It's the quiet that wakes him.
Not the scream of metal.
Not the acid in his veins.
Not the surgeon's saw warming up in the dark.
Just… silence.
And then:
"Hey…"
A whisper.
Too soft to be another scientist. Too uncertain. Too… human.
A silhouette moves near the chamber — short coat, thin frame, hands shaking.
It's him again.
The assistant.
The one who took his eye.
Subject K watches him through the blur. One eye gone, the other barely holding focus, but he sees enough.
The kid isn't supposed to be here.
Not during lockdown hours.
Not without supervision.
"You're not supposed to be conscious," the assistant mutters.
"They said you wouldn't… feel it."
His voice trembles.
"They lied."
Subject K doesn't respond.
He can't.
But he wants to.
He wants to scream, "NO SHIT THEY LIED."
But nothing. Just breathing.
Wheezing.
Barely human anymore.
The assistant steps closer, kneels by the table. His eyes dart to the cameras in the corner — still cycling, but slow.
Maybe lagging.
Maybe someone's watching.
But he speaks anyway.
"They call you K."
"But I read your file. Before they wiped it. You had a name."
"I— I wrote it down. I wanted to say it. But…"
"I didn't want to give you false hope."
The rage sparks.
Small.
But bright.
Like fire catching on oil.
He pauses.
Rubs his hands together. He's sweating.
Voice shaking. Eyes darting.
"I didn't know what this place was, alright?"
"They didn't tell me."
"I thought it was a research internship. Cutting-edge medical advancement. They showed us slideshows of prosthetics and neurological regeneration and all this futuristic crap—said it was for veterans. For disabled kids."
He laughs. It's dry. Dead.
"Three weeks in and I'm sticking a rod through a guy's eyeball while they record how much nerve death he can take before puking out his spine."
Subject K doesn't flinch.
But something under his skin burns hotter.
"I didn't want to hurt you," the assistant says again, like if he says it enough it'll wash the guilt off.
"The others — they're used to it. The doctors, the handlers. They laugh. One of them said they used to be a vet like you, till they 'switched to the winning side.'"
He shakes his head, pacing now like he's going to be sick.
"I keep telling myself I'm not like them. That I didn't sign up for this. But…"
He turns to face Subject K again.
"But I stayed."
There it is. The truth.
"I stayed because I thought maybe I could do something. You know? Leave notes. Sabotage a few doses. Push your file back in the cycle, give you more recovery time between tests."
He chokes out a laugh. Wipes his nose.
"And what'd I end up doing instead? Took your fuckin' eye."
"You ever do something that just… echoes? Like, every time I blink, I hear the pop. Feel the resistance. I still have the gloves I wore that day. I haven't thrown them out. They're in my locker. Stiff with blood."
Subject K's remaining eye stares.
No words. Just… watching. Listening.
Processing.
The assistant crouches beside him, glancing at the data terminal nearby.
"They don't know you're awake like this. They think the sedatives keep you out of it. But I've seen the twitching. The breathing patterns. You're faking it, aren't you?"
"You're thinking again."
He reaches into his pocket, hands trembling. Pulls out a cracked, burnt chip.
"This has a backup. Of your file. Before the wipe. Name. Rank. Your history. Her name too. The one you came in with."
"I didn't watch the footage. I couldn't. But it's here. I—I thought maybe if I gave it to you, it'd mean I'm not a total fucking coward."
He places it on the edge of the table. Too far for Subject K to reach.
But it's there.
Real.
"I know you want to kill me. I think about that too. Every night. Waking up with you there. Ripping my goddamn jaw off."
A pause.
"And if you ever get the chance… I won't run."
He stands.
Turns to the door.
Hand hovers near the console. He breathes out slow.
"If they wipe you again tomorrow… you won't remember this. So I guess this was just for me."
A final look. Not pity. Not fear.
Guilt.
"My name's Elen. I wanted to help. I just didn't know how."
And then he's gone.
The door hisses shut behind him.
The light returns. The chamber breathes.
Subject K lies still.
He couldn't move even if he wanted to.
But in his mind, a word echoes:
Kaizen.
And then another:
XXXX.
The room is cold again.
Too bright.
Too clean.
The hum of power units buzzes behind the walls like hornets in a jar.
The team is already here — four of them today. White coats. Cold smiles. Gloves snapping tight.
Kaizen is strapped down — wrists raw, ankles bruised purple. Tubes run through his neck and spine, dripping green and silver fluids. His chest rises slowly, eyes half-lidded.
Still.
But not asleep.
Not anymore.
"Subject K is holding stable under RX-9. Let's see what happens if we push it past the cellular stress threshold."
"You mean melt him from the inside out?" one of them snorts.
Laughter. One dry, one wheezy.
"Science, gentlemen," says the third. "It's called progress."
They move around him like carpenters, checking restraints, swapping electrodes. Not a single glance at his face.
Like he's furniture.
He's awake.
But no one in the room cares.
They don't even look at him.
They're bored.
One of the whitecoats leans back against the terminal, arms crossed behind his head, gum popping between his teeth.
"I swear, if I have to watch another stress chart plateau, I'm gonna blow my fuckin' brains out."
Another chuckles.
"You're welcome to try. I'd love your job."
"My job sucks. K doesn't even twitch like the early subjects did. No screams, no spasms — just a goddamn potato with a pulse."
"That's 'cause he's on RX-9 now. Full neural inhibitor load. It numbs everything except baseline consciousness."
The first guy scoffs.
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Now, Subject 81 — remember that freak? He pissed himself before we even turned the generator on."
"Oh yeah. That was the one who started screaming the Lord's Prayer halfway through the test?"
"Damn near pissed myself from laughing."
The head doctor chimes in, flicking through a clipboard.
"Alright, since we're waiting for the buffer cycle to finish, how about a game?"
He grins.
"Everyone share their favorite subject."
"Favorite as in fun to break?"
"Favorite as in memorable. Most screams. Most surprises. Most creative biofailures. Whatever gets your blood moving."
The one near Kaizen stretches.
"Gotta be Subject 44 for me. Big ex-merc. Tried to chew his own fingers off to short-circuit the hand cuff. Didn't work, obviously, but that spirit, man…"
"He begged for a knife so he could 'go out with honor.' We gave him a plastic spoon instead."
Laughter.
"What about 37?" someone says. "The guy who kept saying his mother was going to sue us?"
"Oh right, rich-kid crybaby. We pumped him full of skin-stretching serum. His eyelids snapped first."
Kaizen hears it all.
Silent. Still.
Burning.
And then the head doctor clicks his tongue.
"You're all wrong."
"Y'all are picking all the psychos. I liked the sweet ones. Ones that cracked nice."
Someone pauses.
"Like Subject Twelve?"
He steps closer to the slab, glancing lazily down at Kaizen's face.
"Oooh, you mean her? Yeah. That one."
"Lira," the doctor says with a casual shrug. "That name stuck with me. Gorgeous girl. Real... versatile specimen."
"Oh shit, I remember her," one of the others says with a grin. "Top-tier. Both labs."
Kaizen's heart spikes. Machines beep erratically.
"What was it we tested on her?"
"Bone regeneration under extreme compression. Nerve insulation. Sexual response versus shock therapy."
"She didn't pass most of it, but boy did she try."
"Hell of a screamer," another mutters, nostalgic.
"Tried to fight back after the third round. Got real fiery. Didn't last long, though."
The head doctor chuckles.
"She did make a hell of a bed," someone chuckles darkly.
The table creaks as his wrists tense against the leather. The restraints groan.
"Honestly? That girl was a gift. Got to see how much stress a spinal rig could take and how well she handled… parallel stimulation."
"Top to bottom. Science in both directions, eh?"
A pause.
Then They laugh again.
Kaizen doesn't.
Can't.
"Hey — data's data."
"She cracked before the body did. Voice box tore itself out trying to beg."
"Shame, really," one of them sighs. "She was a damn good lay before the spasms ruined her spine."
"She screamed so sweet it nearly made me feel something."
"One of you bastards used the wrong pressure gauge."
"Whoops."
They're still laughing.
They're still talking.
"Think Subject K remembers her?"
"Hey, buddy—" one of them leans over, tapping Kaizen's temple like a vending machine.
"You remember Lira? Wanna know how she tasted?"
Silence.
But something changes.
Not in the room.
In him.
Not rage.
Not vengeance.
Not his mind.
Something... primal.
The last part of him that remembered what mercy felt like?
Dead.
Kaizen's entire body locks. Not in pain.
In focus.
The restraints whine.
"Vitals spiking," someone says. "Neural activity increasing."
"Impossible. He's not supposed to have cortical function above 30%."
"You sure we gave him the full dose?"
"Yup. Brain activity shouldn't even be registering this high—wait."
"That's not just activity. That's targeted response."
His body spasms once.
The readings spike.
Kaizen's eye opens.
Focused.
Cold.
A dead eye finally remembering why it's alive.
The monitor screams.
WARNING: Protocol Breach Detected.
"Holy shit—he's overriding something!"
Too late.
A soft hum builds in the walls.
Not mechanical.
Not digital.
Biological.
A sound like a growl choked through blood and static.
Kaizen's fingers twitch.
Not a glitch.
A gesture.
"Shit—get restraints rechecked!"
They lunge.
Too late.
Kaizen's hand jerks tight — splits the cuff at the seam.
Bone grinds. Blood sprays.
But he doesn't scream.
He grins.
His lips part. Not for a word.
For a sound:
Hkkhhh—
The start of a laugh, maybe.
Or a growl.
The heart monitor flatlines. Then spikes again. Then glitches into nonsense.
"He's waking up!"
"Shut it down! Shut him down!"
But the override doesn't work. The slab doesn't retract. The drugs stop flowing.
The systems are locking out.
A terminal blinks red.
ERROR: CONTROL OVERRIDE FAILED
SUBJECT CORE ACCESS – UNAUTHORIZED PROTOCOL BREACH
And behind his single eye, something lights up.
Something not human anymore.