Part 4
The day had been a long, grueling stretch of heavy lifting and forced normalcy. By the time they reached the old warehouse on the edge of the city, the sun had already surrendered to a bruised, purple twilight.
Aslam, never one to let a grim mood last, slammed a crate of beer onto a dusty table. "Look, Lib, I don't care about the weirdness from last night. Tonight, we drink. We celebrate being alive, being young, and being stuck in this beautiful dump together."
Libert sat in the corner, his silhouette swallowed by the deepening shadows. He tried to smile, but his senses were screaming. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside felt amplified, like a symphony he didn't want to hear. "I don't know, Aslam. Something feels... off."
"Everything is always 'off' with you lately," Aslam laughed, popping a cap. "Relax. It's just us."
Suddenly, the overhead yellow lights flickered once, twice, and then died with a sharp, electric pop. Total darkness swallowed the warehouse.
"Great! Just great," Aslam's voice echoed in the cavernous space. "Wiring in this place is older than my grandmother. Stay here, Lib. I'll go check the main breaker in the back. Don't move my beer."
Libert watched the faint beam of Aslam's phone flashlight disappear down the long, narrow corridor toward the fuse box. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, like the air before a lightning strike.
"Aslam? You fall asleep back there?" Libert called out.
No answer. Only the sound of rain beginning to tap rhythmically against the corrugated tin roof.
Libert stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He followed the path Aslam had taken. When he reached the utility room, he found the flashlight lying on the floor, its beam pointing at a pair of boots.
Aslam was slumped against the wall, conscious but paralyzed. His eyes were wide, fixed on something in the corner, filled with a level of terror that Libert had never seen in another human being.
"Aslam, talk to me!" Libert lunged forward, but a voice—smooth, cold, and terrifyingly calm—stopped him dead in his tracks.
"I wouldn't move if I were you, Subject 402. His nervous system is currently under a very delicate strain."
Out of the ink-black shadows stepped a man. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that looked out of place in the grime of the warehouse. His hair was slicked back, and his eyes held the predatory stillness of a shark.
"My name is Victor Von Krow," the man said, checking a silver pocket watch. "I've spent a lot of money creating you, Libert. It was quite rude of you to break out of your cage without saying goodbye."
Libert felt the silver fire in his blood begin to boil, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists. "What did you do to him?"
"A necessary precaution," Krow smiled, a thin, jagged expression. "Your friend saw something he wasn't supposed to. He saw the way your skin ripples when the lights go out. He saw the monster under the mask."
Krow stepped closer, the air around him turning freezing cold. "The question is, Libert... do you still want to play human? Or are you ready to come home and show me exactly what that 'Star-Core' in your chest can really do?"
Libert looked at Aslam, who let out a strangled, terrified whimper. The realization hit him like a physical blow: his secret was out, and his past had finally caught up.