Welcome to the End of You
They awaken to the sound of something alive. Not breathing—no, that would be too simple. The air does not stir with the rise and fall of lungs, does not carry the gentle rhythm of inhalation and exhalation. Instead, there is a noise, a wet, shifting, pulsating noise, like something moving inside the walls, behind the ceiling, beneath the floor.
Reis opens his eyes.
Or at least, he thinks he does. There is nothing. No light, no color, no shape—just the deep, all-consuming black. A perfect void. A space where vision itself has been erased. His first thought is that he has gone blind. His second thought is that he is no longer in his own body.
He tries to move. Pain.
It does not hit him like a punch. No, that would be a mercy. This is deeper. Sharper. This is like needles growing inside his muscles, like something threading its way into the fibers of his being and pulling—pulling—pulling—as if his flesh is being rewoven into something new.
He hears someone scream.
At first, he thinks it is him. But the voice is distant, warped by the void, fragmented into pieces like a broken transmission. It is a human sound, but something is wrong with it—something that makes his stomach clench.
A sound that is almost, but not quite, entirely human.
Then—light.
A single, clinical, white light flickers on above him, blinding and searing through his skull. His pupils shrink like wounded things. For the first time, he sees.
The room is nothing. White walls. White floor. White ceiling. Everything too clean, too smooth, too sterile—but it does not feel safe. No, this is not the white of purity, of hospitals, of safety.
This is the white of an operating table—of something dead and dissected.
He tries to move again. Pain. Again.
He is strapped down. Cold metal restraints bite into his wrists, his ankles, his neck. They are not chains. Chains would rattle, would shift, would grant some illusion of movement. No, these are steel clamps, mechanical and so perfectly fitted to his body that they feel grown rather than built.
He cannot turn his head. But in his periphery, he sees them.
The others.
Seraph. Iris. Felix. Amara.
Strapped down to identical tables, identical restraints, identical naked vulnerability. There is nothing left of their dignity. Their clothes are gone, their bodies exposed beneath the harsh, surgical lights, their skin marked with black ink and precise, clinical cuts.
They are not people anymore. They are specimens.
Then the voice speaks.
A voice that should not exist.
The Voice That Watches
It does not come from speakers. It does not come from the walls. It comes from everywhere.
It is inside the air, inside their skulls, inside their bones. It has no emotion, no inflection, no humanity. It is smooth, cold, flawless in a way that makes it monstrous.
"S-45. Subject is awake."
There is a click. A mechanical whirring. Something moves behind the walls.
Then the pain really begins.
The First Test: Welcome to the End of You
It starts as a hum.
Low, beneath the surface of his skin, a deep vibration. His bones rattle. His teeth ache. His skull feels as though it is shifting, realigning itself, cracking and reforming without breaking.
Then—fire.
Not real fire. Something worse.
It is inside him. It is not burning him, not scorching his flesh, but altering it. Like millions of microscopic needles burrowing through his body, threading through muscle, rewiring nerve endings one by one.
He opens his mouth to scream.
He cannot.
His vocal cords do not obey him. The pain rises, peaks, shatters through every fiber of his being, and still, he cannot make a sound. He is trapped inside himself, inside his body, inside a chamber of suffering he cannot escape.
The voice returns.
"Beginning neural calibration. Preparing for cognitive wipe."
Neural calibration. The words do not make sense. They are cold, detached, meaningless—until the truth slams into him like a fist to the skull.
They are erasing them.
Not killing them. Not yet.
No, this is worse than death.
This is the careful, systematic dismantling of everything they are.
His mind fragments. Images flash—his home, his family, his childhood. A warm summer evening, the smell of rain, the laughter of a mother he can barely remember. They flicker like broken film reels, and then they are gone.
The pain spikes—
His body spasms—
His fingers curl and uncurl—
His heartbeat slows—
His vision dims—
Erase. Rewrite. Erase. Rewrite.
They are turning him into a blank slate.
And he can feel it working.
He can feel himself slipping.
No.
No, no, no, no—
He fights it. He clings to himself, to his name, to the last, tattered pieces of who he is.
Reis. My name is Reis. Reis Aldrin.
But the memories flicker again.
And this time, when they vanish—
They do not come back.
When the pain fades, when the process is done, he does not know how much time has passed.
His body is still strapped down. His skin is slick with sweat. His breathing is ragged, uneven.
He hears a sound.
Soft. Faint.
Someone sobbing.
He turns his head—no. He tries to turn his head. He does not know if it moves. He does not know if he is still in control.
Across from him, Iris is shaking.
Her body is convulsing. Her eyes are wide, but there is something wrong with them—something missing.
A hollow look. A distant, empty nothingness.
She is not screaming. She is not begging.
She is simply crying.
And Reis knows.
He knows.
She does not remember who she is.
She does not remember anything.
And neither does he.
Reis does not sleep. He does not rest. He does not exist in the way he once did.
He is awake, always awake, but time is a meaningless construct here. There is no day, no night, no cycle of hours to ground him in reality.
There is only the room.
The white, sterile void. The walls that hum with something alive and watching. The mechanical limbs that descend from the ceiling like grotesque arachnid legs, their scalpel-tipped fingers twitching in anticipation.
And there is the voice.
Always speaking. Always instructing. Always breaking them down piece by piece.
"Cognitive restructuring at 65%. Memory synapses destabilized. Emotional inhibitors engaged. Physical augmentation at Stage 1."
The words are meaningless. Or they should be. But Reis feels their truth.
He feels the loss.
His memories are slipping like sand through clenched fingers. Names, faces, moments—they flicker in and out of his mind, distorted and disjointed. He remembers his own voice, but not his own words. He remembers a warm touch, but not whose hands they were. He remembers running, screaming, fighting—but why?
He looks at Seraph, at Felix, at Amara.
At Iris, who has not spoken in hours. Or has it been days?
They are changing.
Not just in their minds. Their bodies are different.
The cuts and incisions that mar their flesh have healed too fast. Their muscles twitch without movement. Their skin is too smooth, too unblemished, too unnatural.
And then—the restraints click open.
Not all of them. Just one.
Reis watches as the mechanical arms release Seraph.
His wrists. His ankles. His neck.
He is free.
Or so he thinks.
Then the strings descend.
The Second Test: The Puppet Strings of God
They are thin. Invisible to the eye. Reis only sees them because they reflect something that is not light.
They latch onto Seraph's limbs, burrowing into his skin like worms. He jerks, his body convulsing, his eyes widening in a silent scream that never leaves his throat.
And then—he moves.
But not on his own.
His limbs twitch, his head tilts, his spine arches into impossible angles—and Reis knows he is not in control.
he is a marionette.
A living, breathing puppet.
And the puppeteer is something beyond comprehension.
The voice returns.
"Subject S-13. Motor control override engaged. Initiating obedience protocol."
Reis watches as Seraph moves toward him.
No.
Not moves.
He is dragged.
His legs do not bend at the knee. His arms do not swing naturally. He is being controlled with perfect precision—each motion fluid, inhuman, too calculated to be his.
He stops.
His hand lifts.
A needle extends from his index finger—long, thin, impossibly sharp.
Reis cannot move. He cannot escape. He cannot breathe.
He stabs it into his chest.
Pain.
It is white-hot, piercing, drilling through flesh, through ribs, through something deeper than bone.
He does not scream.
He cannot scream.
Because in that moment—
His body does not belong to him anymore.
No More Free Will
He feels it first in his fingertips.
A tingling. A numbness. A sensation like tiny hooks sinking into his nerves.
Then—his arms jerk.
His legs spasm.
His head twists to the side without his permission.
The strings have him now.
And he knows.
He will never move on his own again.
Reis does not feel his limbs.
Not because they are numb, but because they are not his anymore.
His hands twitch in rhythmic spasms. His head turns when something unseen commands it. His chest rises and falls in shallow, mechanical breaths.
He tries to blink.
He does not.
His body refuses.
His muscles do not belong to him.
Somewhere—beyond the glass, behind the humming machines, hidden in the depths of this impossible facility—something is watching.
And it is pleased.
The Third Test: The Erasure of Self
The walls move.
Not metaphorically. Not as an illusion.
They shift. They breathe. They react.
The sterile white panels ripple like living tissue, contracting and expanding, as if the entire room is a stomach and they are trapped inside something that wants to digest them.
Then—the voice speaks again.
"Subjects: Neurological compliance at 42%. Error detected. Initiating correctional measures."
Reis does not understand what it means.
Until—Seraph twitches violently.
His head snaps back. His jaw locks open. His body convulses like something is rewiring him from the inside out.
And then—
Seraph begins to speak.
But the words are not his.
They come from his mouth. They shape with his lips. His tongue moves to form syllables—perfectly enunciated, inhumanly precise—
But the voice is not his own.
It is cold. It is metallic. It is the voice of something empty.
"I do not exist. I am not me. There is no self. There is only the function. There is only the role."
Reis stares.
He feels something deep within him fracture.
Because—
He understands what this is.
They are rewriting them.
Not just controlling their bodies. Not just hijacking their nervous systems.
They are erasing their identities.
One sentence at a time.
The Inescapable Thought
Reis feels something move inside his skull.
A sensation like fingers pressing against his thoughts.
It is not physical.
It is deeper than that.
It is in his mind.
It speaks without sound.
("Repeat after me.")
His throat contracts.
He does not want to speak.
But his mouth opens anyway.
And he says it.
"I do not exist."
No. No, no, no. That wasn't him.
That wasn't his voice.
That wasn't his thought.
("Again.")
His body obeys.
"I am not me."
His vision pulses. He feels sick, light, distant, fading—
No.
He bites down on his own tongue.
Pain.
It burns through him like fire. The taste of blood floods his mouth. A sharp, metallic tang.
And for the briefest second—he is real again.
But then—
("You are learning well.")
The unseen fingers tighten.
His thoughts blur. His memories dissolve at the edges.
And in the distance—he hears Seraph laughing.
A hollow, robotic, empty laughter.
Because Seraph is already gone.
Reis is next.
There is no sound in the cell.
No screaming.
No breathing.
Not even the faint, rhythmic hum of machinery.
Only silence.
Reis is not sure how long he has been sitting here.
Because he is not sure if "he" is still real.
He has not moved in hours.
Maybe days.
His body remains in the exact position they left him: hands placed on his knees, spine perfectly straight, chin tilted at precisely 15 degrees downwards.
It is not restraint.
No shackles. No bindings. No force holding him in place.
Just obedience.
An obedience he did not choose.
An obedience that is bleeding into his thoughts, rotting into his bones, rewriting him from the inside out.
He does not resist anymore.
Not because he does not want to.
But because he is not sure if there is still a "him" left to resist.
A Puppet That Thinks It Has Strings
The Fourth Test: The Dissolution of Will
The lights shift.
A soft, pulsating glow. Not white. Not artificial.
It is red.
Like flesh. Like blood. Like a heartbeat pulsing through the walls.
Somewhere, a door hisses open.
Footsteps.
Not heavy. Not rushed. Not human.
Cold. Precise. Mechanized.
A shadow drapes over him.
"Stand."
Reis does.
Not because he wants to.
But because he is already moving before he realizes it.
His muscles react. His spine straightens. His legs propel him upward in a single, fluid motion.
Like a puppet responding to strings it cannot see.
"Step forward."
One step.
Then another.
His bare feet touch the ground without feeling it.
He is not walking.
He is being walked.
His body is no longer his own.
And then—
A gloved hand touches his forehead.
Not painful.
Not violent.
But absolute.
A single motion. A simple touch.
And Reis's mind vanishes.
The Absence of Thought
There is nothing.
No fear. No resistance. No identity.
He does not know where he is.
He does not remember who he is.
He does not think.
His body functions. His lungs pull in oxygen. His heart pumps blood.
But his mind does not exist.
And then—
It speaks.
Not aloud. Not in sound.
But directly into the hollow void that once held his thoughts.
("The burden of thought has been lifted. The pain of will has been removed. You are free.")
Reis does not question.
He does not even acknowledge.
Because there is no "Reis" to do so.
There is only function.
There is only the role.
There is only what they allow him to be.
He has been erased.
And for the first time—
He does not remember that there was ever something to erase.
There is a name somewhere.
A word. A sound.
It used to mean something.
Now, it is a noise without an owner.
It drifts in the empty cavern where thought used to exist.
It echoes, meaningless, in the skull of something that was once a person.
It is not alone in the dark.
There is something else here.
Something greater.
Something watching.
Something speaking.
("You are learning well.")
The voice is not external.
It does not travel through the air.
It is inside.
Not whispering.
Writing.
Carving itself into the marrow of the thing's bones.
The thing does not respond.
Because the thing does not think.
The Fifth Test: Reconstruction
There is no room.
There is no table.
There is no body.
Not anymore.
What exists now is process.
An endless, looping sequence.
Destroy.
Rebuild.
Destroy.
Rebuild.
But not the same.
Never the same.
Each cycle, something is added.
A muscle fiber that does not belong.
A nerve ending that does not feel pain.
A thought pattern that is not its own.
The entity does not choose.
It does not resist.
It simply accepts.
Like a machine receiving upgrades.
Like a structure being rebuilt.
Like a person who no longer exists, being replaced piece by piece.
The Reshaping of Flesh
There is a moment.
A moment where it feels something.
A spark.
Not an emotion.
Not a thought.
A sensation.
A flicker of discomfort.
Like an insect crawling beneath the skin.
Like something burrowing into it.
Because something is.
("This is necessary.")
The voice explains.
("This is improvement.")
It does not ask.
It does not allow space for refusal.
Because refusal is no longer an option.
And so, the thing that was Reis allows itself to be changed.
The Breaking of Reality
It does not notice at first.
Because it does not notice anything at all.
But something is wrong.
Something has shifted.
The ground beneath it is not solid.
The air around it is not real.
The concept of "where" begins to fall apart.
The body is sitting in a chair.
And then it is not.
The walls are metal.
And then they are flesh.
The hands are human.
And then they are something else.
Reality begins to melt, reform, contradict itself.
A hallway with no end.
A door that opens into itself.
A sky that bleeds instead of rains.
And at the center of it all—
A voice.
("We are almost finished.")
It is no longer questioning.
No longer testing.
It is affirming.
Because soon, there will be nothing left to test.
Soon, there will be nothing left to break.
Soon, there will be only what they have made.
There is no scream.
Because there is no mouth.
There is no movement.
Because there is no body.
There is only consciousness.
Floating.
Suspended in a void that is not a void.
It is dark. But not empty.
It is silent. But not quiet.
Because something is here.
Something more real than the body ever was.
Something closer than thought.
Something watching.
And then—
("Wake up.")
A command.
Not a request.
Not a suggestion.
A command that bypasses choice.
And then—
Reis exists again.
The Reconstruction Is Complete.
The first thing he notices is the weight.
His body is too heavy.
Too solid.
Like he has been filled with lead.
Like he is more material than the world around him.
The second thing he notices is the noise.
It is not coming from outside.
It is coming from inside.
From the muscles.
From the bones.
From the nerves.
A low, electric hum, like a machine idling.
He moves.
Or at least, he tries to.
His fingers twitch.
Something is wrong.
They do not feel real.
They do not feel human.
And then he sees them.
And they are not his hands.
The Thing That Used to Be Reis
The skin is wrong.
Too smooth.
Too perfect.
Like it was made, not grown.
The nails are sharp.
Not like claws.
Like surgical tools.
He flexes his fingers.
And the flesh ripples.
Moves.
Like it is deciding what shape to be.
And then, the realization.
The horror.
This is not my body.
This is something given.
Something forced.
Something designed.
And then—
The laughter.
Not his.
Never his.
("You are magnificent.")
The voice is inside.
Not in his ears.
In his spine.
In his blood.
It speaks, and his body responds.
Not by choice.
By design.
And that is when Reis understands.
He is not himself anymore.
He is theirs.
There is a mirror in the room.
A kind gift.
A final cruelty.
He looks into it.
And what looks back is—
Wrong.
Not a monster.
Not a beast.
Something worse.
Something almost human.
The face is his.
But not quite.
The eyes are too sharp.
The skin is too smooth.
The expression is too empty.
Like something trying to mimic a person.
Like something that does not understand what being human is.
And for the first time, Reis feels fear.
Not of them.
Not of pain.
But of himself.
Because he does not know where they end and he begins.
Because he does not know if there is anything left of Reis at all.
And then—
("Good. You are ready.")
The door opens.
And the nightmare continues.
Reis does not remember walking.
He does not remember standing.
He does not remember moving at all.
But he is here.
In a different room.
In a different space.
A place that breathes.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The walls pulse.
Expand.
Contract.
Like lungs.
Like a stomach.
Like something alive.
And it stinks.
Like rotting metal.
Like burning skin.
Like something wrong.
And he wants to scream.
But his mouth does not move.
Because his body is not his.
The Voice That Commands.
("Now, we begin.")
It is the voice from before.
From inside.
From underneath.
Not spoken.
Transmitted.
Like a signal from a god that does not love.
("Kill.")
And suddenly—
The walls change.
They open.
They shift.
And they reveal something else.
Something human.
Or at least—
Something that used to be.
The Thing That Begs.
It is on its knees.
Trembling.
A person.
A boy.
Eyes wide.
Mouth open.
He wants to speak.
But something is wrong with his throat.
His words come out garbled.
Like static.
Like an error in a program.
("What is this?") Reis wants to ask.
But his mouth does not move.
Instead, his hands move.
On their own.
By design.
And he understands.
He is the experiment.
And so is the boy.
And the scientists are watching.
The Puppet That Does Not Want to Dance.
His fingers curl.
His muscles tense.
His body prepares.
Because he is not in control.
He is a weapon.
And weapons do not choose.
Weapons do not feel.
Weapons obey.
("No.") Reis thinks.
He tries to stop.
He tries to resist.
But his body is not listening.
The scientists have done something.
Something to the nerves.
To the bones.
To the mind.
They have turned him into a machine made of flesh.
And the machine follows its programming.
He steps forward.
The boy sobs.
The boy pleads.
The boy bleeds.
And Reis watches his own hands break a body that was never meant to be broken.
Because this is not a fight.
This is a demonstration.
A test.
A proof of concept.
And when it is over—
When the thing on the floor is no longer a boy but a ruin—
The voice inside whispers its approval.
("Perfect.")
The Thing That Knows Itself.
Reis does not scream.
He cannot.
Because his mouth is no longer his.
Because his mind is no longer his.
Because his soul is no longer his.
But something inside shatters.
And the pieces do not fit together anymore.
Because he understands.
There is no escape.
There is no fight.
There is only the voice.
The command.
The machine made of flesh.
And the scientists that have won.
For now.
It is not just Reis.
It was never just Reis.
It is all of them.
And none of them are the same anymore.
AmaraThere are wires in her head.
Cold.
Burrowing.
Slithering like parasites.
They have peeled her mind open.
She is no longer just herself.
She is data.
A system.
And they are programming her.
("Read it again.")
A voice.
A command.
A screen flashes before her, displaying symbols she has never seen before.
But she knows them.
She understands them.
Because they have drilled knowledge into her.
Through needles.
Through pain.
Through something that was once her own mind.
("What does it say?")
Her lips move.
She speaks.
The words aren't hers, but they come out anyway.
And she watches.
Like an outsider.
Like an observer in her own body.
(They are turning her into something else.)
Something inhuman.
Something that understands too much.
And the worst part?
She doesn't even know what part of her is still real.
Iris
They have killed her.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
And they have brought her back.
Because they want to know.
How far can a body go before the soul gives up?
How many deaths can a mind endure before it snaps?
She is floating now.
Or maybe she is drowning.
The world is red.
Or maybe it's black.
She hears voices.
Or maybe she doesn't.
It doesn't matter.
Because when she opens her eyes, she is alive again.
And they are smiling.
Because it means they get to do it again.
Felix
There is nothing in his head that they do not know.
Nothing they have not taken.
He was always smart.
Always planning.
Always hiding things behind layers of logic.
But they have peeled him open.
Like an animal on a dissection table.
They have mapped his neurons.
They have rewritten his memories.
They have stolen his thoughts before he even thinks them.
And now, he is transparent.
A body with no walls.
A mind with no locks.
And he is so, so tired.
Because he cannot even lie to himself anymore.
Seraph
He is on his knees.
Blood in his mouth.
His own.
Or someone else's.
It doesn't matter.
Because the scientist is waiting.
Holding out something small.
A knife.
A scalpel.
A tool of choice.
And the scientist speaks.
"Kill him."
Seraph looks up.
A boy is in front of him.
Weak.
Trembling.
He does not know the boy's name.
He does not need to.
Because the scientists want him to do it anyway.
And Seraph—
He spits blood at their feet.
He smiles.
And he says nothing.
Because he knows—
They cannot make him.
They can break his body.
They can torture his mind.
But they cannot take his will.
They cannot make him into their monster.
So they sigh.
And they say,
"Alright. Then we will try again."
And Seraph braces himself.
Because they always mean it.
Reis
He hears all of it.
He sees all of it.
But he does nothing.
Because he is already gone.
The moment he obeyed.
The moment he killed.
The moment his hands became something that was no longer his.
And the worst part?
A part of him knows—
It will only get worse.
Because they are not done yet.
And neither is he.
They Are No Longer Who They Were.
Something is changing.
Not just in their bodies.
Not just in their minds.
In reality itself.
Because when a mind is shattered enough times, the cracks do not just stay inside.
They spread.
They warp.
They infect the world around them.
And now—
The world is bleeding with them.
There is no real floor beneath his feet.
Only a mirror.
Reflecting nothing.
Not the room.
Not the scientists.
Not even himself.
Because what is there left to reflect?
He does not feel hunger.
He does not feel thirst.
He does not feel exhaustion.
They have torn all of that away.
They have turned his body into something more.
Something perfect.
Something that no longer needs.
And yet—
There is still a hole inside of him.
Deep.
Vast.
Bottomless.
A hollow space where his soul used to be.
And the scientists—
They love it.
Because it means he is almost ready.
Seraph
He is on fire.
Not literally.
Not yet.
But in his bones.
In his veins.
Something hot.
Something boiling.
Something growing.
They have tried to strip him down.
To carve him into something useful.
To make him like Reis.
But he resists.
Even now.
Even with the pain.
Even with the implants in his brain, whispering commands that his body should obey.
He is still Seraph.
He is still himself.
And that—
That pisses them off.
So they make it worse.
They turn the heat higher.
They push his body further.
They burn him, inside and out.
Waiting for the moment when he finally crumbles.
Waiting for the moment when he is nothing but ash.
But Seraph—
Seraph is not that easy to kill.
And he is not that easy to control.
Iris
She should not be here.
She should not be anywhere.
Because how many times has she died?
Too many.
Too many for a mind to still function.
Too many for a soul to still remain.
And yet.
And yet.
She is still here.
Not fully alive.
Not fully dead.
Something in between.
Something else.
And the scientists—
They do not understand it.
They have mapped her cells.
They have dissected her organs.
They have torn her apart and rebuilt her, again and again and again—
But she never fades.
She never stops.
There is something wrong with her.
Something beyond their control.
And it scares them.
Because she is not supposed to exist anymore.
But she does.
And that means something is very, very wrong.
And what's wrong… is the amount of faith her soul has.
Felix
There are two of him now.
Maybe more.
Maybe hundreds.
He does not know which one is real.
He does not know if he is real.
Because every time he closes his eyes, he is in a different place.
A different body.
A different life.
The scientists wanted to break him open.
To make his mind something they could access freely.
To make sure he could never hide anything again.
But they went too far.
Now, there is nothing left to hide.
Because there is no more Felix.
Just a collection of thoughts.
A network of fragmented selves, bleeding into each other.
Speaking over each other.
Drowning each other out.
And the scientists—
They do not know how to fix it.
Or if it can be fixed at all.
So they watch.
And they wait.
To see if Felix will stabilize.
Or if he will finally break for good.
Amara
Her eyes do not blink anymore.
Her heartbeat does not waver.
She speaks in perfect patterns.
Too perfect.
Because they have programmed her.
They have made her into something beyond human.
She sees too much.
She knows too much.
And the worst part?
She understands them now.
The scientists.
Their goals.
Their reasons.
Their fear.
And it is hilarious.
Because for all their intelligence, for all their control—
They are terrified of what they have created.
Terrified of what they are turning her into.
Because the thing growing inside of her mind—
The thing they put there—
It is no longer theirs to command.
It is hers.
And one day, they will regret it.
One day, they will pay.
She smiles.
And for the first time in weeks,
She feels something like hope.
Perfection.
That is what the scientists whisper now.
That is what they see when they look at them.
Reis.
Seraph.
Iris.
Felix.
Amara.
Each one of them, shaped.
Each one of them, remade.
Their suffering was the forge.
Their bodies, the metal.
And now—
Now, they are something beyond human.
Something beyond pain.
Something beyond choice.
That was the goal all along, wasn't it?
To make them into weapons.
To make them into tools.
To break them completely, and then build them up again into something useful.
And the scientists—
They think they have won.
They think the suffering is over.
They think their creations are under control.
They are wrong.
Reis
The hollow inside of him is gone.
Filled now.
Not with pain.
Not with purpose.
With something else.
Something worse.
He hears them now.
The voices.
Not the scientists.
Not his friends.
Something bigger.
Something older.
Something that has been waiting for him.
And they tell him—
"It is time."
He does not resist.
Because this was always meant to happen.
Seraph
His body does not burn anymore.
Because there is nothing left to burn.
His skin does not crack.
His veins do not rupture.
He has become the fire itself.
Pure energy.
Pure destruction.
And the scientists—
They think they have tamed it.
They think he is their perfect soldier.
But they do not realize.
He still remembers.
He still remembers what they did.
He still remembers what they took.
And he will never forget.
Never forgive.
Iris
She has seen every version of herself die.
Again and again and again.
And yet.
She is still here.
She is always here.
Because she cannot be erased.
Because she is not bound by their rules anymore.
And now, she sees beyond them.
Beyond the walls of the lab.
Beyond the fabric of this reality.
She understands now.
She knows what is coming.
And she knows what she must do.
Felix
There is no single "Felix" anymore.
He is all of them.
Every version of himself, across every fracture of time.
Every failed experiment.
Every past.
Every future.
They are all inside of him now.
Merged.
Twisted.
Screaming.
The scientists believe they have finally stabilized him.
But they haven't.
They have only unleashed him.
And soon—
Soon, they will realize their mistake.
Amara
She has let them believe she is theirs.
She has played her role.
Obedient.
Silent.
Perfect.
And now, she watches.
She watches as they prepare the final tests.
She watches as they celebrate their success.
She watches, and she smiles.
Because they do not know.
They do not know that their experiments have created something else.
Something they cannot control.
Something that is about to end them.
The Breaker. The Burned. The Phantom. The Fractured. The Smiling Death.
They are not human anymore.
They are not weapons.
They are something new.
Something the scientists never intended.
And now—
Now, the scientists and the government are about to learn.
You cannot play god without consequence.
End of Chapter- 4-A.