Five years later
Present Day
10 February 2000
18:30
Sri Lanka, Unknown Warehouse
The warehouse had shed its identity as a place long ago. It had become a realm detached from the world, a void carved from rusted steel and unnatural darkness. Time did not flow here. It curled in on itself and died. The air vibrated with a constant thrum, a pulse from machines fed by something older than electricity. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but their white glow did not chase away the shadows. Instead, the shadows seemed to breathe, shifting in slow, unnatural currents along the walls.
James William Lukyan knew this chamber better than he knew his own reflection. He lay strapped to the steel table that had grown colder each day, as if the metal absorbed suffering in the same way flesh absorbs heat. He had counted days once. Counted them with stubborn determination, but the numbers had dissolved. Only one remained. Nine years. One memory he allowed himself to hold so he remembered he had lived before this.
He breathed in the chill, though every breath was a war. Memory was the only rebellion he still possessed. He saw cobblestones shining after rain. He heard laughter from a girl who owned his heart long before they understood what that meant. Tiffany. Her name was still a flame in his thoughts. He remembered the locket he had given her, the way her fingers had curled around it. He remembered Lance, the laughter of his little brother as they sparred. He held these visions with a ferocity that defied every experiment, every wound, every attempt to hollow him out.
The straps across his chest groaned as he inhaled. The leather was worn from his resistance. His body was a canvas of scars, ridged and tangled, some glowing faintly with a pale gold shimmer whenever the machines reacted to him. The paranormal had seeped into his veins as surely as the chemicals had. He sensed presences in the corners of the room, for the shadows whispered here. They whispered of spirits trapped between worlds, shredded by the same experiments that tried to break him. Their murmurs brushed against his mind in fractured languages, a chorus of lost souls bound to the warehouse.
But he did not answer them. To acknowledge them felt like surrender.
The locks clicked.
A cold jolt ran down his spine. That sound always carried the weight of predation. Footsteps followed, crisp and confident, echoing through the chamber like a countdown.
Dr. Pearl entered with a smile that did not reach his eyes. The doctor moved with polished grace, his footsteps never hurried, his posture always poised. His short red hair, streaked with iron grey, reflected the pale lights. He carried a tray of instruments that gleamed like they were hungry.
Behind him, a ripple in the air announced the arrival of another presence.
Gordon.
The immortal being. He glided with a weightless elegance, his black coat trailing behind him as though shadows clung to it. His skin was pale stone, sculpted but unnatural, too still for anything living. His eyes were wells of fathomless dark, and when he stared at James, the temperature in the room fell. The machines reacted to him with faint vibrations as if aware they were in the presence of their true master.
Gordon stood close by, hands clasped behind his back, the posture of a king observing a slave. He despised the warriors of light, despised their purity, despised their defiance. Everyone captured had either perished or been reshaped into a hollow thing that served him. All except James. His survival was an insult Gordon could not ignore.
Dr. Pearl set the tray next to James and hummed under his breath. The melody was cheerful, almost childlike. It made the room colder.
"The Master is very pleased," Pearl murmured, his voice sliding across the air. "Your endurance exceeds expectation. You resist where others crumble. It almost makes you admirable."
James forced his eyes open. He stared at Pearl, then at Gordon, who stood silently near the corner, his presence like an eclipse.
Pearl placed a gloved hand on James's shoulder and leaned close. "You should feel honored. Not one other warrior lasted this long. They begged for death, but you cling to life with such devotion. Tell me, James, what do you think that means?"
James's voice was a rasp of stone scraping stone. "It means you have failed."
Pearl laughed softly. "Failed? No. Failure is impossible with the Master." He lifted a syringe containing a black liquid that pulsed like a living organism. "This serum was crafted from the energy we harvested from those who did not survive. Do you feel them? They linger in the shadows. They watch you. They envy you."
James glared through his blurred vision. "I am not yours. I am not his."
Gordon finally moved. His voice carried the weight of ancient storms. "You will be. Your light is stubborn, but everything breaks when enough pressure is applied."
Pearl whispered with delight, "He speaks truth."
He slid the needle into James's arm. The black serum surged through him like a storm of claws and fire. His veins burned with an otherworldly heat that seemed to gnaw its way along his bones. Shadows crawled up his skin, reaching for his throat. He felt spectral hands brushing his ribs, felt ghostly screams thundering through his skull as the spirits forced their agony into his senses. His muscles tore as he arched in torment.
Pearl watched, fascinated. "Your nervous system reacts beautifully. The human body should not survive this, yet here you are. Extraordinary."
James trembled violently, but his voice clawed its way free. "I will never serve you."
Pearl traced a scalpel across James's chest. "You already do. You fuel our progress."
Gordon stepped closer. The air warped around him. "Your light flickers. Soon it will dim. When it does, you will kneel willingly, and you will thank me for shaping your purpose."
James gathered breath through the pain. "I would rather die."
Pearl cut deeper, drawing blood that shimmered faintly with unnatural glow. "Death is a privilege you lost the moment the Master chose you."
James did not scream. Pearl wanted the sound. Gordon demanded it. But James swallowed every cry, refusing to give them even that victory.
Pearl cleaned his blade and stepped back while Gordon observed with quiet satisfaction.
"You are weakening," Gordon said. "It is only a matter of time."
Pearl exited, instruments in hand. Gordon faded into the shadows behind him, dissolving like smoke.
Silence returned, but it was never empty. The shadows whispered. The machines murmured. His blood dripped in slow, steady taps against the steel, each one counting another refusal.
The lock turned again.
Too soon.
James stiffened. Pearl never returned this quickly. Gordon never returned quietly.
The door creaked open. A thin line of light sliced across the floor.
A figure slipped in, careful and hurried.
Her breath trembled. Her hands clutched a clipboard as if it were a shield. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes, golden brown and alive, darted around the room in fearful calculation.
She crossed the room with steps that tried to imitate purpose but betrayed panic with every movement.
James's vision swam. His heart pounded.
He knew her. He knew the shape of her face even in the dim glow.
His voice cracked, raw and torn from pain and shock. "Miss Clark?"
She froze. Her mask shattered for one heartbeat. Pain twisted across her features before she forced it down.
She turned to him, breath shaking.
"James."