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Somewhere on Earth – November 9th, 2024
On an unknown continent cloaked in secrecy, a nondisclosed biolab buried deep beneath a mountain range hummed with quiet menace. Its purpose? Not medicine, not advancement for mankind. No — this was a crucible for forging the future of warfare. Scientists there were knee-deep in gene-splicing experiments, seeking to blend raw human potential with carefully engineered code. The goal was clear: create a new breed of soldier — stronger, faster, immune to fear, and wholly obedient.
The world above continued as if nothing had changed.
Peter Castro had no idea such places even existed.
Born and raised in the city that never sleeps — New York, though he never liked saying the name — Peter's life was nothing to envy. His childhood was a long string of disappointments wrapped in broken promises. His father was a violent, bitter man who lashed out more often than he worked. His mother, once vibrant, had dulled into a permanent haze of alcohol and silence. Home was a warzone long before he ever picked up a weapon.
School didn't offer much of a break either. He was never top of the class, never the athletic kid, never the one people noticed. He flew under the radar. No friends worth remembering. No teachers that inspired him. Just another face in the crowd trying to make it to graduation without getting sucked into the city's many traps.
But there was one constant in his life — his grandfather.
Old Mr. Castro was everything Peter wasn't. Outspoken. Resilient. Wise in his own rough-edged way. A Vietnam vet with scars he never talked about and a knack for growing roses in places they shouldn't bloom. He believed in hard work, quiet strength, and the idea that a man shapes his own fate. He'd show Peter the stars through an old telescope and talk about alignments, fate, and destiny — as if the cosmos had a plan just for them.
"Life doesn't hand out victories," he'd say, sipping his bitter black coffee. "You take 'em. Or you get buried under someone else's."
When Peter turned eighteen, his grandfather made a choice. He took the boy in — officially. Got him into a local college, paid what little he could from his pension, and raised him the way Peter's parents never could. Under his guidance, Peter grew stronger, sharper, more focused. And more importantly, he began to believe he could be something more than just a product of his past.
After two years, the old man had one final lesson.
He pushed Peter toward the military.
"You've got fire in your belly, boy," he said. "Use it for something greater than whining. Complaining about shit and doing nothing — that's the work of women."
It was blunt. Harsh. Maybe even cruel by today's standards. But Peter didn't take offense. He never did. Because the old man never spoke to hurt. He spoke to awaken.
So Peter listened.
He enlisted.
Basic training broke him down. The U.S. Army didn't care about tragic backstories or unfulfilled potential. It tore him apart, stripped him to the bone — and then built him into something new. Discipline replaced self-pity. Strength replaced uncertainty. He didn't just survive it — he conquered it. He passed with top scores, outperformed expectations, and got fast-tracked to the Marine Corps. From there, it wasn't long before he was selected for the elite Special Forces.
That's when life stopped being a challenge — and started being a test.
Dozens of missions. Countless kills. Targets neutralized, hostages extracted, intel retrieved. He moved through war zones like a ghost, efficient and precise. His reputation grew in silence — a soldier who got the job done, no questions asked.
Then came Afghanistan.
A mission like many others — or so they were told.
Intel had pinpointed a splinter cell of a growing terrorist faction. The objective: capture their leader alive. Simple. Get in, sweep the compound, neutralize any resistance, extract the target.
But nothing about the mission was simple.
From the moment they breached the compound, something felt off. The layout was too quiet. The guards too few. The air too still.
Then came the explosion.
The bomber was disguised as a wounded civilian — prosthetic leg and all. He'd hollowed it out and hidden a reverse-engineered NATO prototype inside. A weapon stolen from a black site and turned into a makeshift apocalypse. When he detonated, it ripped through the air like thunder from hell.
Peter was closest.
He remembered the heat first — a rush of flame that seared his skin and melted the world into white noise. Then came the sound, or rather the absence of it. Like the world had gone mute. Bodies flew. Metal twisted. Blood sprayed the walls like crimson paint.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He should've died. Everyone else did.
But when he woke up — not in a hospital, but in a dimly lit underground lab — something had changed.
The pain was gone. His wounds were healed. Too quickly. Too perfectly.
And the people in white coats watching him from behind reinforced glass?
They weren't doctors.
They were researchers.
"What in the actual fuck?" he wondered
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