They didn't kill him.
That was the mistake.
Mark Reves hit the metal floor hard, the impact tearing the air from his lungs. Cold rushed through his back and settled deep in his bones. For a second, his body hesitated—caught between shock and the question of whether it should keep going at all.
White light flickered overhead.
Once.
Twice.
Then steady.
"Module rejection confirmed."
The voice was calm. Clinical. Already done with him.
Mark laughed. It came out broken and dry, more breath than sound. His chest burned from the inside, every heartbeat dragging something sharp along his nerves.
They had warned him this might happen.
They had promised they could fix it.
They couldn't.
The restraints around his wrists unlocked with a dull click. Not mercy—finality. He felt the absence immediately, an empty weight where the last excuse to keep him contained had been.
Behind reinforced glass, silhouettes shifted. White coats. Black uniforms. People who never bled where they stood.
"Prototype Mark Reves," someone said.
"Status: failed."
A brief pause.
"Dispose of him."
No anger.
No hesitation.
The door at the end of the chamber slid open. Cold night air rushed in, carrying rain, rust, and the city's rot. Two guards dragged Mark across the sterile floor, his boots scraping uselessly behind him.
Pain flared with every step. The module inside his body pulsed—irregular, violent—like a machine refusing to accept the wrong host.
They didn't slow down.
They threw him out.
Concrete slammed into his shoulder as he rolled into a narrow alley. Rain-soaked asphalt bit into his palms. Neon light flickered at the street's edge, painting the walls in sickly color.
The door behind him shut.
Locked.
Just like that, the project ended.
Mark lay still, breath shallow, rain running down his face. His fingers twitched on their own, muscles contracting without permission.
Pain followed. Deep. Relentless.
[System instability detected.]
[Synchronization failure: critical.]
The message burned across his vision—then vanished.
Mark clenched his teeth.
"So you're still there," he muttered.
He tried to push himself up.
His arm buckled. He hit the ground again, coughing as something warm filled his mouth. Blood. He spat it onto the concrete and exhaled slowly.
They called him a failure.
Failures didn't survive this long.
Footsteps echoed from the alley entrance.
Careless.
Unhurried.
Three figures stepped into the light. Street gear. Sharp eyes. One of them noticed Mark's movement and smiled.
"Lucky night," the man said. "Someone already took out the trash."
Mark forced himself upright. His muscles screamed. His timing felt wrong—lagged, unstable—but instinct rose anyway, old and beaten into him during training.
No techniques.
No calculations.
Survive.
The first man rushed him.
Mark stepped forward instead of back.
The punch wasn't clean or precise. It was heavy, ugly, driven by everything he had left. Bone met bone with a wet crack. Both of them staggered.
Pain exploded up Mark's arm.
Good.
Pain meant he was still conscious.
As the second attacker moved, the module inside him surged again—wild, unstable.
[Warning: continued exertion may result in system collapse.]
Mark grinned, blood running down his chin.
"Collapse later," he whispered.
"I'm busy."
He lunged.
End of Chapter 1