The moment he stepped into the lab wing, Sol's gaze locked onto the glass partition ahead.

  On the other side, under harsh white lights, a boy about his age lay strapped to an operating table. A control collar dug into his neck. His chest was open, his body limp as masked figures in gowns moved around him, calmly lifting organs into metal trays.

  Piece by piece.

  Sol's hands curled into fists.

  His face went cold, shadows cutting hard lines across his features.

  Josh noticed.

  "See that?" the guard said, voice flat with cruelty. "He's done. Just recycling waste."

  He tilted his head, eyes glittering as he looked back at Sol.

  "Don't worry," Josh added, a slow, ugly smile spreading. "He won't be alone for long. You'll join him soon enough."

  He laughed, loud and harsh, the sound echoing off tile and metal. It was the kind of laugh that came from hatred honed over time—hatred for ability users.

  Footsteps approached.

  A group of researchers in white coats came down the corridor, the scent of disinfectant and latex growing stronger. The man at the front—a middle-aged researcher with graying hair and tired eyes—stopped in front of Sol and gave him a clinical once-over.

  Dark brown hair. Pale skin under the fluorescent lights. Blue eyes that still burned despite everything.

  "Is this Subject Twenty-Eight?" the man asked, his tone bored as he glanced at the file in his hand.

  "Yeah, that's him," Josh said behind Sol.

  He shoved.

  Sol's body tilted forward—then slipped sideways at the last second, the push swiping past his shoulder instead of into his back.

  Josh blinked.

  "Huh?"

  He reached out again, irritation flashing. Sol shifted just out of reach once more, eyes calm, movements small but precise.

  "Daring to dodge now?" Josh growled, temper flaring.

  The lead researcher's expression creased with mild disgust, as if a piece of equipment had malfunctioned.

  "Subject Twenty-Eight," he said, frowning. "What are you doing? I advise you not to resist. Or else…"

  He didn't think the collared boy could cause much trouble. But resistance meant delays, and delays meant wasted experimental time.

  "Kid, you're dead," Josh sneered, lips pulling back from his teeth. "You really think you can act up now?"

  Cruel amusement sparked in his eyes. He was already picturing how hard he'd hit.

  Around them, a few nearby researchers slowed to watch. This kind of scene was familiar—another freak flailing before the inevitable. Their faces showed morbid curiosity, not concern.

  They all expected the same ending.

  The freak beaten down.

  Dragged to the table.

  Sol's expression didn't change.

  "You're the ones who are going to suffer," he said quietly.

  The words were soft.

  They cut sharper than a shout.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  Then Sol's right hand snapped up, fingers steady, aimed not at a person—but at the core of his own collar.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  [Dark Projectile Experience +1]

  A pinch of impossible darkness flared at his fingertip and shot forward in a tight, precise line.

  The world seemed to hiccup.

  The core of the collar vanished—devoured in an instant. Metal and circuitry around it warped, twisted, and then snapped. The control device on the nearby wall sparked as the distortion clipped it. The metal panel buckled inward with a wet crunch, the mounted controller tearing free.

  Gasps erupted.

  "What—?"

  "My God!"

  Josh and the researchers lurched back, faces draining of color as the shattered remains of the collar clanged to the floor.

  "Stop!" someone shouted.

  "What are you doing?!"

  Panic replaced boredom in an instant. The middle-aged researcher's composure shattered, his hand clenched around his clipboard hard enough to crumple it. Josh's mouth moved, but no words came out at first.

  Sol turned toward them.

  He lifted his hand again, eyes colder than the steel around them.

  "I'm going to let you taste death," he said, voice flat and deadly. "You scum."

  His finger pointed at Josh first. Then at the lead researcher.

  [Dark Projectile Experience +1]

  [Dark Projectile Experience +1]

  Two streams of black particles launched one after another—too fast for a normal human to follow. They crossed the short distance in a blink and punched into their targets.

  "Ah—!"

  Josh's scream tore through the room as he staggered back, clutching at his chest. His eyes bulged, confusion and horror warring on his face as his fingers met not just blood, but a section of himself that simply… wasn't there.

  Another shriek.

  The middle-aged researcher doubled over, a hole torn clean through his lab coat and the flesh beneath. Someone behind him, caught in the line of fire, collapsed too, howling.

  Chaos exploded.

  Blood hit the tiles. Instruments clattered to the floor. The three remaining researchers scrambled backward, shoving each other in their haste to flee, the calm order of the lab dissolving into screams and scrambling footsteps.

  "This is impossible!" Josh gasped, voice shaking. "How—how can you have that kind of power?!"

  "It doesn't make sense," the wounded researcher choked out from the ground, eyes wide with disbelief. "Subject Twenty-Eight was useless—just some sunlight absorber with a weak force release—"

  Their memory of him didn't match what they were seeing now.

  When did he learn to fire beams that erased matter?

  Sol's shadow fell over Josh's face.

  He raised his hand once more, this time aiming for the guard's head.

  Terror broke whatever scrap of bravado Josh had left.

  "Don't—don't do it," he babbled, voice cracking. "Wait—"

  Sol's boot came down on his face, grinding his cheek into the cold floor. Josh groaned, hands scrabbling weakly at Sol's ankle.

  "Where's that attitude from before?" Sol asked softly, a thin smile curving his lips. "Weren't you tough?"

  "I…" Rage and hate flared in Josh's eyes, but fear smothered them just as quickly. His jaw trembled. "Don't kill—"

  [Dark Projectile Experience +1]

  The next bolt of blackness cut his plea short.

  It struck his head with a sickening, muted sound. For a moment, Josh twitched once—and then went limp. A dark, viscous fluid began to leak from his nostrils, staining the white floor beneath him.

  Silence rang in Sol's ears, louder than the screams.

  A strange, grim satisfaction surged up from somewhere deep, easing a pressure he hadn't realized had been crushing his chest this whole time.

  He didn't let himself sink into it.

  No time.

  He stepped off the corpse and moved.

  In two strides, he was at the side of the fallen middle-aged researcher, who was still conscious, wheezing shallowly, eyes glazed with pain and terror.

  Sol ignored the man's panicked stare and quickly patted down his lab coat.

  "What are you doing?!" the researcher—Youssef—croaked, voice raw with fear.

  Sol didn't answer.

  His fingers closed around a rectangular piece of plastic and metal.

  ID card.

  He yanked it free—then froze for a heartbeat.

  Papers had scattered when Youssef fell, fanning out across the floor. Some were splashed with blood. A few had bolded headings. One page, half-crumpled, caught Sol's eye.

  His name.

  Subject Twenty-Eight.

  He snatched it up and scanned the text, eyes racing over clinical lines of print.

  'Subject Twenty-Eight, a failed genetic experiment using genes from other ability users, The Professor and Brainwave to strengthen his own.'

  The words punched the air out of his lungs.

  Failed genetic experiment.

  Using genes from Brainwave and The Professor.

  His hands tightened around the page until the paper crinkled.

  What… does that even mean?

  He saw flashes in his mind—Brainwave holding up a building with nothing but willpower, The Professor's psychic reach, the Alpha-level legends whispered about both of them.

  Had they cut pieces out of those monsters and tried to stitch them into him?

  "In some sense… they're not just suppressing ability users," he thought, stunned. "They're trying to make stronger ones."

  Why?

  Was this about building their own army? Replicating top abilities so they no longer needed the originals? Creating weapons that could challenge—or kill—people like Brainwave and The Professor?

  Preparing for war?

  His thoughts scattered as a harsh, piercing wail split the air.

  Alarms.

  Red lights began to flash along the ceiling, bathing the white walls in pulsing color.

  He snapped back to the present.

  No more time.

  He folded the document once, stuffed it and the other related pages under his shirt, and grabbed the ID card properly.

  Then he ran.

  His footsteps pounded against the metal floor as he sprinted toward the heavy exit door at the end of the corridor, the ID already in his hand.

  Behind him, Youssef and the other wounded researcher writhed on the tiles.

  Sol didn't turn back.

  He didn't need to.

  He'd seen the wounds Dark Projectile left—more than holes. Missing flesh. Missing chunks of whatever it touched. Not something a quick bandage could fix.

  The blood loss. The torn organs.

  They would die slowly.

  Painfully.

  And he had an exit to carve open before this whole place came down on his head.