Oh, so you're awake. Good. I was starting to wonder if something went wrong," said a voice through a speaker nestled in the top-left corner of the room. It was distorted, mechanical — like someone speaking through broken radio static.
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. "Welcome to the afterlife, Pete."
The voice carried a sarcastic tone, half-amused, half-sinister.
Pete blinked hard against the warm fluorescence that filled the room. His head throbbed. Limbs ached, but strangely — no open wounds, no bandages, nothing to show for the blast that had nearly killed him. It didn't make sense.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, eyes scanning the ceiling. "Where the hell am I?"
"Someone," the voice replied, "somewhere."
Another laugh.
"Welcome to Haven."
"Haven?" Pete's voice sharpened.
"Yes. You are one lucky bastard to be alive, Pete…"
"That's Castro to you, mister..."
A sigh followed. Tired. Drawn out.
"Maxwell," the voice said finally. "Just Maxwell. Now, as I was saying — you're lucky. You shouldn't be alive. Not right now. Count your stars."
Pete sat up slowly. His muscles were stiff, but functioning. Too well. That wasn't normal.
He glanced around. The room was small — just wide enough to pace a few steps in either direction. He lay on a sterile metal bed with white and blue sheets tucked so tightly it looked like a hotel maid's obsession. The walls were bone-white, with no visible seams or doors. A single fluorescent tube ran across the ceiling, casting a warm but artificial glow.
On one side of the room was a large pane of black glass. One-way mirror — obvious. He couldn't see them, but they were watching. He felt it.
An alias, probably. Maxwell didn't sound real.
"Where are my friends?" he asked suddenly, throat tight.
"What about them?"
"Are they… somehow alive?"
A beat of silence.
"No," Maxwell answered. "While you were closest to the explosion, Lieutenant Garcia saw something fishy and pushed you out of the blast zone at the last second. A true hero move."
The voice dropped slightly.
"It cost him his life. But not to worry — their deaths were swift and painless."
Pete's jaw tightened.
"I… I see," he said softly, mind reeling.
Another voice cut in — feminine this time, but equally distorted. High-pitched and playful, but tinged with something darker beneath the static.
"Yes," she chimed, "though you were grievously injured, you did survive. Much like a cockroach." She giggled.
"Huh. Maybe we should've spliced you with one."
Pete blinked.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Oh, nothing you should worry about, Mr. Castro," the man replied this time. "All in a days work."
"Nothing I should be worried about?" Pete snapped, standing now, fists clenched. "With all due respect — I'm supposed to be dead, and yet here I am. No injuries. No explanations. In a strange white cell talking to faceless voices who won't even use their real ones, and you think I shouldn't be worried?"
He paced toward the mirror.
"My brother in Christ, 'worried' is a goddamn understatement."
Maxwell let out a low, amused chuckle.
"Yet you seem so calm," he said. "Why is that?"
Pete stared at his reflection in the glass — or what was supposed to be his reflection. The lighting created a faint shadow, just enough to see his face.
But it wasn't quite right.
His skin looked cleaner than it ever had, flushed with color. Eyes — brighter, almost glowing. Hair — perfectly trimmed. He looked… better. Stronger. Like the best version of himself — yet somehow, it felt wrong. Unnatural.it caused a shiver down his spine.
He didn't answer Maxwell. Didn't want to give them the satisfaction.
A quiet buzz filled the room. Pete looked up. The fluorescent light flickered, briefly dimming.
Maxwell continued.
"You've been under for three weeks," he said. "We weren't sure you'd stabilize."
"Stabilize… from what, exactly?" Pete asked, voice low.
Another pause. The woman answered this time.
"GENESIS. You've heard of it, haven't you?"
The word sent a chill down his spine. He'd heard whispers — classified briefings, rumours tossed around in hushed tones during black ops training. GENESIS was the supposed name of a defunct military super soldier initiative — one no one wanted to admit existed.
"I'm not part of your damn project," Pete growled.
"Oh, but you are," she replied, almost giddy. "You're the only one who survived full splicing. Technically, you're a miracle."
"Technically, you're a prisoner," Maxwell added.
Pete stepped closer to the mirror. "The only one?"
Silence.
Then, Maxwell spoke flatly.
"Yes. Gene-spicing is quite the delicate practice. Dangerous even."
Pete's mind stated racing at a million miles a second.
" We're actually surprised u even survived," continued the woman, " normally, the idiots just die and nobody ever lives to tell the experience."
"My poor experiments, such wasted efforts."
She paused.
Pete's fists hit the mirror with a loud thud. "You people are insane."
"Maybe," Maxwell mused. "But necessary."
Then the speaker clicked off.
Pete was left standing in silence. Alone. Breathing hard.
Or so he thought.
A small compartment in the wall slid open. A drone — no larger than a football — hovered into the room, its frame buzzing softly. A single needle protruded from its base.
Without warning, it shot toward Pete's neck and plunged in.
He staggered back, grabbing the wound as thick black serum pumped into his bloodstream. The same burning pain from before returned — white-hot, unrelenting, tearing through muscle and marrow.
He dropped to one knee, screaming.
The light above flickered again.
From the speaker, Maxwell's voice returned.
"Don't fight it, Pete. The pain means it's working."
Then silence.
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