Darkness was never truly silent.
Ryan realized that before he realized he was no longer awake.
There was no ground beneath him, yet he wasn't falling. No air, yet he could breathe. The darkness pressed against him from all sides, dense and alive, like a thought that refused to be forgotten.
Then came the voice.
"Ryan."
His chest tightened instantly.
That voice didn't belong here.
It was older than the silence. Familiar in a way that hurt.
"Dad…?" The word escaped him, fragile and uncertain, as if saying it too loudly would break whatever illusion this was.
"This is a recorded message," the voice said calmly.
The certainty in it shattered Ryan's hope.
Not a hallucination.
Not a dream.
Something worse.
"I placed this message inside your brain," his father continued. "It was designed to activate only when the conditions were met. When you were ready."
Ryan tried to speak. His thoughts raced, colliding with questions he couldn't slow down.
You're dead.I buried you.I watched them lower your coffin.
"You will have many questions," the voice said, anticipating him. "I know that. But you won't get answers now."
The darkness rippled, like a pond disturbed by a stone.
"Not because I don't trust you," his father added. "But because the truth, too early, would destroy you."
Ryan felt pressure behind his eyes. Images flickered—labs, needles, cold steel, screaming alarms—gone before he could grasp them.
"To find the answers," the voice continued, "you must find Doctor Norton."
The name echoed unnaturally, imprinting itself into Ryan's mind with surgical precision.
"He works for the CIA," his father said. "He always has."
Ryan's heart pounded.
Find him. CIA. Why CIA?
"Remember this carefully," the voice said, tone sharpening. "Do not trust anyone."
The hum beneath the darkness deepened, vibrating through Ryan's thoughts.
"Not your allies. Not your enemies. And not even the people who claim to be saving you."
Ryan felt something unlock inside his skull. A hidden door swinging open.
"My greatest creation," his father said softly, emotion bleeding through the mechanical precision, "was never a machine. It was never a weapon."
A pause.
"It was you."
The darkness closed in.
"And it always will be."
The hum faded.
"I love you, my son."
Silence detonated.
Ryan woke up screaming.
Air tore into his lungs as if he'd been underwater for years. His body jerked upright violently, muscles spasming, nerves on fire.
Reality slammed into him.
Gunshots.
Explosions.
The stench of burning fuel and blood.
He was back.
Exactly where he had fallen.
Concrete dug into his palms as he pushed himself up. His vision swam for a moment—then snapped into terrifying clarity.
He looked down.
No wounds.
No blood.
No torn flesh.
His clothes told a different story—ripped fabric, scorched edges, dried blood that wasn't his anymore.
Ryan touched his chest slowly.
Nothing.
The bullet hole that had dropped him minutes earlier was gone.
Not healed.
Erased.
"What the—"
A sharp crack split the air.
Ryan didn't think.
He knew.
He tilted his head a fraction of a second before the bullet reached him.
It missed.
Time stretched.
Ryan saw the bullet's path, its rotation, the way air resistance nudged it off-center. He could calculate where it had come from, how far the shooter was, and where the next shot would land.
All at once.
His breathing slowed.
Fear evaporated.
Something colder took its place.
Another shot.
Ryan stepped forward instead of dodging.
The bullet skimmed past his shoulder.
He smiled.
Not from joy.
From understanding.
His senses were no longer human. He could hear heartbeats—fast, panicked. Smell sweat and gun oil. Feel vibrations through the ground like echoes in bone.
Predatory awareness.
Like a lion before the kill.
The enemies hesitated.
That hesitation killed them.
Ryan moved.
The distance between him and the first man collapsed instantly. His fist struck the man's chest with a sound like breaking stone. The body flew backward, slamming into a vehicle hard enough to dent steel.
Ryan didn't pause.
He disarmed another before the man realized his weapon was gone. A twist. A snap. The arm folded in the wrong direction.
A third raised his gun.
Ryan saw the intention before the movement.
He drove his elbow into the man's throat. The body dropped, choking on silence.
Bullets followed him.
None touched him.
He flowed through the battlefield like violence given form—every strike efficient, every kill inevitable. His strength was obscene, his speed unnatural, his precision surgical.
When it ended, it ended abruptly.
Silence reclaimed the space.
Ryan stood alone among the bodies, chest rising steadily.
No pain.
No fatigue.
Only clarity.
And fear.
"What… did they do to you?"
Ryan turned.
Mr. Xero stepped out from cover, weapon lowered, eyes narrowed. He looked shaken in a way Ryan had never seen before.
"I don't know," Ryan said honestly.
Xero exhaled slowly. "Someone betrayed us. From inside."
Ryan's jaw tightened.
"We barely escaped," Xero continued. "We need to disappear. Underground. Now."
They moved fast.
Through forgotten tunnels. Past rusted doors. Into a sealed chamber buried beneath decades of neglect. Only when the steel door locked behind them did Ryan finally speak.
He told Xero everything.
The voice.
The message.
His father.
Doctor Norton.
The CIA.
Xero listened without interruption, face unreadable.
When Ryan finished, silence stretched between them.
"Your father was involved in something much bigger than we thought," Xero finally said. "If Norton is CIA… this isn't just about you."
"My father told me not to trust anyone," Ryan said quietly.
Xero met his eyes. "Then you're already doing better than most."
The United States felt wrong.
Too clean.
Too normal.
Ryan moved through it like a ghost—airports, highways, anonymous hotel rooms with locked curtains and no mirrors. Every face felt dangerous. Every sound carried intent.
He tested himself.
Reflexes beyond belief.
Strength he had to restrain.
Thoughts racing ten steps ahead of reality.
He wasn't human anymore.
Days passed.
Then the call came.
Xero.
"I found Doctor Norton," he said. "Or at least what they want us to believe."
Ryan sat up instantly. "Talk to me."
"All data on him is redacted," Xero said. "Every record wiped clean. Official files say he worked at a CIS research facility."
"And?" Ryan pressed.
"And he died five years ago."
The words hit like ice.
"That's impossible," Ryan said.
"I know," Xero replied. "Because the moment I started digging, alarms went off."
Ryan's instincts flared.
"They're watching," Xero said. "They're hunting. You and me both."
"Where are you?" Ryan asked.
"Disappearing," Xero replied. "Going underground completely. No trace."
The call crackled.
"Be careful," Xero added. "You're not just a target anymore."
The line went dead.
Ryan stared at the phone.
It rang again.
Same number.
Xero's voice this time was strained.
"There's something else," he said.
Ryan's chest tightened.
"Webber," Xero said quietly. "He sold us out."
The world slowed.
"What…?" Ryan whispered.
"He betrayed the mercenary group," Xero continued. "Every teammate we had is dead."
Ryan's legs gave way. He sank onto the bed.
"No," he said. "Not Webber."
"I'm sorry," Xero said. "Only three of us are alive now."
A pause.
"You. Me. And him."
The call ended.
Ryan didn't move.
Memories flooded in—laughing over cheap food, covering each other in firefights, promises made under collapsing skies.
Webber had been his brother.
The room felt smaller.
Ryan looked at his reflection in the dark window.
Bright blue eyes stared back—cold, inhuman.
Outside, sirens wailed.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Ryan's senses flared violently.
Multiple heartbeats.
Weapons.
They were here.
The door handle began to turn.
Ryan smiled.
Not with joy.
But with purpose.
Somewhere, Doctor Norton was supposed to be dead.
Somewhere, Webber was alive.
And someone had turned Ryan into something the world was not ready for.
The lock clicked open.
Ryan stepped forward.
To be continued…