Rain drizzled over Bandung's outskirts, painting the windows of a cheap apartment in murky streaks. Inside, Arya crouched by the window, eyes fixed on a three-story building across the street.
Pratama Medika Clinic.
From the outside, it looked harmless—polished sign, bright lights, friendly nurses. But Arya had seen enough. He knew better.
For three days, he watched. Patients went in but never came out. Midnight trucks rolled up—hauling tarped containers that groaned and stank of death. He'd even seen some things enter the building. Not people. Not fully. Red-eyed. Skin too pale. Limbs that didn't move quite right.
This wasn't a clinic. It was a veil. And something behind it was breathing.
He cleaned his Glock 19 one last time, suppressor locked on. His Karambit gleamed on the table—freshly sharpened. He tossed a few smoke grenades and flashbangs into his pack. Just in case.
Tonight, he'd breach the clinic. Get proof. Find Professor Hadiwijaya. Or something worse.
But before he could move—
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Arya answered, heart tensing. "Hello?"
"Arya… please…"
The voice was broken. Wet. Faint.
And familiar.
Arya froze.
"Bayu…?"
He nearly dropped the phone.
"No way. You… you died in that warehouse. I saw it."
"Not dead… not alive… kept me… experiments… basement… come. Before they… take everything…"
His breath caught. Trap? Illusion? Hallucination?
Didn't matter.
Arya grabbed his gear and bolted.
From a distance, the clinic looked harmless. Neat. Professional. Even the guards out front wore clean uniforms and polite faces.
But Arya knew better.
He parked four blocks away and approached on foot, slipping through shadowed alleys. He scaled the rear wall with ease, his body now capable of feats he still didn't understand.
But just as he reached the top—
His legs buckled.
Pain jolted through his spine as he crashed into the mud below.
His body—his own traitor.
"Go back…" the voice slithered in his mind.
"We need them. The professor can make us perfect."
"Shut up," Arya growled, sweating cold.
In a puddle, he caught his reflection—red eyes, black veins creeping up his throat.
And then—
Bayu. Pale. Smiling. Ghostly.
And gone.
Was it real?
"They're our family now.
Return to the colony…
Join us…"
Arya bit his lip hard—until he tasted blood. The pain grounded him. Cleared his head.
"No," he muttered. "I'm not your host. I'm not part of your colony. And Bayu needs me."
He rose, defiant.
But then—
Alarm.
A shrill scream tore through the night. A hidden sensor—one his senses had missed.
Two guards came running. Guns raised.
Arya moved fast. The first went down with a punch that cracked bone.
But the second—fired.
Thump.
A dart embedded in Arya's neck. He pulled it out, but too late. The liquid burned ice-cold through his veins. Blue. Not normal.
It worked. Too well.
He staggered.
"They know how to fight us," the parasite hissed.
"Fight back. Kill them. SURVIVE."
Then his body moved—
without him.
His fingers shifted—bones popping, nails becoming claws.
He lunged.
The second guard never had a chance.
Arya's claws tore through his throat. Blood sprayed—warm, thick, real.
The man collapsed. Dead before hitting the ground.
And Arya—stood shaking.
His claws gone. Hands human again.
But red.
Soaked in blood.
He stared, breath ragged. "No… no…"
He hadn't meant to.
Hadn't wanted to.
"We survive," the parasite purred.
"You'll thank me later. We'll be stronger than them."
Arya dropped to his knees.
Not from weakness.
But from horror.
Because deep down—
a part of him had enjoyed it.