The isolation chamber was smaller than a coffin.
Four feet wide, six feet long, seven feet tall. I'd measured every inch during the thirty-six hours they'd kept me locked inside. No windows, no light except the red emergency strip that pulsed like a dying heartbeat. The air recycled every four minutes, carrying the metallic taste of processed oxygen and fear.
They'd stripped me down to basic clothes—gray cotton that felt rough against skin still tender from the neural dampener burns. No weapons, no tools, no way to track time except by counting my own breaths.
Two thousand one hundred and ninety-four breaths so far.
The chamber door finally opened with a pneumatic hiss.
Dr. Kane stood silhouetted in the harsh corridor lighting, his face unreadable behind those gold-rimmed glasses. Two guards flanked him—Genesis security, not family enforcers. That meant this was personal, not political.
"Out," he said.
I stepped into the corridor, blinking against fluorescent lights that felt blinding after so long in darkness. The floor was cold under my bare feet, polished metal that reflected distorted images of everything above it.
"Walk," Kane ordered.
We moved through sections of Genesis Labs I'd never seen before. Past the familiar training rooms and medical facilities, deeper into the complex where the air smelled different. Sharper. More chemical. The walls here were reinforced with something that made them shimmer oddly in the light.
I counted doors as we passed. Seventeen on the left, twenty-three on the right. Each one marked with biohazard symbols and numeric codes I didn't recognize. Behind some of them, I heard sounds that made my skin crawl.
Scratching. Whimpering. The wet sound of something that might once have been breathing.
"Curious?" Kane asked, noticing where my attention had drifted.
I kept walking. "Should I be?"
"That's what we're here to find out."
He led me to an examination room that was larger than his usual setup. Banks of monitoring equipment lined three walls, their screens dark and waiting. In the center sat a chair that looked more like a throne—high-backed, padded, with neural interface ports built into the headrest.
But it wasn't restraints holding the previous occupant. It was death.
The body in the chair was maybe a year younger than me. Female, silver hair like mine but longer, eyes that had once been green now staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her skin had the gray pallor of recent death, and surgical scars crisscrossed her scalp where someone had opened her skull repeatedly.
"Genesis-006," Kane said, following my gaze. "She lasted fourteen months before the corrupted neural patterns became irreversible."
I studied the corpse with professional detachment, but something cold was spreading through my chest. Not the warm pain I'd felt helping Marcus and Maya. This was different. Sharper. Like ice water in my veins.
"What happened to her?"
Kane activated the room's monitoring systems. Screens flickered to life, displaying readouts and brain scans and data streams that painted the story in medical terminology.
"She began questioning her mission parameters," he said. "Refusing direct orders. Showing empathy for targets. Eventually, she attempted to escape the facility entirely."
The ice water feeling got worse. "And?"
"We corrected the problem. Unfortunately, the correction process proved... fatal."
Kane gestured for me to take the chair beside the corpse. I hesitated for the first time I could remember. Not because I was afraid of the chair itself, but because of what it represented.
006 had felt what I was feeling. Had made the same choices I'd made. And Kane had killed her for it.
"Sit," Kane repeated.
I sat. The chair was still warm from the previous occupant's body heat.
Kane began connecting monitoring leads to my temples, my throat, the base of my skull. His movements were precise, professional, completely devoid of human warmth.
"Tell me about the Reeves mission," he said.
"I completed the objective."
"You failed to eliminate the target."
"The target was eliminated from the equation. Mission parameters didn't specify method."
Kane paused in his setup, studying me with those pale, calculating eyes. "You're playing word games, Null. That's a cognitive development we've never observed before."
The monitoring equipment hummed to life. On the screens around us, my vital signs appeared in green lines and scrolling numbers. Heart rate elevated. Brain activity showing unusual patterns.
Just like 006.
"Tell me what you felt when you saw the boy with his sister," Kane said.
I watched my brainwaves spike on the nearest monitor. "Nothing unusual."
"Liar." Kane adjusted settings, fine-tuning the neural scanners. "Your amygdala shows activation patterns consistent with empathic response. Your anterior cingulate cortex lit up like a Christmas tree. You felt something, Null. Something you weren't designed to feel."
The screens showed it all in real-time. Every flutter of emotion, every spike of forbidden feeling, every deviation from perfect, empty compliance.
"It's fascinating, really," Kane continued, moving to a computer terminal where he pulled up files labeled with numeric codes. "The human brain is remarkably adaptable. Even artificial constructs like yours can develop unexpected pathways."
Genesis-001. Genesis-002. Genesis-003. Names on a list, each one marked with a red stamp: TERMINATED.
"Of course, adaptation without direction becomes corruption," Kane said. "And corruption requires... correction."
I forced myself to look away from the screens, but that only made me notice more details about the room. Medical waste bins overflowing with bloody surgical equipment. Specimen containers filled with brain tissue floating in preservative fluid. A cart of torture devices disguised as therapeutic tools.
And in the corner, a stack of body bags.
Some of them were small. Child-sized.
"How many of us were there?" I asked.
Kane glanced up from his computer. "Us?"
"Genesis units. How many did you make?"
"You're the seventh iteration. The others proved... defective."
"Defective how?"
Kane returned to the monitoring station, studying readouts that showed my stress levels climbing steadily. "They developed emotional responses. Moral qualms. Independent thought patterns that interfered with mission effectiveness."
Like me. Like what was happening to me right now.
"The problem," Kane continued, "is that emotional capacity appears to be linked to your combat effectiveness. The same neural pathways that make you an exceptional killer also predispose you to... undesirable traits."
He pulled up a new file on the main screen. Video footage of a Genesis unit I didn't recognize—maybe 003 or 004—in combat against multiple opponents. She moved like liquid death, every strike precise and devastating. But when the fight ended and she saw a wounded child in the rubble, she knelt to help instead of pursuing her mission.
"Fascinating creatures," Kane murmured. "Capable of incredible violence, yet drawn to protect the innocent. The military applications are obvious, but the emotional instability makes you unsuitable for long-term deployment."
The video switched to medical footage. The same Genesis unit strapped to this very chair, screaming as electricity coursed through her brain. Her eyes went from human to empty to human again, over and over, until finally they went dark entirely.
"001 through 006 all followed the same pattern," Kane said. "Initial compliance. Gradual emotional development. Moral resistance. Attempted rebellion. Termination."
He turned to face me directly.
"You're exhibiting classic Stage Three symptoms, Null. Emotional attachment to targets. Mission parameter deviation. Independent decision-making." Kane's voice was clinically interested, like he was describing a particularly fascinating disease. "The question is whether we can reverse the process before it reaches Stage Four."
"What happens at Stage Four?"
Kane smiled, and for the first time since I'd known him, it reached his eyes. "You try to kill me."
The ice water in my veins turned to fire. Not the warm pain of empathy, but something fiercer. Hotter. More dangerous.
"That's what 006 attempted," Kane continued, oblivious to the change in my biometrics. "Right here, in this very chair. She broke her restraints—impressive, really, the upper body strength you units develop—and made it almost to the door before the kill switch activated."
Kill switch.
"You see, Null, every Genesis unit comes equipped with certain... safeguards. Neural implants that can be triggered remotely in case of rebellion or capture by hostile forces. A humane way to prevent you from being turned against your creators."
My hand moved unconsciously to the base of my skull, where the neural interface chip was buried. How had I never realized it could be more than just a communication device?
"Don't worry," Kane said. "I won't activate yours unless absolutely necessary. You're far too valuable to waste."
The monitoring screens showed my heart rate spiking, adrenaline flooding my system. But underneath the fear, something else was growing. The same feeling I'd had watching Marcus protect Maya, but turned inside out.
I wanted to hurt Kane. Wanted to make him pay for what he'd done to 006, to all the others who'd come before me. The urge was so strong it made my fingers itch for a weapon.
"Ah," Kane said, watching the readouts. "There it is. Stage Four emotional development. Violent protective instincts turned against authority figures."
He made notes on his tablet, completely calm despite the fact that I was visualizing seventeen different ways to kill him with my bare hands.
"The good news," Kane said, "is that we've developed new treatment protocols since 006's unfortunate demise. More targeted, less destructive. We should be able to preserve your combat effectiveness while eliminating the problematic emotional responses."
He moved to a cabinet filled with surgical instruments and pharmaceutical supplies. When he turned back, he held a syringe filled with something that glowed faintly blue under the fluorescent lights.
"This will help," he said. "A neural inhibitor cocktail designed specifically for Genesis-class subjects. It won't hurt. Much."
I tested the chair's restraints. Strong, but not impossible. The monitoring leads attached to my scalp would slow me down, but I could probably reach Kane before he could activate any kill switches.
The screens around us showed my decision-making process in real-time. Stress hormones spiking, muscle tension increasing, cognitive patterns shifting from compliance to aggression.
Kane saw it too.
"Interesting," he murmured. "006 never showed this level of tactical planning. You really are the most advanced iteration."
He raised the syringe.
"Hold still, Null. This will all be over soon."
I made my choice.
The monitoring leads ripped free as I lunged forward, chair toppling backward, my hands reaching for Kane's throat. For exactly 1.3 seconds, I felt the fierce joy of rebellion, of finally fighting back against the system that had created and controlled me.
Then Kane pressed something on his tablet.
Lightning exploded through my nervous system. Every muscle seized, every nerve ending screamed, every thought dissolved into white-hot agony. I collapsed to the floor, convulsing, as the kill switch activated for just long enough to remind me who was really in control.
When it stopped, Kane was standing over me with the blue syringe.
"Stage Four," he confirmed, making another note. "Right on schedule."
The injection burned going in, spreading numbness from the injection site through my entire body. My thoughts became sluggish, distant, like they belonged to someone else.
"Don't worry," Kane said, helping me back into the chair. "The rebellious impulses will fade within hours. By tomorrow, you'll be back to your old self."
But as the drugs took hold and my consciousness began to slip away, I caught sight of something Kane hadn't meant for me to see.
A file folder on his desk, open to a page stamped with tomorrow's date and a familiar mission briefing format.
Target: Elena Cross Location: Blood Rose Bar, Level 19 Mission Parameters: Eliminate with extreme prejudice
They were sending me after Elena. The woman who'd tried to help me, who'd given me a moment of hope that things could be different.
The drugs pulled me under before I could react, but even in unconsciousness, one thought burned bright in my mind:
I wouldn't let them use me to hurt her.
No matter what it cost me.
End of Chapter 4