.
He tried again.
> "...Who did this?"
The reflection didn't answer.
But for the first time, Alex didn't look afraid.
He looked angry.
---