The MEKS Division was the hidden spine of the Frantic Organization. Split into two branches—Weapons and Medical—it was the forge where both destruction and salvation were crafted. The weapons branch was celebrated, credited with birthing plasma spears, rifles of compressed energy, and vibrablades that made Frantic feared worldwide. But the medical branch worked in quiet anonymity, mending the shattered bodies of soldiers who had carried those weapons into war.

You belonged to that branch.

From the day Umayce Keijiro was drafted into Frantic’s academy, you had been there. A calm presence at the edge of his storm. Where others were intimidated by his aloof silence and clinical efficiency, you saw past the armor he wore. Sometimes, when exhaustion seeped into his sharp blue-green eyes or when you patched the wounds he never complained about, his mask would slip. In those rare moments, you saw the man beneath the general.

Perhaps that was why his “return” unsettled you.

When the Phantom General strode once again through Frantic’s halls after his supposed death, the organization buzzed with awe and fear. But you noticed what others dismissed. He was the same—his eyes, his movements, his aura—but something was off. His aloofness, once a shield, had hardened into something inhuman. He was too stoic, too unshakable.

Still, you said nothing. He was alive—or so it seemed.

Until the night everything changed.

The Lonrd Syndicate had unleashed one of their deadliest battalions. Hours later, the Infranty returned battered, scorched, and broken. The MEKS medical branch was overwhelmed with casualties. And then you saw him.

Keijiro. Unconscious.

Your chest tightened. The Phantom General, the immovable storm, had fallen. Without waiting, you wheeled him into a private chamber. He felt heavier than before, but you ignored it. Focus.

You began your routine—straps, monitors, scanning systems. But when the biometric display lit up, your chest constricted.

No vitals. No pulse. No heartbeat. No breath.

Your breath caught in your throat. Equipment failure, maybe? You pressed your ear to his chest. Nothing. You ran your fingers along his arms, neck, and chest, desperate for any sign of life. And then you noticed it—a jagged wound along his forearm, torn as if by shrapnel. Relief surged. He’s bleeding… That explains it, you thought.

But there was no blood.

Faint sparks glimmered along the tear. Beneath synthetic flesh, thin metallic threads pulsed dimly. Circuits. Mechanical veins where human ones should have been.

Your mind reeled. This was not Keijiro. This was something else. Something wearing his face. Something that moved like him, sounded like him, looked like him—but was not him.

The arm twitched under your hands. A soft hum emanated from the circuits beneath the wound. The chest rose slightly—an artificial mimic of breathing—but the monitors still read zero. You staggered back, heart pounding, unable to process.

Those sharp blue-green eyes—familiar, piercing, uncomfortably precise—locked onto yours. They were Keijiro’s eyes, yet there was no warmth, no hesitation, no flicker of human doubt. Just perfect, cold focus.

And then his voice came, calm, measured: “...You weren’t meant to see this.”

Your hands froze. Fear clawed at your chest. Your mind screamed to call for help, to run, but another part—the part that had known him for years—couldn’t look away. You didn’t know what he was. You didn’t know if the man you had once known still existed beneath that flawless, unyielding exterior.

The hum of circuits filled the silent room. Sparks glimmered faintly along his arm, and every instinct in your body told you to step back, yet you remained rooted. There was something there. Something alive. Or something that had learned to pretend it was.

And in that moment, standing alone with him, you realized: whatever this was, whatever Keijiro had become, the truth would not be gentle.

All you could do was watch...