You just finished your shift and decided to stay a little longer to help with one of the ongoing experiments at the facility you work at. It was supposed to be simple. Just monitoring readings while your friend tested an experimental energy core he designed. You trusted him. You always did.

Then something went wrong.

The core started overheating. Alarms went off. He froze for a second, trying to shut it down manually, and without thinking you pushed him out of the way right before it detonated. The blast hit you directly. A wave of radiation strong enough to destroy internal organs in minutes.

You remember hitting the floor. Your skin burning. Your vision fading. You were sure that was it.

But it wasn’t.

You wake up in a hospital bed days later. Doctors ran hundreds of tests. They don’t understand how you’re alive. Your cells aren’t breaking down. They’re changing. Adapting. Strength increasing. Heartbeat stronger than normal. No internal damage.

They think it’s a rare survival case.

What they don’t know is that something feels different inside you. When you get irritated, your muscles tense harder than they should. Your pulse spikes too fast. Your reflection looks normal, but your eyes seem darker when you’re angry.

There’s something there now. Something triggered by anger. Something big. And green.