Blare! The alarm flared to life, the sterile lab flickering between harsh white and blood-red light.
Axel rushed to the console, brow furrowed, the red glow reflecting across his face. This… just what is this? His fingers danced across the keyboard in frantic rhythm, the erratic hum of machines overlapping with the wail of the siren.
"What's wrong?" a panicked voice shouted behind him, jolting him from his thoughts.
"I… I don't know!" he yelled back, his voice cracking under the weight of frustration. His hands trembled as he stopped typing, hands hovering over the keyboard. I can't fix it if I don't even know what's wrong.
"What do you mean you don't know?" the voice snapped, and the owner—Ophelia—shoved him aside, her small frame somehow finding strength in desperation.
"Something has to be wrong!" she said, fingers clattering against the keys, her hands a blur as she cycled through the programs. Lines of code and diagrams raced across the glowing monitors, her reflection warped by the shifting light.
Axel turned away, hands locked behind his head. His gaze swept the lab: polished steel surfaces, cold glass panels, and cables strewn like veins across the floor, cut off unevenly. The faint smell of ozone and burning plastic permeating the air.
His gaze stopped on it, the machine.
It stood at the center of the lab, circular, like a metallic ring suspended by pillars of metallic frames. Its core pulsed with spiraling colors—violet, blue, crimson—twisting together in a mesmerizing pattern. It should've been beautiful, a fun project, a teleporter, but now it felt eerie and wrong, it was working or it looked like it, but something wrong was behind that cacophony of colors, Sinister.
We cut the power. We severed every cable… so why is it still running?
The floor thrummed beneath his boots, the vibration faint but rising. He followed the disconnected cords that trailed uselessly from the machine's base. Nothing made sense.
And the adults are nowhere to be found… He scratched his head hard, yanking at his hair. No. They're gone. Dead…or worse, no matter how hard I try to deny it.
He swallowed the thought as he remembered the screams—those haunting echoes as they all walked willingly into the machine, blank-eyed, mechanical. Husks of people. He'd tried to stop them, but they hadn't even looked at him.
He turned to Ophelia again—her face pale but focused, hands trembling yet relentless. Even after everything, she still held on.
Then a glint caught his eye—a red flash from the machine. Not the emergency lights or the portal, something beyond it, Something deeper.
Axel's throat tightened. He turned slowly, scanning the chamber. Nothing, no movement, no sound but the pulse of the machine still running. He exhaled shakily.
Then, two orbs, no eyes, glowing, bloodshot, alive, fluttered open suddenly from the portal, staring back at him from within the swirling lights. Demonic, was all that came to his mind.
Then the world fell away, everything ceased to exist, at least for him.The siren sound dimmed to silence, the clacking of keys faded. It was just him—and those eyes. His lungs froze mid-breath, chest tightening. He felt the slow, suffocating pull of drowning, although he had never drowned before, he believed this was what it felt like, a truly awful feeling. Cold sweat rolled down his temple, a chill travelled up his spine, fear.
Then everywhere started shaking, not from him, but the world itself. His vision of the surroundings blurred as the machine convulsed, yet the red eyes were still clear to him, still staring at him. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. Some invisible force gripped him, holding his gaze captive.
Look away… look away! He screamed internally, but no sound left his lips, it was like they had been sealed. His throat burned, dry and locked.
A distorted voice cracked through the chaos, jagged and glass-like:
"You summoned me."
"Axel!"
A shout right beside his ear snapped him free. His knees buckled. He gasped for air, collapsing onto the floor, his shirt clinging cold and wet against his skin.
"Are you okay?" Ophelia's trembling voice reached him through the haze.
What am I doing? He forced a shaky smile and nodded.
"We have to go!" she said, tugging his hand, desperate. Her strength barely budged him.
Axel steadied himself and rose, scanning the room—flames now licking across panels, smoke curling into the air. A machine sparked beside him, throwing golden embers across the floor. He flinched and instinctively stepped back, glancing once more toward the portal—but the eyes were gone.
Gone? Did I imagine it?
"Let's go!" Ophelia's voice cracked, raw from smoke and fear, Her eyes glistening with tears threatening to spill. Axel managed a soft smile, patting her head.
"Alright." He took her hand and pulled toward the exit—only to stop. The door was sealed. The guards had locked it before stepping into the portal with the others.
Ophelia coughed violently, the air thick with smoke. Axel's eyes darted, searching for another way out. I need t—
BOOM!
The explosion swallowed the rest. Fire, intense heat, darkness, and then Silence.
"Mr. Steele… Mr. Steele…"
A faint voice echoed through the void. Ophelia? The tone was soft—then sharper, more urgent.
"Mr. Steele!"
Axel's eyes snapped open as he sat up. The nightmare shattered. His chest heaved. Third time this week. They're getting more frequent, he thought, rubbing his face.
"Mr. Steele." The voice again—low, taut with barely restrained irritation.
Axel looked up—and found himself staring into comically large eyes magnified by thick lenses. Ah, right. The professor.
He chuckled.
"Is my question that funny, Mr. Steele?" the man asked, tone dangerously calm.
"No—sorry, I didn't catch the question," Axel said, scratching his neck with an awkward grin.
"It's just that your glasses make you look more like a circus clown than a professor," Axel paused, Shit. Did I say that out loud?
A single cough broke the silence, sounding far too loud in the tension-filled air.
Axel cleared his throat, might as well go all the way. "Well, I guess I'm the only one bold enough to say it, but it'll do you a world of good to rid yourself of those glasses, you look plenty scary already, unless it's prescribed of course," he said with a smile.
"What was the question again?"
The professor's fists tightened. Silence stretched. A chair scraped somewhere in the room, sharp and shrill.
"Get out," the professor said, voice low and guttural.
"I didn't quite get that."
That was the final straw.
***
"So, you're telling me," a woman's voice said, smooth but edged with disbelief, "that the professor punched the table himself, Mr. Steele?"
Axel nodded. "That's exactly what happened."
"And broke his wrist doing it?"
"Yes."
The president—Miss Vesna Harris—studied him from across her sleek glass desk. Her sharp green eyes glinted behind thin lenses, the light catching on the edges of her glasses. She leaned back, the movement fluid, controlled—predatory.
Two swords hung behind her desk, their blades polished to mirror shine. Odd decor for a university president. Then again, Vesna Harris was anything but ordinary.
A Croatian prodigy—Harvard graduate at twenty, PhD by thirty. Awards lined her shelves like trophies of conquest. Yet somehow, her rise to the presidency of MIT had come too easily, too quietly, considering she was younger than most presidents.
Rumors followed her like perfume—dark whispers that she'd used more than her intellect to climb so high, her body consolidating for what she lacked, and it was indeed something most men would kill for, a perfect and fit model body, her tailored black suit fit over it perfectly, accentuating her sensual figure in a way that drew the eye without trying, leaving you speculating what's beneath.
But somehow Axel didn't buy it. Maybe it was the way she carried herself—calm, confident, radiating both danger and allure. There was something which he wasn't able to wrap his head around, but he agreed she was not the usual kind of academic.
"That's an experienced professional," Vesna said, plucking a candy from the bowl on her desk. "Does your story even sound plausible for a man his age?"
Axel smirked. "Who knows? Maybe he's got family issues. I'm not a psychologist." He reached for the candy bowl, but her gaze stopped him cold.
He raised his hands in surrender and looked away. Worth a shot.
Her heels clicked sharply as she rose, pacing behind him while flipping through his file. The sound was rhythmic, deliberate. Axel tried to look away, but somehow found himself following the sound, the subtle sway of motion.
"Since you arrived," Vesna began, "there's been an increase in violent and erratic behavior from staff." She paused, looking up. "Why do you think that is?"
Axel met her gaze with practiced nonchalance. "I don't know. But if you're implying something, you could just say it."
She sighed, rubbing her temple. "I don't accuse, Axel."
She dropped the file onto the desk. "Your record lists arrogance, laziness, and chronic tardiness."
Axel grinned. "Well, if my brilliance gets mistaken for arrogance, that's not really on me. And honestly, there's not much left here for me to learn."
Her lips curved. Dangerous. "So, you feel trapped?"
He shrugged.
"Alright then." She leaned over the desk, her hands on the surface, Axel gulped as she leaned in, yet he refused to look away. The light from the window framed her silhouette—a study in composed seduction and quiet menace.
"For three months," she said softly, "you're suspended."
Axel exhaled. "Only three? I was expecting worse."
"Oh, there's more." She turned toward the window, opening the blinds. Sunlight cut across her figure like a blade.
"First, you'll submit a written report on how you spend your suspension." She glanced at the horizon, eyes gleaming.
"And second…" She smiled faintly, watching a bird fly past.
"Survive it." She muttered inaudibly, almost to herself.
***
Axel dropped his backpack as soon as he stepped into his apartment, not caring about its fate afterwards, collapsing onto the couch.
What a drag. He thought imitating Shikamaru from Naruto.
He kneaded his forehead and sighed. "Three months, huh? That's… something."
Rising, he shrugged off his varsity jacket and wandered into the kitchen. The place was a mess—empty Red Bull cans scattered across the counter, a faint metallic hum from the mini-fridge.
He opened it—rows of energy drinks and sodas gleamed beneath the cold light. He reached for a Coke Zero, popped it open, and took a long sip.
Then he paused. His eyes landed on a rectangular package by the stairs—Amazon tape still wrapped tight.
"Oh, right. That came in today."
He picked it up—and nearly dropped it. Heavier than I remember.
A grin tugged at his lips. Not your usual delivery, huh?
He smirked. "Might as well use this break properly."
He hummed softly as he climbed the stairs, not realizing that in six months, the world would no longer be the same—nor would he.