Zara stared at herself in the mirror, hood drawn low, sweat dripping down her brow. The silk that seeped from her hands wasn't just a weapon anymore—it was a disguise. She'd spent nights weaving strands into a crude suit, black and tight, something that clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes glowed faintly in the reflection, proof she wasn't just human.
If she was going to fight, she couldn't be Zara Ruiz anymore. She had to be something else.
That night, she went hunting.
The city's underbelly had been whispering about a nightclub where girls disappeared. She found it easily: a warehouse pulsing with bass, shadows of men posted outside like wolves. Zara perched above on a rooftop, silk dripping from her palms.
She dropped into the alley without a sound.
The first guard lit a cigarette. He never saw her coming. One flick of her wrist and silk clamped his mouth shut, dragging him into the darkness. The second raised his gun, only to be ripped off his feet, slammed against the brick until he crumpled.
Inside, the music shook the floor. Men cheered, drunk on violence and money. In the back rooms, girls sat chained to chairs, eyes hollow. Zara's blood boiled.
She moved like a phantom. Teleporting through shadows, she cut chains, cocooned predators, snapped bones. Every scream fed her. Every strike made her stronger. The hunger inside her purred in satisfaction.
By the time the last door swung open, the warehouse was silent. Dozens of men hung webbed to the ceiling like grotesque trophies. Zara stood in the center, chest heaving, eyes burning in the dark.
Then a slow clap echoed.
A man stepped out of the shadows—sharp suit, cold smile, blood splattered on his cufflinks.
"Well done," he said, voice smooth as glass. "You've saved them. Just like we predicted."
Zara froze. "Predicted?"
He smiled wider. "You think you're free? You're exactly where we wanted you. Every mission, every fight—you're leveling up just like the data said you would."
Zara's veins glowed, rage boiling beneath her skin. "Who the hell are you?"
The man leaned closer, unbothered by the webs glistening around him.
"Project Z isn't an accident," he whispered. "It's a program. And you, Zara Ruiz, are the experiment that finally worked."
Her fists clenched, silk sparking from her hands. But before she could strike, a deafening explosion tore through the building. The ceiling collapsed in fire and dust.
When the smoke cleared, the man was gone. Only his words lingered, crawling like spiders through her skull:
You are the experiment.