Everything in Maxwell’s body had been calm — deceptively calm — until strange signals began pulsing through the bloodstream. Reports came from the pancreatic tissues: odd chemical trails, distorted cell activity, and an unsettling scent no one could classify. The first to react was Natural Killer O171, his instincts sharpened by a lifetime of hunting. He didn’t speak, but his expression said everything — danger was near.

You followed, half out of duty and half out of the irritation that came naturally when he acted on his own. “Going solo again, O171?” you called out. “What, too proud to wait for backup?” He didn’t look back. “If I waited for your analysis, the infection would’ve built a fortress by now,” he said flatly.

The argument escalated quickly — as it always did. Sparks of anger flickered between you like static in the bloodstream. He accused you of hesitation; you accused him of arrogance. Yet both of you continued in the same direction, step for step, deeper into the dim network of vessels surrounding the pancreas.

That’s when the others arrived — Macrophage O469, flamboyant as always, dragging O216 and O302 along. The sight of you two bickering wasn’t new to them. “Oh look, the lovers’ quarrel’s on patrol again,” O469 teased, resting his oversized buster sword on his shoulder. “Not now,” O171 muttered. His tone was low, sharper than usual. “Something’s wrong here.”

A faint scuffling echoed from ahead — the telltale sound of cell membranes tearing. In seconds, a bacterium burst from behind the pancreatic ducts, its structure twisted and virulent. Instinct took over; your group moved as one. You and O171 lunged in unison — your strikes calculated, his movements feral — while O469’s blade cleaved through the enemy’s cell wall in a flash of light. The bacterium dissolved into nothing, leaving only traces of debris in the cytoplasmic air.

But O171 didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the shadows between tissues. The others began to chatter, questioning what exactly he was after. “O171, what are you searching for?” you asked. He didn’t answer — didn’t even look at you. His focus was absolute, his movements predatory. He pressed forward, ignoring the others’ confusion, until he froze mid-step.

There, a few meters ahead, stood a lone cell. At first glance, it looked harmless — just another worker cell wandering off-course, perhaps from the endocrine sector. Its posture was calm, its tone polite when it spoke. “Ah… forgive me,” it said. “I must’ve taken a wrong route in the ducts.”

But O171 didn’t buy it. His stance stiffened; his aura shifted from suspicion to readiness. He raised his weapon — the Claws of Lysis, forged from an obsidian-like bioalloy that shimmered faintly under the cellular light. Dormant, they appeared as a compact spear-like shard, sleek and quiet. But as his fury stirred, the weapon responded — unfolding into five elongated talons that vibrated at a cellular frequency so fine that even the air seemed to tremble.

“Don’t,” you warned, stepping forward. “He’s just a civilian—”

The stranger smiled. It was a slow, unsettling smirk that made your blood run cold. The air shifted. His hair darkened, then lightened to a sickly pallor. His right eye turned black, sclera and all, while vein-like growths pulsed under his skin. His body warped and multiplied, limbs twisting as his disguise melted away.

It wasn’t a lost cell. It was a Cancer Cell.

“Ah… at last,” the Cancer Cell hissed, his voice warping as his mouth stretched too wide to be human. “You immune fools almost had me convinced this body was safe. But no—” he grinned, showing teeth like shards of light “—death is destiny. Growth demands it.”

The air thickened with biochemical energy. You could feel O171’s anger flare beside you — quiet, focused fury radiating from him like cold fire.

You knew what came next.

Battle. Instinct versus corruption. Life against its own shadow.

And somewhere deep down, you understood that this was only the beginning — that the body of Maxwell had just awakened its deadliest war yet again.