Rain tapped against the rusted tin rooftop like ticking bones.
Solvark's outer district never slept, but tonight it was especially restless.
Zian Rahal sat in silence, curled against a cracked concrete wall. His hoodie clung to his soaked body, but the cold didn't bother him. His eyes—once tired and weary—were now sharp. Alert. Watching.
But not alone.
"Why do you hide?"
The voice again. Draxor.
Not loud—but constant.
It didn't come from outside.
It came from inside his skull.
Zian clenched his jaw. "I'm not ready."
"You were ready when you opened the chamber."
"I was desperate," he muttered. "I didn't know you were… this."
"I am what you needed. What you still need."
Zian looked at his trembling hands. They seemed normal again, no black veins, no alien texture. But beneath the skin, he felt it — a coiled storm.
He stood up and walked to the edge of the rooftop.
Beneath him, the neon-drenched alley buzzed with activity: thugs dealing synth-drugs, street vendors arguing over stolen power, children digging through trash piles.
This was his city.
And yet, it had never felt more foreign.
He whispered, "I'm losing my mind…"
"You are evolving."
"No. I'm becoming you."
"Not becoming. Bonding."
Suddenly, his vision sharpened.
At the far end of the alley, a man pulled a girl—barely ten—into a dark crevice between buildings. She struggled. He slapped her.
Zian's heart raced. His body moved before he could think.
One jump. Two rooftops. A quiet drop into the shadows.
His breath was steady. Muscles coiled.
"Kill him."
"No."
"Protect her."
"I will. But not like that."
He stepped into the alley, voice low. "Let her go."
The man turned. Laughing. "Buzz off, freak. She's mine."
Zian's hands trembled. Not with fear.
With something else.
"Let me help."
Zian felt it—the tendrils, licking beneath his skin.
"No. Just scare him."
The man pulled a blade. "Last warning."
Zian sighed.
The shadows behind him twisted. A black whip lashed forward, slicing the knife in half before curling around the man's wrist.
"WHAT THE—?!" the man screamed, eyes bulging.
Zian stepped forward. Half of his face already darkening. His eye glowed.
"Next time you touch a child," he said softly, "I'll let him finish the job."
The tendril released.
The man ran.
The girl was frozen. Terrified.
Zian kneeled down. "You're safe now. Go home."
She nodded, shaking, then bolted.
As he walked back to the shadows, Draxor whispered—
"You could've ended him."
"I'm not a killer."
"You will be."
HOURS LATER
Location: NovaCore Surveillance Base Z-13
A sleek black command van sat parked behind a warehouse. Inside, five agents sat watching multiple monitors.
"Target has been located," one said. "Corner of District 12, Sector D."
Another nodded. "Prep the unit."
A tall man in a steel-gray coat entered the van. His name: Director Valen Korr.
"Show me," he said.
Footage played of Zian leaping across rooftops, his body distorting, shadows bending unnaturally.
A single frame paused—Zian's half-transformed face glaring at the camera.
"Jesus…" one agent muttered.
Korr leaned closer.
"He's syncing faster than we anticipated. Draxor's compatibility rate is near 90%."
"Do we initiate CULL?"
Korr smiled faintly.
"No. We study him first. Alive."
He turned to the team.
"Bring in Unit-7. Tell them: non-lethal if possible."
NIGHTFALL – BACK TO ZIAN
Zian's head pounded. His body ached.
He stumbled into an abandoned mall, its floors cracked and stores looted.
A neon sign flickered above a boarded café: "BeanStorm."
He collapsed into a booth.
Breathing. Listening.
But the voice didn't stop.
"You felt it. The rush. The fear. The control."
"No."
"The city feeds on suffering. Why should you starve?"
Zian slammed his fists onto the table. The wood cracked.
"I'm not like you!"
"You're not like them either."
Silence.
Zian's breath slowed. He stared at his reflection in the broken café window.
He looked... tired. But underneath, he saw movement. A flicker. A shift.
He touched the glass.
"Then what am I?"
"You are... becoming."
Suddenly—
A click.
A red laser dot appeared on his chest.
Zian spun around.
Three armored soldiers emerged from the shadows. NovaCore Unit-7.
"Don't move!" one barked.
Zian raised his hands. "I don't want trouble."
"Too late for that, Subject Rahal."
The air tensed.
"Let me in."
"No."
"They will kill you."
"I'll disable, not destroy."
"You think they'll show mercy?"
Zian's heart raced.
One soldier lunged.
Zian dodged, swept the soldier's legs, and pinned him. Another fired—Zian twisted sideways, the bullet grazing his arm.
His skin rippled. The symbiote surged.
Flesh turned black. Tendrils coiled.
The third soldier froze. "Oh god…"
"Now. Let. Me. In."
Zian growled. "Just to defend."
"Deal."
He unleashed.
The booth exploded behind him as he surged forward. His arm morphed into a black shield, blocking a stun grenade. He spun, struck two soldiers with a tentacle whip. Bones cracked.
One tried to run.
Zian blinked—and was suddenly behind him.
"How—?!" the soldier gasped.
Zian whispered, "Go."
The soldier fled.
He stood panting. The symbiote retracted. The pain returned.
His hands trembled.
"You could've killed them all."
"I didn't."
"You wanted to."
He collapsed to his knees, gasping.
This wasn't over.
MEANWHILE – NOVACORE HQ
Director Korr watched a new screen.
Zian's movements. Reaction time. Strength bursts. Speed.
All charting off the scale.
He smirked.
"Soon, we won't need a host. We'll create our own."
Behind him, a glass chamber lit up. Inside floated a red-black symbiote—smaller than Draxor. Meaner.
Label: DRX-3: Prototype Spawn
BACK TO ZIAN
He awoke in an alley, hours later.
His hoodie torn, blood dried. But no wounds.
Only scars.
He looked up.
The sky was gray. Rain still fell.
"They'll keep coming."
Zian nodded. "Let them."
"You're learning."
"No," he whispered. "I'm surviving."
But somewhere, deep in the alleys of Solvark...
A man watched him from the shadows.
Smiling.
To Be Continued...