EVE POV
I floated in the dark, my body suspended in a pillar of shadow that felt less like a liquid and more like a living thing. The impulse energy was a swirling abyss, a hungry, light-absorbent weight that pressed against my skin. It was home, and I hated it.
Through the reinforced glass of the containment tube, I saw him.
The Old Man was walking toward us, his boots clicking against the sterile tile like a death march. He looked pathetic—shrunken, gray, his skin wrinkling under the fake hum of the bunker lights. Thirty-six years he'd spent down here, playing god with biological engineering and metaphysical channeling, all to create us. To create me.
I didn't blink. I let my gaze cut through the viscous energy, pinning him right through his ribcage. I wanted him to feel the judging weight of my existence.
"Already awake, Eve?" he asked.
His voice was thin, a flickering candle in the vast emptiness of the lab. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. I just let the shadows curl around my fingers like loyal, obsidian pets. I knew I was being stubborn, but I'd inherited that from a woman he used to know—the one who thought the stars were just holes in the floor of heaven. To me, they were targets.
I shifted my focus to the tube across from me. Adam.
He was a beacon of golden, divine light, looking like something people would crawl through glass to pray to. But then he opened those eyes. They were ink-black voids, darker than the most atrocious nights.
"I'm awake, Father," Adam said.
His voice didn't need speakers; it vibrated through my tube, through the floor, and into my very marrow. He was the "good" son—polite, serene, and absolutely terrifying. There was a pressure to his kindness that felt like the atmosphere right before a category-five hurricane.
"Time to come out," the Old Man muttered.
Then came the groan of the machinery. The purge began. I watched the darkness recede, draining into the floor vents, leaving me cold and exposed.
Ptssssk.
The seals hissed, venting steam, and the lid swung open like a coffin. I didn't wait. I vaulted over the edge with a predatory grace, my bare feet hitting the tile without making a sound. Adam stepped out a second later, all slow dignity and "holy" light.
We were taller. Sharper. I could feel the power humming under my skin, itching for a reason to break something.
A towel hit me square in the chest. "Go take a good shower, kids," the Old Man said. "You smell like the bottom of a rift."
I didn't look back at him. I just headed for the living quarters, Adam trailing behind me like a silent shadow.
Thirty minutes later, the "masterpieces of engineering" were sitting at the kitchen table looking like a total joke. We were shoved into old clothes—hoodies and jeans that were way too small for our new frames. My denim was straining against my thighs, and the hoodie sleeves stopped halfway down my forearms.
Adam and I sat opposite each other, locked in a silent war of wills. It was a game of Russian roulette where the bullets were made of pure energy.
"Let's go shopping," the Old Man said, cracking the tension. "You've both outgrown everything you own. You look like you're wearing your younger brothers' clothes."
I let out a sharp, jagged exhale. "Shopping," I repeated, the word feeling weird in my mouth. "The city?"
"The city," he confirmed.
We followed him to the garage. It was a graveyard of luxury cars, all covered in a thick, velvety layer of gray dust. A year of isolation had turned his pride and joy into ghosts.
"Really?" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You stayed in the lab so long you forgot how to use a duster, old man?"
"How come the cars haven't been touched, Father?" Adam asked. His curiosity was worse than my mocking; it was a reminder of how lonely this place really was.
"Well... I had nowhere to go," he admitted. "And no one to go with."
He pulled his hand from his pocket. I watched with surgical intensity as he channeled a stream of golden impulse energy down his arm. It was warm, a familiar heat that made my own power stir in response. With a flick of his fingers, he sent a focused, gentle gale over the black sedan. The dust vanished in seconds, revealing the obsidian paint beneath.
"Our old man still has it," I said, stepping forward. I gave his shoulder a patronizing pat and a grin.
He didn't take it. He gave me a sharp knock on the back of my head. "You little brat. Show some respect for your creator."
Adam actually chuckled. He caught the keys the Old Man tossed, his reflexes a blur of impossible speed, and slid into the driver's seat.
"You're driving?" the Old Man asked.
"I've spent eight months in a tube, Father," Adam said, his hands gripping the wheel. "I need to feel the road."
I claimed the back seat, reclining and stretching my legs across the bench. The engine roared to life, a mechanical beast finally waking up. As the garage door hummed open, letting in the blinding, beautiful sunlight, I pulled out my phone.
"How long until we reach Jorgen City?" I asked, my thumbs flying across the screen.
Adam caught my eye in the rearview mirror. A devious, sharp grin spread across his face—the kind that signaled a coming storm. "Three hours at most. One hour if I ignore the speed limit."
"Do not speed," the Old Man commanded. "We are trying to blend in."
"As you wish, Father," Adam replied, though the grin didn't fade.
As we pulled onto the cracked asphalt, I leaned my head against the window, watching the trees blur into a green haze. I knew what the Old Man saw when he looked at me. He saw her fire. He saw the restlessness he couldn't control.
But as I watched the back of Adam's head, I felt the real danger. He was the calm, and I was the storm, and together, we were going to turn Jorgen City upside down.