The young man, Mo Yuan, sat in the cold, dimly lit interrogation room, his heart pounding as he replayed the night's chaotic events in his mind. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the bare walls. His hands, still bruised from the fight, fidgeted on the metal table. He could barely process how a simple night out had spiraled into this nightmare.
It started innocently enough. Mo Yuan had spotted her at the bar—a woman with a radiant smile that made his pulse quicken. For weeks, he'd been working on his confidence, tired of letting opportunities slip by. Tonight, he'd promised himself he'd take a chance. Gathering his courage, he approached her, and to his surprise, she welcomed the conversation. They laughed, shared stories, and for a moment, he felt like he was floating. She never mentioned a boyfriend, not until nearly an hour into their chat, when her tone shifted, and she casually dropped the fact. Before he could process it, a hulking figure loomed behind her—the boyfriend, eyes blazing with jealousy.
The boyfriend's words were venomous, threatening to "spill his guts" if he didn't back off. Mo Yuan, not one for confrontation, apologized and left, his pride stinging but his head still level. He thought that was the end of it. On his walk home through the quiet streets, the night air felt heavy, like a storm was brewing. Then, out of the shadows, the boyfriend reappeared, flanked by three goons. No words, just fists. Mo Yuan tried to defend himself, blocking blows and landing a few desperate punches. In the chaos, one of the goons lunged with a knife. Instinct took over—Mo Yuan grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it, and the blade turned. A sickening thud followed, and the goon collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. The others froze, then fled, including the boyfriend, leaving Mo Yuan alone with the body.
Panicked, he called 911, his voice trembling as he tried to explain. But when the police arrived, they saw only him, blood on his hands, standing over a corpse. Despite his pleas of self-defense, the cuffs snapped around his wrists. Now, in the interrogation room, a detective slid into the chair across from him, her expression unreadable.
"Mo Yuan," she began, her voice calm but firm, "tell me exactly what happened. From the beginning."
His mouth went dry. He knew the truth, but would they believe him? The bar, the girl, the boyfriend, the ambush—it all felt like a fever dream. He took a shaky breath and started talking, hoping his words could untangle the mess that had landed him here.
Mo Yuan's voice trembled as he recounted the night's events in the interrogation room, his words tumbling out in a desperate bid to explain the ambush, the knife, the chaos. The detective's pen scratched across her notepad, her face a mask of skepticism. He was mid-sentence when the door burst open. Two men in crisp suits strode in, their presence commanding the room. One flashed a badge too quickly for Mo Yuan to read.
"This case is closed," the taller man said, his tone flat but authoritative. "Mo Yuan is your guy. Wrap it up."
"But I didn't—" Mo Yuan started, his heart racing. The detective glanced at the men, then back at him, her expression hardening. His pleas were cut off as the men nodded to the officers, and before he could process it, he was cuffed again and led out. The interrogation was over. No one listened as he shouted about self-defense, about the boyfriend and his goons. The truth didn't seem to matter.
They transferred him to a high-security prison, the kind reserved for those already deemed guilty in the eyes of the system. The clang of the cell door felt like a nail in his coffin. Days blurred into weeks, each one heavier than the last. Mo Yuan, once hopeful and full of dreams, felt the weight of inevitability crush him. He was the only child of parents long gone, car accident when he was sixteen. No family, no one to fight for him. The world outside these walls had forgotten him.
The trial came faster than he expected. In the courtroom, the air was thick with formality, but it felt like a performance. The prosecution painted him as a cold-blooded killer, twisting the bar encounter into a motive of jealousy. The boyfriend, conveniently absent, was never mentioned. Mo Yuan's public defender, overworked and underprepared, barely put up a fight. When the judge read the verdict—guilty, death sentence by lethal injection in two weeks—Mo Yuan wasn't surprised. He'd seen it coming the moment those men stormed the interrogation room. His head bowed, he accepted the gavel's echo as his fate.
Back in his cell, the days ticked down like a countdown to oblivion. He stared at the ceiling, wondering how a single night had unraveled his life. Five days before his execution, the cellblock door clanked open, and two men in lab coats appeared, escorted by a guard. They weren't like the suits from before; these men had a clinical air, their eyes scanning him like he was a specimen.
"Mo Yuan," the older one said, holding a clipboard. "We have a proposition. You're scheduled to die, but we can offer you a different way out. No pain, no needles. And your death could save lives."
Mo Yuan sat up, wary. "What are you talking about?"
"Human trials," the man said, his voice smooth, almost rehearsed. "We're developing a new medical procedure—experimental, but with potential to revolutionize organ regeneration. Volunteers are hard to come by. You'd be contributing to science, to saving countless lives. In exchange, we ensure your passing is quick, peaceful. No suffering."
Mo Yuan's stomach churned. Human trials. It sounded like a sanitized way of saying they'd use him as a lab rat. But what did he have left? No family, no future, just a cold needle waiting for him. He thought of his parents, how they'd always told him to make a difference, however small. Maybe this was his chance, twisted as it was. If his life was over, at least it could mean something.
He met the man's gaze. "What do I have to do?"
"Just sign," the second man said, sliding a contract across the table. The fine print was dense, but Mo Yuan didn't care. He skimmed it, his eyes catching phrases like "no liability" and "experimental procedure." His hand shook as he picked up the pen. With a single stroke, he signed his name, sealing his fate.
As the men left, taking the contract with them, Mo Yuan leaned back against the cell wall. A strange calm settled over him. His life, short and broken as it was, might save others. It wasn't redemption, not exactly, but it was purpose. For the first time in weeks, he closed his eyes and felt a flicker of peace.
The next day, Mo Yuan and five other inmates were escorted from their cells to a sterile, underground facility that hummed with the faint vibration of machinery. The air was cold, tinged with the sharp scent of antiseptic. Each of them, shackled and silent, was led to a massive mechanical chair, its surface gleaming under harsh lights. Thick straps secured their wrists, ankles, and torsos, locking them in place. Mo Yuan's heart thudded as he glanced at the others—hardened faces, some defiant, others resigned. Like him, they were all condemned, offered this experimental trial as a final, desperate chance.
A scientist in a hazmat suit stepped forward, his voice muffled but clinical. "You've been selected for a trial involving Aetherium, a material discovered in deep space. Its properties are… unknown, but potentially transformative. If any of you survive the procedure, the government has agreed to rescind your death sentences. You'll be studied, but you'll be alive."
A spark of hope flickered across their faces, Mo Yuan included. The weight of his sentence lifted for a moment, replaced by a fragile dream of freedom. He clung to it, even as the scientist continued, his words growing heavier.
"Aetherium can't be liquefied or broken down. It must replace an organ in your body to integrate with your system. We have six fragments, one for each of you." The scientist gestured to a sealed case, where six shimmering, iridescent shards pulsed faintly, their surfaces seeming to shift like liquid metal. "Some will receive it in the heart, others the liver, or the brain."
The hope in the room snuffed out as quickly as it had ignited. Mo Yuan's stomach dropped. Replace his brain? His heart? The others shifted uneasily, their straps creaking. No one spoke as the scientists assigned the organs: two for hearts, two for livers, one for a kidney. Mo Yuan's fate was the brain. He swallowed hard, the image of his skull being opened flashing through his mind. But he had signed the contract. There was no turning back.
They were sedated, the world fading into a hazy blur as the procedure began. Unconscious, Mo Yuan didn't feel the incision, didn't see the Aetherium shard—glowing faintly, almost alive—being placed into his brain. One by one, the others' monitors flatlined. Heart failures, liver shutdowns, catastrophic rejections. The Aetherium didn't bond with them; it consumed them. Their bodies couldn't handle the alien material.
But Mo Yuan was different. As the shard integrated, something miraculous happened. The Aetherium began to fuse with his neural tissue, repairing damage from years of stress and trauma. A tear in his brain, a minor hemorrhage from the fight that landed him here, started healing. The scientists, monitoring his vitals, exchanged stunned glances. "It's working," one whispered. "He's stabilizing."
For a fleeting moment, it was a breakthrough. Mo Yuan's body was adapting, the Aetherium syncing with his biology in ways they hadn't predicted. But the miracle didn't last. The other five Aetherium fragments, embedded in the lifeless bodies around him, began to resonate. They glowed brighter, then tore free, drawn toward Mo Yuan like magnets. The scientists shouted, scrambling to shut down the equipment, but it was too late. The fragments converged on him, burrowing into his body, overloading his system with raw, uncontainable energy.
Mo Yuan's eyes snapped open, glowing an unnatural silver. Pain seared through him, not physical but existential, as if his very being was unraveling. The Aetherium's power was too much, a cosmic force his human frame couldn't contain. He screamed, a sound that echoed through the facility, and then—explosion. A blinding wave of light and energy erupted, obliterating the room, the chairs, the scientists. Nothing remained but ash and silence.