The alarms screamed before anyone did.
A blinding light tore through Chamber B — not the kind that burned skin, but the kind that tore into reality. The containment glass cracked outward in spiderwebs.
Monitors exploded in sparks.
One of the scientists was thrown against the steel wall, another hit the floor, their headset still flickering with static.
And in the center of the chaos —
where Subject 017 had been standing —
a storm of white energy coiled like lightning trapped in a jar.
"Get it offline!"
"Cut the current—!"
"Where the hell is Krane?!"
The voices blended into a single wave of panic. The machine was roaring, alive, like it didn't want to be stopped. Its pulse matched the rhythm of a heart — fast, violent, and human.
Dr. Imani Cho, one of the lead biogeneticists, slammed her hand on the emergency terminal. "System override—authorization Cho–A71—SHUTDOWN!"
The screen blinked ACCESS DENIED.
Another scientist — Dr. Keegan — shouted, "It's locked from the upper level! Krane must've—"
Then came the flash.
A column of energy burst upward, ripping through reinforced titanium, and the lab went white. For a few seconds, no one saw anything. No sound, no motion — only light.
Then came silence.
Falling papers.
The hiss of ruptured pipes.
And the smell of ozone, metallic and burnt.
---
When the emergency systems came back online, Chamber B was unrecognizable.
Half the floor was melted.
The observation glass had folded inward like soft metal.
And at the center of the scorched floor lay a body — motionless, curled on its side.
Dr. Cho stumbled forward, coughing through the smoke. "Subject 017… Alaric Ward…"
She knelt, brushing away the black dust. His skin was pale beneath it. His pulse — absent. Eyes closed. A faint trail of blood from his ear.
"Dead," she whispered.
Behind her, Keegan removed his visor, shaking his head. "We should've never initiated without full synchronization. Krane pushed the schedule. He knew the matrix wasn't stable."
"Where is he?" she asked, looking around. "Where's Krane?"
No one answered.
His access terminal was gone. His biometric signature—erased. Even the backup files were missing from the central server.
As if the man had never existed.
---
Two hours later.
Aurion Industries – Internal Command Chamber.
A holographic table illuminated the dark room. Around it sat six silhouettes — the Board. Each one wearing the same expression: concern disguised as control.
Dr. Cho stood before them, lab coat still stained with soot.
"Subject 017's vitals ceased at 13:47 hours," she reported. "We have one confirmed casualty, five injured. The entire Ascension Chamber has been rendered inoperative."
One of the board members leaned forward. His voice was gravelly, impatient. "And Dr. Krane?"
"Unaccounted for."
Murmurs rippled through the table.
A woman at the far end — cold eyes, red lipstick, military posture — spoke next. "So our chief of Neurogene Research vanished mid-experiment with full system access?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And the boy?" she asked. "The subject."
"Presumed dead."
"Presumed?"
Dr. Cho hesitated.
There was something about that word — presumed — that made her uneasy.
"The readings went flat," she said quietly. "His heart stopped. No activity. But the core's energy field collapsed before we could retrieve any biological samples. There may be… residual contamination."
"So burn it," said another man, bluntly. "No body, no press. Seal the chamber, scrub the logs, and erase the subject's identity from the registry."
Keegan looked up from his tablet. "That's unethical. He was a minor."
The woman's gaze cut through him. "So is every soldier we recruit before they're eighteen. Ethics don't win wars, Doctor."
Keegan opened his mouth to argue — but the chairman raised his hand.
"Enough," said the chairman, his tone flat as glass. "Containment is priority. We can't afford another leak like the Omega Project."
He turned to Dr. Cho.
"You said residual contamination?"
"Yes. The containment residue is unstable. The chamber sensors recorded an unknown biological signature moments before the explosion."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning… whatever happened to Subject 017, it wasn't simple cardiac failure. His vitals didn't stop — they transformed into something the system couldn't read."
Silence.
Then the chairman leaned back in his seat, shadows hiding his expression. "Dispose of the remains discreetly. Public story: reactor malfunction, one casualty, no survivors."
"And Krane?" asked the woman.
The chairman looked toward the dark corner of the room, where Krane's chair sat empty.
He didn't answer.
---
That night, under cold rain and city sirens, two black Aurion transport vans rolled quietly through the lower outskirts of New Albion. Inside one of them lay a metal containment crate — body-sized, sealed tight. The interior smelled of burned circuitry and antiseptic.
Dr. Cho sat opposite it, unable to look directly at the crate. Keegan drove in silence, headlights cutting through fog.
"He was just a kid," Keegan muttered. "Sixteen."
"I know."
"You don't act like you do."
She didn't reply.
Instead, she stared at the Aurion logo painted on the wall of the crate — that same circle of light split by a black line, the serpent coiling through it.
"Orders are orders," she whispered.
---
Outside the city borders, the rain had turned into mist. Abandoned factories lined the road — old scrapyards, piles of steel and ash. The van stopped near a ravine filled with discarded prototypes and broken drones.
Keegan climbed out first, flashlight cutting through the fog.
"Here?" he asked. "This place's a graveyard."
Dr. Cho nodded. "No one comes here. Not anymore."
Together, they dragged the crate out.
It hit the ground with a hollow thud.
For a moment, Keegan hesitated. "We should at least… confirm it's him. You know, before—"
"No," she interrupted. Her voice was sharp now. "We follow protocol."
He stared at her, then at the crate. The metal was dented from the blast, faintly warm to the touch.
"Shepherd planned this," he said suddenly. "You know that, right? He wasn't in that lab by accident."
Dr. Cho turned away. "Don't say his name."
But he did, under his breath. "Dr. Elias Krane… A.K.A. Shepherd. Always watching. Always one step ahead."
They pushed the crate over the edge.
It slid down the slope, crashing through the junk, landing somewhere deep in the shadows.
The sound echoed once, then silence.
---
Hours later, back at Aurion Tower, the board room was dark again — save for one glowing hologram on the chairman's desk.
[Connection Incoming: Secure Channel – Unknown Origin]
He frowned, tapping the console.
The hologram flickered to life, resolving into the faint outline of a man — his face obscured by static, voice filtered low.
"Good evening, Chairman," said the voice. Calm. Controlled. "I trust the situation was… contained?"
The chairman stiffened. "Dr. Krane?"
The figure tilted his head. "That name doesn't matter anymore."
"You orchestrated this? The explosion, the breach—"
"I orchestrated proof," the voice interrupted. "Subject 017 survived the first stage longer than any model before him. He's not a failure. He's a beginning."
The chairman's hand tightened on the table. "Where are you?"
The hologram flickered, the image fading in and out. "Nowhere you can reach. Keep the board calm. Tell them their investments are safe. And if you value their safety—don't look for me."
Static swallowed the image.
The screen went dark.
---
Meanwhile — outside the city, the scrapyard slept under silver rain.
Somewhere in the wreckage, buried under steel and silence, the crate lay split open.
A faint pulse of blue light flickered within.
And beneath the metal shards, a hand moved — trembling, twitching, alive.
Then —
a breath.