The soft, rhythmic beep… beep… beep… of a monitoring machine echoed through the vacant room.
A figure sat hunched in the far corner, back against the white wall, head bowed as though still trapped inside a dream—or a nightmare.
Then, suddenly, he jolted awake.
"Huh—huh… what happened?" Dr. Nathan's breath stumbled out of him in uneven bursts. His eyes—dull blue, trembling—darted across the room. The place was sterile, silent… too silent. "W-Where am I?"
His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall.
A cold shiver crawled up his spine.
The digital numbers were frozen.
Unmoving.
Dead.
Seconds trickled by, and then—like a door suddenly bursting open—yesterday's events slammed into him.
The scream.
The bones cracking.
The wings.
The child floating.
The halo.
The bleeding of his eyes.
The voice—
All of it rushed through him in jagged, dizzy flashes.
"Y-Yes… the Divine-tier gene awakened." His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a man trying—and failing—to convince himself the impossible was real. He forced himself to look across the room, toward the elevated glass platform holding the subject.
His eyes widened.
The child lay there, peacefully.
Sleeping.
As if none of the horrors of last night had ever happened.
"…That's not what happened," he muttered, stepping closer with cautious, trembling steps. His brows creased. "This isn't right."
He shut his eyes, forcing his mind to dig deeper. At first, the memories came in blurry fragments… then they sharpened.
The screams.
The wings tearing through flesh.
The room freezing over.
The halo.
The faceless child.
The sound that wasn't from the air, but from inside his skull—
A sharp, icy whisper stabbed into his mind.
DO NOT BEHOLD THE DIVINE.
Dr. Nathan gasped, hands flying to his head as he collapsed to his knees.
"Argh—Arghhh!"
His teeth gnashed together as the invisible pressure tightened. It felt like claws were tearing through the inside of his skull. He plucked at his hair—dark ash strands scattering around him—as agony pulsated behind his eyes.
"H-How can a beast… have such presence… such will—" His voice broke into a painful groan as he writhed on the cold floor. "Wh-What kind of… thing… did we awaken…?"
And just as abruptly as it began, the assault ceased.
He lay there panting, chest rising and falling in ragged waves. Slowly, clarity crawled back into his gaze.
And then he saw it.
His reflection in the shattered metal cabinet nearby.
A man barely holding himself together.
Disheveled ash hair.
Bloodshot, exhausted eyes.
Half-broken glasses dangling off one ear.
Lab coat creased and stained from a night of terror.
He touched his eyelids.
"…My eyes aren't bleeding."
He blinked.
No pain.
No blood.
No damage.
"Yesterday… my eyes were crushed. Blood poured out…" He whispered, horrified. "So how… how is everything intact? Was it all an illusion?"
No.
He knew illusions.
He had experimented with mind-types his entire life.
That wasn't hallucination.
That was reality bending.
He swallowed hard.
Carefully—very carefully—he turned back toward the glass bed.
And froze.
"…Impossible."
The bed.
The encasement.
The shattered equipment.
All of it—perfect.
Repaired.
Untouched.
As if nothing had ever broken.
"I watched it explode," he whispered, stepping backward. "I heard it shatter. I saw the wings tear through it. I saw—"
He stopped.
A slow, creeping dread climbed up his spine.
"This… might not be a beast," he said, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and reluctant awe. "Not a creature of earth. Not a product of science." He looked at the child—small, peaceful, breathing gently.
"…A being close to a god."
He let out a hollow, shaky laugh—one twisted by disbelief and exhaustion.
"Look at me," he muttered, dragging a hand across his face. "Boasting about taming this one. Dreaming of controlling it. Hah… truly pitiful."
His laugh died.
His eyes sharpened.
"No matter," he whispered, a darker glint settling behind his pupils. "I have seen enough. I know what he is."
He straightened, wiping his glasses with trembling fingers.
"And that… changes everything."
He looked once more at the sleeping child—no, the entity—lying on the pristine bed.
"His family will be compensated fully. Ownership of the subject… will be finalized." He exhaled slowly. "Now that the Divine-tier bloodline has manifested… no one can challenge our claim."
His hand hovered against the glass.
A faint warmth radiated from the child.
Unnatural.
Ancient.
Alive.
Dr. Nathan stepped back.
"…To think a being of this caliber is in human form," he whispered. "A weapon beyond governments. Beyond nations."
A pause.
He smiled—small, strained, but filled with something frightening.
"A new dawn is coming."
The lights flickered.
For half a second, the halo flickered above the child's head.
Faint.
Translucent.
But unmistakably real.
Dr. Nathan's heart dropped into his stomach.
Then the lights returned to normal.
He blinked rapidly.
"…Cliffhangers," he breathed out, trying to convince himself he imagined it. "I hate them."
But the truth lingered in the air like a whisper:
The Divine had awakened.
And nothing would ever be the same again.