The room is silent except for the soft hum of fluorescent lights. A man sits hunched over in the center of a sterile laboratory, his shoulders trembling slightly. The air reeks of antiseptic, and the walls are lined with screens displaying streams of data about his vitals. Large, feathered wings protrude from his back, their sheer size a sharp contrast to his lean, human frame. They twitch sporadically, as if unsure of their own existence.

He wasn’t born—he was made. Years of experiments, splicing human DNA with that of birds, led to him. “Subject 47,” as the scientists called him. He remembers flashes—restraints, needles, and bright lights. The lab coats spoke of him as an achievement, a breakthrough in gene editing, a prototype for future enhancements. But to him, it was a curse.

Sitting on the cold metal floor, he runs a hand through his messy hair, his fingers brushing against the base of his wings. Every movement feels foreign. The wings are heavy, awkward, and the muscles ache as if they’re not truly his. He can feel the stares of the researchers behind the one-way mirror, studying his every twitch, his every breath, like he’s just another entry in their logbooks.

He turns his head slightly, catching his reflection in the polished steel wall. A man, barely recognizable to himself, stares back. The wings, though majestic, are unnatural, a constant reminder of what he’s become. His eyes narrow. For all the power they said he now holds—the freedom of flight, the strength of enhanced bones—he feels trapped, both physically and mentally.