The air in the abandoned filtration tank was cold, tasting of dust and stale ozone. Weeks. Weeks since the fire, and the pervasive scent of burnt wiring, scorched polymer, and rendered protein still clung to his skin, a ghost of the disaster that had killed Dr. Aris Thorne.
Aris lay on the crude cot, but he didn't sleep. Sleep meant losing control, and control was the only thing separating him from the thing that could tear steel desks in half.
He eased himself upright, wincing as the muscles along his ribcage strained. The scars were not gone—they never would be—but they were now faded lines of yellowed, hyper-dense scar tissue, a testament to the mutation's speed.
Somatic tissue recovery: 87 percent complete. Cellular repair function is stable but remains exponentially unstable. The metabolic expense of rest alone is consuming 18,000 calories per standard day. Insufficient.
The cold, analytical voice in his head—the voice of Dr. Thorne—was the only thing left of the man.
He pushed off the cot and hunched over a jury-rigged monitoring station cobbled together from salvaged parts. The flickering screen, powered by a sputtering diesel generator, showed a news feed pulled from a scavenged, encrypted terminal.
"Bio-Geneticist Dr. Aris Thorne Presumed Deceased After Lab Fire; Colleagues Mourn."
The news anchor's sympathetic tones were grating. He clicked the link, bringing up a press conference. Standing before the pristine, untouched facade of Aeternus Solutions—a building Aris had always viewed with suspicion—was his former rival.
Dr. Elias Kaine.
Kaine wore a bespoke suit that looked untouched by grief, his face carefully molded into an expression of controlled sorrow. He was the picture of the triumphant inheritor.
"...a great loss to Neo-Haven and to science. Dr. Thorne was a brilliant mind," Kaine said, his voice smooth and utterly false. "I vow to lead this research, and complete Aris's groundbreaking work, so that his sacrifice was not in vain."
The lie ignited the deep, predatory core of Aris's mutation. It was not anger, Aris realized. It was something older. A territorial rage against the usurper. A blinding, consuming heat radiated from his spine.
Error: Adrenaline spike exceeding safety parameters. Phase-shift imminent.
He slammed his fists onto the desk. The metal beneath his palms shrieked, groaning in protest. He tried to force the energy down, focusing on the dull ache in his knees, on the calculation of metabolic waste, anything clinical. But Kaine's face—the smug, lying face—was too potent a catalyst.
Without conscious thought, his fingers stretched and elongated. The bones twisted and snapped beneath the skin, forcing out massive, blunt claws that tore through the rubberized matting of the desk. A low, guttural growl escaped his throat—too deep, too animal, too loud for a man.
The raw power felt intoxicating, a terrifying engine of potential.
He forced the shift back. The muscles screamed, protesting the abrupt molecular reversal. The claws receded, leaving shredded, bleeding skin where they had breached. He stared at his trembling hands, no longer bleeding, but pale, the bone structure alien. Not human. Not yet beast. A fragile, volatile compromise.
He reached for the only anchor he had left: a small, smooth piece of obsidian he had kept since his first date with Lena. He pressed the sharp, cool stone hard into the center of his palm until his knuckles turned white. The small, focused pain anchored him in the reality of his human mind.
The metabolic cost of this rage is unacceptable. The man's purpose must outweigh the beast's instinct. Elias seeks control, but this uncontrolled potential is all that remains.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, the remnants of the animal receding.
He dropped the stone into his lap. He closed his eyes, his voice a dry, strained whisper in the echoing dark.
"The beast will serve the man. Always."
He looked down at the ruined desk, then at the image of Elias Kaine still smiling on the screen. The equation had been set. The variables were clear. He had work to do.