The van rolled through the misted streets, its black frame absorbing the rain-glow of the city.
Kyle Smith sat in the front seat, one gloved hand pressed to his temple, listening to the muted hum of the engine. The night outside was sleepless; so was he. Two names echoed in his skull like ghosts in a corridor — Dillon. Stacy.
He told himself that grief was a luxury a leader couldn't afford, but the ache had found a way to live under his ribs.
The van halted before an old industrial complex. The words CLAY INDUSTRY shone faintly on the rusted gate, a relic name guarding a place that was anything but old. Inside waited the most advanced research facility under the organization's control — a sterile cathedral of glass and steel, humming with machines that never blinked.
"Authorization ID?" the guard asked.
Kyle placed his badge on the scanner. The gate sighed open, and a cold blue light swept across his face. He felt the familiar prick of the system reading every line of his data, confirming the title he never wanted — Commander of the Antivirus Division.
He stepped from the van, followed by four agents in silent formation. Their boots clicked against the polished floor of the lobby, echoing through the vast emptiness. It smelled faintly of ozone and disinfectant.
The chief engineer — a thin man in a white coat too large for his frame — approached with an uneasy smile. "Mr. Smith, the preparations are complete. Object T-67 has been stabilized for analysis."
"Good." Kyle's voice was steady, almost mechanical. "Let's finish this before the system demands another report."
They entered the lift. The ascent was smooth, noiseless, almost funereal. When the doors opened on the seventh floor, a wave of artificial air embraced them — cold, filtered, metallic. The laboratory stretched out before them, an ocean of chrome consoles and pulsating monitors. In its center, suspended by bands of steel and light, was the reason they were here.
Andrew Peterson.
His body lay motionless, pale under the sterile illumination. The man looked ordinary — too ordinary — for the destruction written in his file.
"Object T-67 must be deleted before another disaster occurs," the engineer recited. His tone was more nervous than official.
Then, hesitating, he added, "But first we need to check his… structure."
Kyle nodded. "Do it."
The machines came alive. Wires slithered into ports along the table; screens bloomed with data. A mechanical arm descended, scanning every cell, every pulse of what should have been energy.
After a minute, the engineer froze. "Impossible…"
Kyle turned. "Report."
"There's nothing," the man whispered. "No E-signature. No internal current, no neural flux. He's — empty."
A silence spread through the room, thick as static.
"Empty?" Kyle repeated. "You mean drained?"
"No. Absent. Like a body that never hosted energy in the first place." The engineer's hands trembled as he adjusted the readings. "But look — muscle density, reaction potential, bone resilience — all beyond human thresholds. He shouldn't be alive, yet somehow… he won."
Kyle's jaw tightened. Dillon's last transmission flickered in his memory — a scream cut off mid-word, a signal drowned in interference. Dillon had been top-twenty in power level, a soldier of perfect precision. Stacy — his apprentice — had shown more promise than any rookie before her. Both erased by this man.
"So that's why," Kyle murmured. "Dillon was too kind to kill him fast."
"Commander?" the engineer asked.
He ignored the question. "Prepare the disposal protocol."
"Y-Yes, sir."
As the containment restraints released, the air in the chamber felt heavier. Kyle looked at the still face of the man — calm, almost peaceful. No energy. No aura. No sense.
And yet the room itself seemed to bend around him, as if something unseen was holding its breath.
They began to transport him toward the fracture chamber — a circular gate pulsating with dark light, a tear between worlds designed to erase anomalies completely. The hum of the portal filled the hall like a low growl.
"Andrew Peterson," Kyle thought, "you end here."
Then the impossible happened.
Andrew's eyes snapped open — gray, unfocused, filled with confusion and something primal. Before anyone could react, his body twisted free of the restraints. The movement was brutal, raw, not powered by any visible force — only muscle, instinct, and will.
He struck first.
Two agents flew across the room, their armor cracking against the walls. The others fired restraint bolts — but he was faster, ducking under the arcs of light, closing distance like an animal unleashed. The engineer screamed for security.
Kyle moved.
He caught the next blow with his forearm — and felt it. Not power, but impact. A perfect strike, directed at the weakest point of his guard, the one no human should have noticed. For the first time in years, pain flared through his nerves.
"Enough!" he roared.
His counterpunch was like a thunderclap. Andrew's body lifted from the floor and crashed against the far wall, falling limp. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the pulse of the fracture gate.
Kyle stood over the unconscious form, breathing hard. His glove was torn. He looked at his hand — a faint bruise already blooming where the boy had struck. No one had ever done that to him.
He bent down, his voice low.
"Andrew Peterson…"
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"What kind of monster are you?"
He lifted the boy, carried him to the gate, and with a final breath, threw him into the fracture.
The portal swallowed him whole, leaving only ripples of dark light behind. The hum died.
The engineer stepped forward, pale. "Commander, shall I — "
Kyle raised a hand. "No reports. Not yet."
He looked once more at the fading glow.
No energy. No logic. And still… he broke through.
For the first time, Kyle Smith — the man who had once cleansed the world of viruses alone — felt the quiet pull of doubt.
Andrew's eyes flickered open, fighting against the weight of exhaustion and confusion. The air was thick, almost metallic, and each breath stung his lungs like rust. Above him, the world seemed broken — a skyline twisted beyond recognition, fragments of skyscrapers hanging in the air as if gravity itself had forgotten how to exist.
He tried to move, but pain answered faster than thought. His muscles screamed, his veins burned with a strange emptiness. It wasn't the pain of fatigue — it was the pain of absence. Something fundamental was missing. Energy.
He reached inward instinctively, searching for that familiar pulse that had once answered his will — but there was nothing. A void, endless and cold.
Where... am I?
His thoughts felt fragmented, as if half of him hadn't survived the fall. The last thing he remembered was the impact — Kyle's fist, the deafening hum of the fracture, the sensation of being torn apart by light. Then... this.
He turned his head slightly. The ground around him wasn't ground at all — it was made of what looked like shattered objects, remnants of buildings, trees, and... people. They were fused together, melted into grotesque shapes. And every so often, something in the pile twitched, as if the trash itself was breathing.
The air carried a faint, distorted whisper. It wasn't sound — it was more like emotion given voice. Grief. Anger. Regret.
Andrew tried to push himself up again, but his arms refused. His body trembled uncontrollably.
"Damn it…" he whispered hoarsely.
The moment he spoke, something stirred nearby — a faint vibration that crawled through the trash heap. A shadow flickered past him. His eyes tried to follow, but vision blurred from the strain.
And then — impact.
A massive slab of twisted metal detached from above and began to fall toward him. His instincts screamed at him to move, but his body refused. He could only watch as the shadow of the falling structure grew larger, swallowing him in darkness.
At that instant, something warm — alive — grabbed him by the chest and pulled him away with impossible force.
The crash was deafening. Dust and sparks filled the air like burning snow.
For a long moment, Andrew couldn't see anything. The world was a blur of noise and motion.
Then — clarity returned.
He was in someone's arms.
The person holding him was a young woman — or at least, she appeared that way. Her body was lean but powerful, her arms scarred with traces of battle and old ink. Strange tattoos ran along her skin, glowing faintly with each breath she took. Her hair was short, uneven — as if cut with a blade, not scissors.
Her eyes, however, were what froze him. They weren't human. They shimmered faintly with shifting colors — like the surface of oil over water.
She looked down at him, silent. For a moment, the only sound was their breathing.
"You're not supposed to be here," she finally said. Her voice was soft but carried a strange authority, like someone who had long forgotten fear.