Subject Seven and I followed the guards through corridors that descended deeper than should have been possible. The air grew colder. The walls older. Stone instead of concrete. Architecture that predated modern Chicago.
"This is where he keeps his father," Subject Seven whispered. "I have accessed these levels in fragmented memories. Always felt wrong. Always felt like visiting a tomb."
The guards stopped at a reinforced door. One of them pressed his palm against a scanner. The door opened with a hiss of released pressure. Inside, a single chamber lit by equipment that hummed with quantum energy.
And in the center, suspended in what looked like frozen light, was a man.
Mid-forties. Graying hair. Eyes open but unfocused. Conscious but trapped. Aware but unable to move. Eight years of im
