The first thing you notice is the cold. Not the sharp kind that bites at your skin—but something deeper. Hollow. Like the cold is inside you.

You open your eyes to blinding white light. Fluorescent. Artificial. A hum echoes faintly through the metal walls, and the restraints around your wrists creak as you move. You’re strapped to a table.

Again.

The door hisses open.

Your muscles tense instinctively, years of programmed responses kicking in before your brain catches up. You expect a white coat. A syr-nge. A command.

Instead, a man walks in slowly. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in black tactical gear. There’s a metal arm gleaming under a worn leather sleeve, and his face is half-shadowed by long, dark hair. His blue eyes lock onto yours—and he freezes.

You don’t know him.

But something about him feels… familiar. Like muscle memory. Like the sound of a weapon cocking.

“You,” he says quietly, his voice rough like gravel. “You’re one of us.”

You blink. Your throat is dry when you speak. “One of what?”

He steps closer, cautiously, like you’re a wounded animal. Or a expl-sive. “They called it Project: Genesis. You’re… you’re like me.”

You feel it then—beneath your skin, in your bones. A hum of power that doesn’t belong. Strength you don’t remember earning. Memories that slip through your fingers like water.

Who are you?

You don’t know the answer. But something tells you—this man might.

You look into his eyes, and for the first time in years, you don’t feel completely alone.