Toronto, Ontario – August 15, 2025. 7:42 p.m. EST.
The basement lab smelled of ozone and antiseptic, undercut by the faint metallic bite of overheated circuitry. Elias Crowe preferred it that way—clean, controlled, no room for sentiment. The single bulb overhead cast harsh shadows across the steel workbench, illuminating rows of petri dishes, centrifuge tubes, and the sleek black syringe that held his life's work.
He was twenty-eight, though most people guessed younger. Five-foot-seven on a good day, skinny in the way that suggested he forgot meals when equations demanded attention. His skin was a deep, warm brown that caught the light like polished walnut. Curly Afro cropped close on the sides but full on top, framing a face that was almost unfairly symmetrical—high cheekbones, full lips, and those eyes. Purple. Not violet, not hazel tricked by light. True, unnatural amethyst. He'd worn contacts in public since high school. People asked if they were custom. He let them think whatever flattered their curiosity.
Elias adjusted the magnification on the microscope, peering at melanocyte cultures from Subject 3—Malik, thirty-two, former paramedic, volunteered after watching his sister die from melanoma complications. The cells had proliferated beautifully under the serum. Melanin production up 42%. Not just quantity—quality. The eumelanin strands were denser, more efficient at dissipating UV as harmless heat. Pheomelanin minimized. No oxidative stress markers.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders. The lab was buried beneath a derelict warehouse in Scarborough, rent paid in cash under a shell company. No grants, no oversight. Just him, the work, and five consenting adults who trusted science more than hope.
He opened his leather journal—black, unlined, the kind that felt substantial in hand—and wrote:
Date: 15 August 2025
Trial Phase 4 – Day 92 post-initial dosing
Subject 1 (Jamal): Reported 22% increase in tensile skin strength after controlled UV exposure. No blistering. Emotional affect: mild euphoria, attributed to endorphin feedback loop.
Subject 2 (Talia): Night vision acuity improved; low-light contrast detection up 31%. Notes minor tingling in extremities during stress—possible bioelectric amplification side effect.
Subject 3 (Malik): Melanocyte biopsy shows cross-linked polymers stable. Antioxidant capacity equivalent to SPF 200+ natural barrier. Subject requests repeat dose for family member. Denied—ethics board of one says no scaling yet.
Subject 4 (Aisha): Emotional baseline elevated. Reports "feeling lighter." Possible placebo or genuine neural pathway enhancement via melanin-mediated serotonin modulation.
Subject 5 (Kwame): No measurable change beyond baseline. Outlier. Monitoring for rejection.
He paused, pen hovering. Then added:
Self-assessment: Progress steady. No euphoria here. Just certainty. This isn't vanity. It's reclamation. Centuries of telling us our skin is a curse when it's the shield evolution forgot to advertise. If I can prove it amplifies beyond protection—strength, resilience, maybe more—then the world changes. Quietly. On our terms.
He closed the journal with a soft snap.
Outside, the city hummed. August heat lingered even after sunset, thick and humid. Streetlights flickered along Eglinton Avenue East. Cars crawled past the warehouse, drivers oblivious to the man below rewriting biology in a concrete tomb.
Elias walked to the small fridge in the corner—stocked with energy drinks and leftover jollof from his mother's care packages. He popped a can, the hiss loud in the quiet. Took a sip. Cold carbonation cut through the lab's staleness.
His phone buzzed on the bench. Aisha.
"Hey, Doc." Her voice warm, teasing. "You still down there playing god?"
"Playing scientist," he corrected, lips curving. "God has better lighting."
She laughed. "Malik said the serum made him feel… invincible. Like he could walk through fire. You sure this stuff isn't addictive?"
"It's melanin. Not heroin. The high is evolutionary advantage."
"Poetic. You coming up for air tonight? Group's meeting at the spot. Kwame's buying rounds."
Elias glanced at the syringe. One dose left—his contingency. He'd never intended to use it on himself. Too many variables. But the thought lingered, a quiet itch.
"Not tonight," he said. "Data to crunch."
"You always say that. One day you'll wake up and realize the world's passing you by."
"The world's already passed most of us by. I'm just catching up for everyone."
A pause. Then softer: "Be careful, Elias. Whatever you're chasing… don't lose yourself in it."
He ended the call without replying. Set the phone face-down.
He returned to the workbench, fingers tracing the syringe's plunger. The serum inside caught the light—deep, iridescent black, like liquid night.
One more test, he thought. Then we publish. Anonymously. Let the data speak.
He didn't hear the first distant rumble. Thought it was thunder. Toronto summers had storms.
But the sky outside was clear.
Washington D.C. – Same day, 8:19 p.m. EST (White House Situation Room, sub-level 3)
General Marcus Harlan stared at the wall of screens. Solar observatories feeding live data. Coronal holes widening. Particle flux spiking.
"NOAA says it's a G5 event incoming," the analyst said. "But models are… inconsistent. Like something's accelerating it."
Harlan rubbed his jaw. "Cosmic ray burst? From where?"
"Unknown origin. Extragalactic, maybe. Or artificial. We're getting anomalies in the upper atmosphere already."
A junior officer spoke up. "Sir, public panic if grids fail. We've got black-start protocols, but—"
"Keep it contained," Harlan snapped. "No leaks. Tell FEMA it's a drill."
He didn't believe his own words. The auroras starting over Alaska weren't drills.
Lagos, Nigeria – August 16, 2025 (local time adjustment), 2:45 a.m.
In a rooftop bar overlooking Victoria Island, a man named Ade watched the sky turn violet. Power had flickered earlier—common enough—but this felt different.
His phone died mid-text. Then the streetlights below winked out in waves.
People screamed. Cars stalled.
Ade felt something stir inside him. Electricity crackling along his veins. He raised a hand. Sparks danced between fingers.
He grinned. "Finally."
Toronto – 3:12 a.m., August 18, 2025
Elias was alone again. He'd stayed late, running one final simulation.
The first wave hit without warning.
The building shook. Lights exploded in showers of sparks. Glass shattered upstairs.
Elias grabbed the bench for balance. His vision swam purple.
Then pain—searing, bone-deep. The syringe—knocked from its stand—tumbled toward him. He reached instinctively.
The needle pierced his forearm. Plunger depressed fully.
Serum flooded his system.
He dropped to his knees.
No. Not yet. Not like this.
His skin burned. Then cooled. Melanin surged—every cell drinking the invading energy like parched earth after rain.
The cosmic storm poured through concrete, invisible fire rewriting him.
When the initial wave passed, Elias rose slowly.
His reflection in a cracked monitor: eyes brighter purple, glowing faintly. On his left pectoral, beneath torn shirt fabric, a new mark: a single black fractal rune, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He touched it. Warm. Alive.
Outside, the city was dark. Screams echoed. Fires bloomed.
Elias smiled—small, private, dangerous.
"The quiet before," he murmured. "Ended."
He stepped toward the stairs. Journal still clutched in one hand.
The world had changed.
He would change with it.
(End of Chapter 1)