The metal door hissed softly as Dr. Omicron-7 exited the lab. Much as he would have liked to spend more time with his new subject, he had other pressing matters to attend to.
The faint scent of ozone still clinged to the air as a young scientist stepped towards the door— clipboard in hand, nerves wrinkling her brow—but before she could cross the threshold, a hand shot out and latched onto her wrist with bone-grinding force.
She gasped, startled, and turned.
Dr. Omicron-7 stood there, his crimson hair looked almost black in the shadow, and the eyepatch across his left socket gleamed like polished obsidian.
He wasn't smiling.
Not at first, at least.
And oh, what an absolute favor he would do the world if he keeps that expression for the rest of his life.
"Make sure," he whispered, his voice like warm rot curling into her ear, "he doesn't find out about his familiar."
The scientist blinked, caught off guard. "Why?" she asked before her brain caught up with her mouth.
Regret bloomed instantly across her face.
Omicron-7's single visible eye twitched slightly. Then widened. He let go of her wrist only to slide his hand slowly up to her throat. His touch was cold and deliberate, like a man savoring the tension of a violin string just before it snaps.
The clipboard fell to the floor with a clatter.
"Why?" he echoed softly, mockingly, as though tasting the word. His fingers pressed in—not enough to cut off her breath, but enough to freeze every thought in her skull.
The scientist's heart thundered in her chest.
"Who knows," Omicron-7 said, almost dreamily. "I might figure out how to extract it. Separate the bond. And keep the familiar for myself."
His eye sparkled with a twisted kind of hope, as though this were all just some thrilling puzzle to him. A science experiment with no boundaries and no god watching.
A thick silence fell.
He waited. Letting it stretch long and tight like piano wire. Waiting for her to say the one thing he was hoping she would say.
But she didn't.
"Huh," he breathed out finally, tilting his head. "Strange. I thought you'd be the type to remind me of the risks. That if I took the familiar away, the boy might die."
She tried to speak. Maybe to defend herself. Or, more accurately, to beg, since no one knew what was going on in that sick skull of his. But her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.
"But look at you," he chuckled, low and gleeful. "You don't give a shit. You're just like the rest of us. A perfect little knife in a lab coat."
Then, without warning, his grip vanished. She stumbled back, coughing, throat red and trembling.
Omicron-7 stepped past her with a cheerful whistle, as though he hadn't just choked the life out of a junior colleague in the middle of a hallway.
At the corner, he paused. Turned. His smile was gone again.
"Guess Dr. Yona really was just a weird one," he said softly. "I like her though."
He clicked his tongue and walked away.
The woman stood there frozen, rubbing her neck, the tremor in her hands matching the growing thrum of power behind the door.
With a sigh, she slid open the door with a hiss, her thin lab coat rustling softly around her knees, as she took a cautious step in. The card slot blinked green, locking her entrance with a soft mechanical clink behind her.
She barely had time to blink.
A tray—metal, dented, smeared with liquid fluids—came flying at her face like a bullet. It missed by inches and clanged violently against the wall. Her breath hitched. Her hand flew to her chest as she stumbled back against the doorframe.
"W-what the—?"
Her eyes shot to the source of chaos. Liu Xian.
The boy was a storm in human form. Sweaty, ragged, wild-eyed. Blood crusted one side of his temple where they'd probably tried to knocked him out earlier. A fresh gash ran along his cheek, pulsing a slow, rhythmic drip of red onto his white restraint shirt. His body convulsed with violent resistance as two male scientists tried to hold him down against the surgical recliner bed. One of them had a thick suppressor collar in his gloved hands, attempting to clamp it around Xian's throat.
"I SAID GET OFF ME!" Xian snarled, his voice rasping but thunderous.
With one brutal jerk, he kneed one of the men in the ribs. A sickening crunch echoed through the room followed by a guttural scream from the scientist. The man crumpled to the ground, clutching his side.
"Goddamn it!" the second scientist shouted. "He's recovering way too quickly! The sedative's not holding!"
"Then inject more!"
"We're out!"
"God! Why didn't that maniac put a suppressor collar on him while he was out cold!"
Xian twisted violently, his wrists pulling hard enough at the leather cuffs to scrape his skin raw. One of the buckles snapped, and with his free hand, he grabbed a syringe from the tray beside him and flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall.
The female scientist stared in frozen horror.
"Don't just stand there like a fucking fool—HELP!" the remaining man barked at her.
She hesitated only a second too long. Xian noticed her.
His head snapped toward her like a predator sensing blood.
"You…!" he growled, voice deep and foreign. "Stay away from me…!"
His gaze wasn't just hostile—it was haunted. Accusing. Like he'd seen too much, too soon, and the weight of betrayal still burned in his gut.
"C-calm down," she said, taking a small step back. "I'm not… I won't—"
"DON'T TAKE ANOTHER STEP!"
A second tray, heavier and sharper, levitated off the counter behind him without warning—then flung itself at her. She ducked, and it slammed into the wall where her head had just been.
"He's unstable!" someone shouted.
"No shit!" came a reply.
More scientists piled into the room, armed with stun-rods and mana-dampening restraints. The woman scrambled aside as the team swarmed him. He bit into the hand of one man—flesh tearing—and was rewarded with a shout of pain.
"Get that collar on him now! Goddamnit!"
Xian fought like a caged animal, like he knew he wasn't going to make it out if they succeeded. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, but not from pain. From fury. From betrayal. From sheer, unstoppable fear. His entire body radiated mana, crackling in jagged pulses through the air.
Electricity flared. One of the overhead lights exploded.
A technician's hair lit on fire.
Screams.
Another tried to jab a needle into Xian's thigh, but it melted in his hand as a surge of flame ignited around the boy's skin.
The girl—scientist, intern, or whatever she was—crawled to the side, hand shaking as she clutched the emergency override card. Her wide eyes never left Liu Xian's form, which now seemed… less human and more like something caught mid-transformation.
Then—like flipping a switch—it all stopped.
Xian collapsed, body trembling violently. The energy flickered and vanished, as if yanked back into the depths of his soul. One final cough wracked his chest before he slumped against the chair, unconscious once again.
Everything was silent.
Only the hum of failing lights, the smell of scorched flesh and ozone, and the distant drip-drip of spilled chemicals remained.
"...Did we get the collar on?" someone finally asked, voice shaking.
"No," another muttered. "But I think he passed out."
The female scientist stood shakily, still pale, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
She glanced down at the blood-splattered floor.
Subject 46B, she thought, the name branded across every report on his file. Liu Xian.