Somewhere inside a classified Russian research facility...
The room is sterile. Cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones — not just physical, but… clinical. Like even emotions aren't allowed here.
Inside a reinforced glass cage, a white lab rat blinks under the harsh glare of overhead lights. Its whiskers twitch. It sniffs the air. Nervous, but still.
Across the room, a scientist — pale coat, pale face — prepares a syringe. The fluid inside glows faintly green, swirling slowly as he flicks it with practiced fingers. He adjusts his gloves, taps the recorder.
"Trial No. 7. Subject 24. Begin injection."
The needle enters the rat's tiny frame.
Nothing happens.
One minute. Two.
Then — the change begins.
The rat jerks once. Its fur starts to fall away in clumps. Not shedding — disintegrating. Its eyes cloud over, turning a lifeless, foggy white. Its body trembles, spasms. Legs flail, slamming into the glass. First once. Then again.
It screeches — raw, unnatural.
Across the room, beyond a thick pane of bulletproof glass, a man watches in silence. He's tall. Impeccably dressed. A sleek black-and-white striped suit clings to him like a shadow.
His expression doesn't change. Not even when the rat begins bleeding from the eyes.
Then — a slow, curling smile.
He lifts his phone.
"Phase One successful," he says. "Double the budget. Move to human trials."
A voice crackles back. "Understood, sir."
The rat collapses moments later. A gas is released. Its body goes still.
There's no mourning. No hesitation.
Just protocol.
Now the human subject is wheeled in.
Male. Late 30s. Number tattooed on his wrist — a prisoner. He's unconscious. Limbs restrained with thick metal cuffs. One eye is swollen. Lip busted. But he's breathing.
The scientist hesitates.
Another man, wearing an SSO badge on his coat, nods coldly. "Do it."
The same injection enters human veins.
At first — minor tremors.
Then vomiting.
Then blood.
His veins pulse unnaturally beneath the skin, turning black. His back arches violently. Eyes roll back. He screams — but it's not mindless.
"P-PLEASE—DON'T—! DON'T DO THI—!"
His scream breaks apart. Distorts. His voice deepens — guttural. Bones snap audibly. His arms twist, reshape, fingers bending backward before reforming as claws. Muscle mass expands grotesquely. Face distorts.
Ten minutes later… he's something else entirely.
But the worst part?
His eyes.
Still aware.
Still watching.
Behind the glass, a younger scientist gulps. "Sir… he's conscious. He's thinking."
The lead scientist's eyes never leave the data feed. His voice is quiet.
"They said this was a cure."
He exhales.
"They lied."
A pause.
His colleague leans in, whispering: "We work for SSO. You know what happens if we refuse."
Silence.
Then the lead scientist walks out of the lab, taps his encrypted comms.
"Phase Two complete. Subject retained full cognitive function after transformation. Awaiting directive."
A chuckle comes through the line. Smooth. Chilling.
"Well done," the voice says. "The world doesn't know it yet... but the new age has already begun."
Meanwhile… In a quiet Seoul suburb, South Korea
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
THWACK.
A sleepy hand slams the alarm clock into silence.
Sunlight pours into the room, washing over a blanket-covered lump on the bed. From beneath it, a mop of slightly purple hair pokes out — glinting faintly in the glow.
A groggy voice grumbles, "Too early for this nonsense."
James Han Lee peeks out, hair flattened on one side, eyes half-glued shut.
Then he notices you.
Yes — you.
"Whoa. You again? Kinda stalker-ish to watch me wake up, bro."
He smirks lazily.
"I'm James. James Han Lee. Eighteen years old. Just graduated high school. Legally an adult — emotionally? Still figuring out how to file taxes and not burn noodles. My dad's American, mom's Korean. I was born here in Seoul. And right now? I mostly game. A lot. Sometimes stream. That's life."
He grabs a hoodie off the chair and stumbles out of his room like a zombie.
The kitchen smells like reheated rice and leftover seaweed soup. His little sister is already munching cereal in front of the TV.
"Oppa," she says, not even turning around, "if you don't eat breakfast, your brain will turn to tofu."
James raises an eyebrow. "Tofu brain, huh? Sounds delicious."
He sits down and glances at the fridge.
There's a sticky note, neatly written in their mom's handwriting:
"Made food for five days. Lock the gate. Don't open the door. – Mom ❤️"
James reads it aloud, blinking.
"O… kay. Weird flex."
He opens the fridge — packed meals stacked with military precision. Every shelf is labeled.
Just then, his phone pings. Voice note.
Mom:"James, sweetie. Please keep the gate locked. No matter who knocks, don't open it. And take care of your sister. We love you."
James stares at the screen for a beat. Something in her voice… felt off. Like it was recorded in a rush. Or fear.
He exhales.
"Okay, Mom. Now you're acting like we're in a zombie movie."
Still — he locks the gate.
Later, he retreats to his favorite place: the holy sanctuary.
His room — no, his gaming cave.
Door opens.
BAM. RGB lights. Triple monitors. Wall-mounted LED panels. A custom PC with fans that sound like turbine engines.
James flops into his chair, headset sliding around his neck.
"Birthday gift. Graduation gift. Combined into one absolute beast of a setup. Honestly? My parents nailed it."
He loads into a game, eyes lighting up with that familiar, warm excitement.
"Life's simple. Sleep. Game. Chill. Repeat."
A beat.
He leans back, arms behind his head.
"And honestly? I like it that way."
Outside, a dog barks once. Somewhere far off, a siren howls and fades into the city noise.
James doesn't hear it.
He's already locked into the lobby screen, headset on, ready to dive into another match.
[End of Episode 1]