The day began like any other. I woke from the same nightmare that had haunted me for countless nights—the memory of the day that shattered my life forever. It plays on repeat, vivid as ever. I can still see the rain—not heavy, not light, just enough to coat the streets in a glistening sheen. And through it, the roar of an engine. The van. The impact. The silence that followed.
I should have died that day. Left broken, unable to move, unable to scream, I thought it was fate sealing me off from the world. All I could do was listen—listen to the voices of those who wished me gone, who cursed me for being a burden, for costing them money, time, and grief. Their words cut deeper than the pain in my body. I wanted to answer, to beg, to curse back—but nothing left my lips.
And then, a spark. A twitch. My finger. My toe.
"If you can hear me, move your index finger," a man's voice commanded.
Slowly, I did. The men in white coats erupted with excitement, scribbling notes as their eyes widened with obsession.
"Excellent, Mr. Watanabe. I am Dr. Sickomoore," the man introduced himself, his grin both welcoming and cruel.
"Sir, perhaps we should let him rest," another suggested.
Darkness claimed me again, but the silence wasn't as suffocating. Days turned into weeks. The only proof of life I could offer was taps of a finger or toe, echoing faintly against the cold metal surface beneath me. Through that crude communication, I learned I had been here—whatever here was—for three weeks.
If only it had stayed that way.
"Alright, Mr. Watanabe," Sickomoore's voice returned one morning, sharper than the needles in his hand. "Today, you will receive our experimental drug. All other subjects have failed… but I believe you will be different."
"But, sir," another scientist protested, panic in his voice, "every other test subject died minutes after showing progress. There's nothing to suggest he'll survive."
Sickomoore said nothing. His eyes never left me.
The needles—five of them, each long and merciless—slid into place. Their contents glowed black, like bottled night. One pierced my neck, another my wrists, two into my temples. Pain ripped through me. My mouth opened in a silent scream.
My body convulsed. Black veins bulged across my skin, my eyes clouded with shadow. Blood poured from my nose, ears, and eyes. The others recoiled. In their minds, I was already dead. But Sickomoore… he waited.
And he was right.
The shaking slowed. My chest heaved. Air flooded my lungs. Color returned to my skin. Against all odds, I lived.
"Congratulations, Mr. Watanabe," Sickomoore laughed, pressing his palms against the glass, his eyes gleaming with madness. "You are the first to survive. The only one."
From that moment, everything changed. My voice returned. My limbs obeyed. But the agony of that serum never left me. Even now, years later, I can still feel it seared into my bones.
I rubbed the scars along my chest and neck as I stood in my tiny studio apartment. Dawn crept through the blinds, and the air carried a faint chill. It was seven o'clock—time for work.
I pulled on my clothes and rushed downstairs, colliding with a familiar figure in the stairwell.
"Oh—hey, Keith. You're up early," Asumi Thao greeted me, her voice shy but warm.
"Yeah. I'll see you downstairs," I replied awkwardly before slipping past her.
The bottom floor doubled as my workplace: Dick's & Son's Workshop. I'd worked here three years now, long enough to know nothing ever really changed. Tenants came and went—like Asumi, who had moved in only a few months ago—but the workshop stayed the same.
"Keith, hand me that wrench, would you?" Old Man Robert called from across the cluttered space.
Robert grunted as he tightened the bolt Keith had just handed him. His old, grease-stained overalls looked like they had survived decades of labor—and maybe a few wars. Despite his rough exterior, something was grounding about Robert's presence, something steady.
"Dad, you're using the wrong size again."
Keith turned to see a younger man approaching from the back of the shop. He was in his mid-twenties, leaner than Robert, but his sharp eyes carried the same stubbornness. His hair was neatly tied back, his hands already smeared with oil from whatever job he had been working on.
"Don't start with me, Elliot," Robert barked, though there was no malice in his tone. "I've been turning wrenches since before you were born."
"And I've been fixing your mistakes since I could walk," Elliot shot back with a smirk, grabbing another tool from the rack. He glanced at Keith. "Morning, Keith. Dad keeping you busy again?"
"Something like that," Keith replied with a faint smile.
For the next few hours, the workshop hummed with activity. The clang of metal, the hiss of welding torches, the occasional muttered curse from Robert when something didn't go his way—it all blended into the rhythm Keith had grown accustomed to over the past three years.
Elliot filled the silence often, chatting about new tools he wanted to order or teasing his father about how outdated the equipment was.
"This compressor is ancient. I'm telling you, one day it's going to blow a gasket and take half the wall with it," Elliot said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"If it hasn't exploded yet, it won't," Robert muttered, hunched over his work.
"That's exactly what you said about the old lathe, remember? The one that almost took off your hand?"
Robert scowled but didn't answer. Elliot grinned in victory.
By the time Robert finally called it a day, the sun was dipping low outside the windows. Keith hung up his apron, gave Elliot a quick nod, and slipped out the side door.
Upstairs, his small apartment greeted him with its usual stillness, no sound but the faint hum of pipes in the walls. Keith set down his things, sat on the bed, and leaned back against the wall. The day's labor had left him sore, but the quiet was a relief. He let his eyes close, body sinking into the thin mattress as rest began to pull him under.
Then a sudden flash lit up the corner of his room.
A shrill, mechanical tone blared with it—an alert, urgent, and impossible to ignore.
Keith squeezed his eyes shut. No. He wouldn't touch it. Yet every nerve in his body itched. His hand trembled, yearning to reach out, to grab the source of the noise. His chest tightened as though invisible threads were tugging at him, pulling him closer. With a slow breath, he forced himself still. He pressed his palms flat against the mattress until the urge dulled. The shrill beeping continued, but he let his heavy eyelids drift closed, sinking into a fragile calm.
…
On the second floor, Asumi's door slammed open. She stumbled into the hallway, her face streaked with fresh tears, her phone still clutched in her hand. Whatever words she had left died in her throat as she shoved the device into her pocket and hurried down the stairs.
Out on the street, the evening air was cool, but she didn't slow. Her steps were uneven, her shoulders trembling as she wiped at her cheeks.
After a few blocks, the silence pressed in—too heavy, too absolute. Her steps slowed.
The streetlamps hummed faintly above her, some flickering with age, casting uneven pools of light along the sidewalk. She glanced back once—nothing but an empty stretch of road, washed in amber glow.
Still, her skin prickled. A soft scuff echoed somewhere behind her, out of rhythm with her own footsteps. She froze, listening. The noise stopped, too.
Her reflection passed across a darkened shop window, and in it, she thought she saw something—too tall, too still to be her. She spun around. Empty. Only shadows stretched long from the flickering lamps.
Her heart quickened. With each step, the weight of unseen eyes pressed against her back. She clutched the strap of her bag tighter, breath shallow and quick. The block felt longer than it ever had before.
Then instinct took over. She ran.
Her boots pounded against the cracked sidewalk, the sound echoing in the empty streets. Behind her, the heavy steps of the beast grew louder, closer. She dared not look back, but a sudden SPLASH ahead froze her in place.
From the darkness, a new figure emerged.
Tall. Humanoid. But unlike the beast, this one radiated control. Its body was almost completely swallowed by shadow, except for glowing neon-green lines that traced its form and a circular emblem around its waist. The light pulsed softly, alive.
Asumi stumbled backward as a whisper, faint but clear, cut through the night air:
"Transform…"
The figure flared with blinding brilliance. When the light dimmed, she saw it clearly—its body encased in sleek armor from head to toe, green lines pulsing across each plate, the circular emblem at its waist shining like a heartbeat. The beast behind her paused, hissing low, its eyes locked on this armored being.
Asumi's chest burned as she stared. Whatever this was, it was unlike anything she had ever seen.