Chapter 2
1524 Words
Ethan Cross walked like a ghost through the industrial district bordering the ruins of the Phoenix Research Facility. His steps were uneven, every muscle throbbing, every breath heavy with the metallic heat still simmering in his blood. The farther he got from the disaster zone, the more the wail of sirens faded into background noise.
But his instincts refused to relax.
Someone had ordered a kill squad to clean up what the explosion didn’t finish.
Someone who did not want a single survivor.
Especially not him.
Ethan doubled over behind an abandoned warehouse, gripping the cold steel of a shipping container to steady himself. A tremor ran through his arm. When he opened his palm, faint red lines pulsed beneath the skin, like molten threads woven through his veins.
The sight chilled him more than the night air.
He needed to get out of sight—now.
The warehouse door gave way with a groan. Inside, shadows swallowed the rusted machinery and sagging metal shelves lining the walls. He moved to a corner, sank down, and let his head fall back against the cold iron behind him.
“What the hell did they do to me?” he whispered.
Images flashed in his mind. Cold operating rooms. Harsh white lights. Dr. Alden’s frantic arguments with the security director. The phrase “Phase Three” whispered among scientists when they thought no one was listening.
He thought he had been guarding experimental tech.
But now… now he realized he had been guarding himself without knowing it.
His eyes drifted shut.
For a few seconds—just a few—he let himself breathe, let the adrenaline ebb. Exhaustion crept in, and the warehouse tilted slightly as his body swayed.
Then he felt it.
A heartbeat.
Not his own.
Ethan’s eyes snapped open.
His senses—heightened since the explosion—picked up the faint, rhythmic pulse of someone nearby. Breathing slow. Steady. Controlled.
Not a civilian.
Ethan pushed himself up silently and moved deeper into the warehouse. His footsteps felt unnaturally quiet, the world sharpened into crisp detail. Each echo, each rustle, each shift in the air told him exactly where the intruder was hiding—behind a row of old metal lockers.
He grabbed the edge of the row and yanked it aside.
A figure sprang out immediately, knife flashing. Ethan blocked on instinct. His arm moved faster than he meant to—too fast—and he caught the attacker’s wrist mid-strike, stopping the blade cold.
The man froze.
Ethan stared at him.
The intruder wore dark tactical gear, but not the same as the kill squad. No visor. No helmet. A tactical earpiece and a mask covering his lower face. The gear looked civilian—illegal mercenary type.
The stranger twisted, trying to pull back, but Ethan’s grip held like iron.
“Who sent you?” Ethan growled.
The man responded by driving a knee upward, aiming for Ethan’s ribs. But Ethan’s body reacted before he did—his hand shifted, his stance changed, and he redirected the strike effortlessly.
It felt like muscle memory he didn’t remember learning.
The mercenary looked startled. “You’re… enhanced already?”
Ethan’s blood ran cold.
Enhanced.
So they had done something to him.
Ethan slammed the man into the lockers. “Who hired you?”
“The same people who built what’s inside you,” the man hissed. “I’m just here to confirm you survived. They pay extra if I tag you for tracking.”
Tag?
Ethan saw the glint of a dart g*n in the man’s other hand. The mercenary tried to fire, but Ethan knocked the weapon away and tore the earpiece from his head, crushing it under his boot.
The mercenary snarled. “They’re coming. You think you can run from them? From Project Revenant? You’re their property—”
Ethan hit him.
Not out of rage—out of instinct. A controlled strike to the jaw. The man’s eyes rolled back as he crumpled to the floor unconscious.
Ethan stood over him, chest rising and falling.
Property.
Enhanced.
Phase Three.
His stomach twisted.
He forced himself to focus. There was no time to waste—more mercenaries could already be on the way.
Ethan knelt and rifled through the man’s pockets. A burner phone. Two magazines. A folded note.
The note caught his attention.
It wasn’t handwritten. It was printed.
A time.
A location.
A single line beneath it:
Retrieve Sample Alpha. Verify Subject Cross status.
A sample.
What sample?
He searched the mercenary’s vest—and found it.
A small, steel vial in a padded slot.
Ethan held it up. Inside, under the dim warehouse light, a few drops of dark red liquid shifted slowly.
His blood.
Or something worse.
Something they wanted back.
His grip tightened around the vial until the steel creaked. That was all the confirmation he needed—Project Revenant wasn’t just an experiment.
He was the experiment.
A sharp buzz vibrated through the warehouse.
Ethan stiffened.
It wasn’t his phone—he didn’t have one anymore. The sound was coming from the mercenary’s burner. He snatched it up.
A message flashed across the cracked screen:
Team B inbound. ETA 4 minutes. Do NOT lose the subject.
Ethan cursed under his breath.
He pocketed the vial, grabbed the mercenary’s knife and pistol, and slipped out the side door of the warehouse. Cold wind brushed his face as he stepped into the night again, the heavy smell of smoke still lingering from the ruins across the district.
He needed a plan.
No.
He needed answers.
He only knew one place where he’d find them—Dr. Alden’s office.
If the old scientist survived, Ethan would drag the truth out of him. If he didn’t, his office might still hold data backups, encrypted files, or anything that could explain what he had become.
Ethan moved quickly, following the narrow alleyway toward the old research district where the facility administrators lived and worked. Every step sent a dull pulse of heat through his bloodstream. The red glow under his skin came and went like waves, impossible to ignore.
As he passed beneath a flickering street lamp, his reflection appeared in a cracked window across the alley.
He stopped.
He barely recognized the man staring back.
His once-blue eyes now glowed faintly, edged with red like embers in a dying fire. His skin looked paler, yet marked by those dark molten-like veins that traced up his throat and down his arms.
He looked like something forged rather than born.
Something dangerous.
Something hunted.
Ethan forced himself to keep moving.
At the far end of the alley, he spotted the corner of a familiar building—an administrative annex used by senior researchers. Dr. Alden’s office was on the third floor. If anything survived the explosion, it would be there.
He crossed the street, keeping to the shadows, and slipped toward the building’s side entrance. The keypad lock was charred but intact.
He didn’t know the code.
But his hand moved anyway.
He pressed his palm flat against the metal casing.
Heat pulsed beneath his skin, concentrated in his fingertips. A faint glow seeped into the lock’s circuitry. Something sparked. The keypad flickered, hissed, then shorted out with a sharp pop. The lock disengaged.
Ethan froze.
He hadn’t meant to do that.
Another ability?
Another side effect of whatever they had done to him?
It didn’t matter right now. He pushed the door open and entered.
The building was dark. Emergency lights cast red streaks along the floor. Papers lay scattered everywhere. Some office doors were blown off their hinges from the shockwave.
But Alden’s door was still closed.
Ethan approached, heart pounding.
He tried the handle.
Unlocked.
He pushed the door open slowly.
A familiar smell filled the room—old books, disinfectant, and cold steel. Shelves lined the walls, filled with binders, models, and diagrams. A large screen still flickered faintly, running on emergency backup power.
Alden’s desk was a mess—files scattered, shattered glass on the floor, a toppled mug of coffee.
But what mattered was the computer.
And the flash drive plugged into its front port.
Someone had been here recently.
Ethan moved toward the desk—
And froze.
A voice spoke behind him.
“…I was afraid you wouldn’t survive.”
Ethan turned.
Dr. Alden stood in the doorway.
Blood splattered across his lab coat. One arm hung limp at his side. His glasses were cracked, but his eyes—sharp, tired, and filled with quiet dread—never left Ethan’s face.
“Alden.” Ethan took a step toward him. “What did you do to me?”
Alden swallowed.
“It’s not what I did, Ethan.”
He exhaled shakily.
“It’s what they turned you into.”
Behind him, down the hallway, the sound of heavy boots thundered closer.
Team B had arrived.
Alden looked at Ethan, urgency flaring in his eyes.
“I can explain everything—but only if we get out of here alive.”
Ethan clenched his jaw.
Then nodded once.
Because explanations could wait.
Survival couldn’t.
- Writer
