The world had barely begun to grasp the mysteries of life when it stumbled upon one of its greatest discoveries: the double helix. DNA—tiny, coiled strands carrying the instructions for everything we are—suddenly became the talk of labs, universities, and even coffee shops. Everyone had questions. But only a few had the courage to chase answers.
Dr. Julian Gaston was one of those few. A brilliant scientist, known as much for his sharp mind as for his stubborn ideals, he often spoke about the future of human evolution. He believed it was possible—maybe even necessary—to edit our genes. Not just to cure disease, but to advance the human race. To improve it.
But ethics stood tall in his way. Governments hesitated. Fellow scientists debated. Religion pushed back. And so, Dr. Gaston never crossed the line. He had theories, but no actions. Ideas, but no experiments.
Still, ideas have a way of sticking around.
And in 1969, as the world watched men walk on the moon, a young mind quietly lit up with possibility.
William Bonnet wasn't like most people. At the age of 18, he convinced his father, a university professor, to let him take an IQ test for fun. He scored a perfect 100%. Not just high intelligence—flawless. But what he had in brainpower, he lacked in emotional connection. William didn't feel things the way others did. He didn't cry when his childhood dog passed. He didn't celebrate his own academic victories. To him, the world was a puzzle, and people were just oddly shaped pieces.
He poured himself into books. Biology, chemistry, literature. Then came his PhD in biology. Then another in chemistry. He could've become an astrophysicist too, but decided to keep it as a hobby. In truth, he didn't need the degree—he already knew more than most.
After the moon landing, William asked a question that very few were asking: Why should we change planets to fit us? Why not change us to fit the planets?
That's when he found Dr. Gaston's old theory. And unlike Dr. Gaston, William didn't care much for rules.
By the early 1970s, William had become Dr. Bonnet, a professor at a respected university. He smiled for the cameras and taught students by day—but by night, he assembled a quiet circle of minds like his. Twelve in total. Gifted. Private. Curious. And most of all—unafraid.
Their goal was clear.
Create a version of the human body that could survive on the moon. No helmet. No suit. No oxygen tank. Just skin, bone, and lungs built differently.
They studied lunar soil samples. Analyzed cosmic radiation. Designed hypothetical blueprints for stronger bones, faster healing, better thermal resistance. Diagrams filled the walls of their hidden lab. Not science fiction. Not dreams. Just work.
They weren't trying to be gods. They were just trying to be ready.
Because one day, humans would leave Earth behind. And Dr. Bonnet wanted to make sure that when they did, they wouldn't have to ask the universe for permission.
They would already be built for it.
In the winter of 1978, the cold came with more than just frost. Dr. William Bonnet sat in a hospital office, staring blankly at a chart filled with bad news.
Cancer.
He didn't flinch. He didn't cry. He didn't even speak at first. Just stared, as if the diagnosis were a riddle waiting to be solved.
The doctors offered options—chemo, radiation, surgery—but William was already thinking ahead. Death didn't scare him. But leaving his work unfinished did.
That night, sitting in the study of his sprawling mansion, William came to a quiet decision.
"Since this may mean death for me anyway," he said aloud, voice steady and cold, "I shall use myself as a test subject for my gene editing research."
His assistants—twelve brilliant minds who had worked with him for nearly a decade—were hesitant at first. But William's conviction was hard to argue with. They had the research. They had the equipment. And now, they had the subject.
By then, the private lab beneath his estate was complete. Hidden beneath layers of concrete and soundproof walls, it stretched out like a small research base—sealed from the world, equipped with the most advanced technology of the time. He had funded it himself using a portion of the money earned from his other work.
Because while experimenting on himself, William had also developed several medicines as byproducts of his gene research. Medicines that worked better than anything else on the market. He sold them quietly, using shell companies and false names. Hospitals raved about the miracles. Stocks soared. He became richer than he'd ever imagined. But only his twelve assistants knew where it had all come from.
Still, the cancer refused to leave.
It was aggressive. Unpredictable. And no matter how many times they knocked it down, it found new ways to grow. William's body was deteriorating. Slowly, but surely.
Then came the breakthrough.
In 1980, they created a serum designed not just to slow the cancer, but to hunt it down. To rip it out, cell by cell, without damaging healthy tissue. They called it S-E8: Serum Experiment 8. William took the injection without hesitation.
The next day, he felt stronger. A week later, the scans were clean. A month after that, even the symptoms were gone.
But William wasn't satisfied. He wanted proof. He gave himself one year to watch and wait. To see if the cancer would crawl back from the shadows.
It never did.
Instead, something else happened.
It was a quiet moment—spring of 1981. William was swimming laps in the indoor pool beneath his mansion, part of his routine. Stroke after stroke, lap after lap. But this time, something felt... different.
He wasn't getting tired. More importantly—he wasn't breathing.
At first, he thought he had simply lost track of time. But then he swam another lap. And another. Still no need for air.
Curious, he stood up in the shallow end and took a deep breath. Then he let it out and held.
One minute. Two. Five.
Ten.
There was no pressure in his chest. No panic. No urge to inhale.
Out of water, it was the same.
His assistants ran tests. Brain scans. Lung capacity. Oxygen levels. Everything seemed... normal. But William wasn't.
Whatever S-E8 had done, it had given him something unexpected. A trait no human had. Not a mutation. Not a sickness. Something new.
He called it a biological adaptation. But deep down, he knew. The gene editing serum had done more than fix his cancer.
It had changed him.
And this—this was only the beginning.
By 1985, the world believed that Dr. William Bonnet had lost his battle with cancer.
There was a somber announcement in the newspapers. A small funeral. A closed casket. Just enough closure for people to move on.
But William wasn't dead.
He was alive—very much so—and still working deep beneath his estate in the lab no one knew existed.
Only three people knew the truth: his sister, Evelyn, and their aging parents, Martha and Theodore Bonnet. All three supported him, even if they didn't fully understand what he was becoming. They were the kind of family that didn't ask too many questions, as long as they knew his heart was in the right place.
And it was. Mostly.
Life in the lab grew quieter after his faked death. The public eye had moved on. The team of twelve was now smaller, trimmed down to only the most loyal. William had changed—not just physically, but in how he viewed the world.
He still didn't need to breathe.
He no longer got sick. Cuts healed within hours. He slept maybe once every few days, and even then, more out of habit than necessity. He could hear sounds others couldn't. See in the dark. Sense things without touching them.
And then... there was the dog.
He was old. Fifteen years and frail. A golden retriever named Duke, who had been part of the family since William was in college. His time was nearly up—he barely ate, struggled to walk, and slept most of the day.
One evening, William knelt by the dog's bed and whispered, "Let's see if this works for you, too."
He gave Duke a modified dose of S-E8, adjusted for weight and species. It was a risk. But William had already crossed that line long ago.
At first, nothing happened.
But after one month, Duke began walking more easily. His appetite returned. His fur thickened. His eyes grew clearer. The old dog began to play again, wagging his tail and following the sunlight across the floor.
After six months, Duke no longer needed food or water. Not in the traditional sense. He didn't sleep much, either. He would simply stretch, walk outside into the sun, and stand there for hours—silent, calm, glowing with health.
Tests confirmed it.
The serum had rewritten Duke's biology. His skin now absorbed sunlight, turning it into energy—photosynthesis, but on a level never seen before. His cells processed oxygen and carbon differently. His organs were sharper, cleaner, more efficient.
And then there were his senses.
His hearing became ten times more powerful. He could detect a spider crawling two floors above. His eyes could track individual insects in flight. He responded to emotions before people even spoke. It was as if he lived just one step ahead of everything.
He was still Duke.
But he wasn't just a dog anymore.
He was something more.
William kept records of everything. Notes. Scans. Bloodwork. Brain patterns. His research had taken a leap beyond healing. He was now rewriting the very rules of life.
And deep down, he knew what this meant.
If this could be done to a dog... then it could be done to people.
He had created something the world wasn't ready for.
So he stayed underground. Hidden. Watching. Preparing.
Because while the world kept spinning above, beneath the surface of Earth—quietly and patiently—the next version of humanity was beginning to form.