The containnt tube hissed, releasing a plu of vapor as its glass casing slid open with a tallic screech.
A thin figure slumped out, landing hard on the cold floor. A boy—maybe nine or ten. His fra was gaunt, spine arched unnaturally from the thick tallic brace fused into his back. Wires and tubes hung from his arms like the remnants of a cruel experint.
Brandon’s breath caught. "What... the hell is this place?"
Ethan knelt down, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The child twitched, flinching at contact, but didn’t resist.
He was alive.
Barely.
Behind them, Charles Freeman watched like a curator admiring his collection.
"Prototype Batch A." He said it like he was talking about equipnt. "Kids like him were the first. Abandoned. Forgotten. No one ca for them." His gaze turned sharp. "Just like no one’s coming for you."
Ethan stood up slowly, fists clenched. "You’re sick."
Charles smiled, unbothered.
"Caleb is next," he said. "Your little journey here... was all predetermined. And you’re too late. He’s already isolated in the east wing. That room? No windows, no exits. Except for mine."
He tapped the side of his watch.
"And I’m the only one with the key."
.....
The steel door groaned on its hinges, echoing through the dim corridor as it creaked just wide enough for Lucas Graves to slip through. He moved like a shadow, silent, focused. Louie followed close behind, crouched low, fists clenched, his breaths shallow with tension. Evan brought up the rear, eyes constantly scanning, brain racing with backup plans.
The air inside was wrong—thick, heavy. The scent of rust, disinfectant, and sothing faintly chemical clung to every surface. Pipes hissed overhead, and faded red ergency lights blinked slowly like a heartbeat.
Then, distant—but unmistakable—
"AHHH—!"
A voice.
CLANG.
Louie froze. His fists trembled. His voice was hoarse with rage.
"That was Ethan."
Evan gave a grim nod. "We’re close. But if there are more-"
"I don’t care," Louie growled. "We’re going to help him. Even if I have to take down every one of them myself."
Lucas turned, catching Louie’s face in the pulsing red light. His expression wasn’t just angry. It was personal—like every emotion he never had a chance to say to Ethan was boiling to the surface.
"Let’s go," Lucas whispered.
They advanced, silent as smoke, hugging the walls. Machinery humd behind sealed doors. So were ajar, revealing tables with restraints, broken monitors, pages full of incoherent scrawls and strange anatomical diagrams—not of adults... but kids.
Then—
Footsteps. Heavy. Multiple. Coming fast.
Lucas’s eyes snapped left. He shoved Louie and Evan into the shadows behind a dented storage locker just in ti.
Three n stord past, dressed in mismatched combat gear. Not pros. Kinda like rcenaries—scarred, an-eyed, the kind hired to follow orders without asking questions. Electric batons buzzed at their sides, and radios crackled static.
One grunted, "Freeman said lock the west hall. Nobody gets near the chamber."
Their footsteps faded.
Evan leaned in, voice barely audible. "They’re protecting sothing. That’s not just a lab."
Lucas narrowed his gaze.
"Then we break through."
They sprinted the second the coast was clear—past broken caras, shattered lights, and halls that seed to twist like a maze.
Then—
They saw it.
A massive, reinforced door, the kind used in bunkers, stood slightly ajar. Pale blue-white light spilled out like smoke. Inside, they could hear the clash of tal, the sharp crack of sothing breaking—
And voices.
Ethan. Brandon.
Lucas turned to Louie and Evan. "Ready?"
Louie rolled his neck. Cracked his knuckles.
"Let’s end this."
Lucas pushed the door open—
And the nightmare within was waiting.
As the door creaked open with a heavy groan, and inside, the nightmare was worse than anything they could have imagined.
Ethan stood in the center of the room, battered and bloody. His fists were clenched, but he looked unsteady, swaying on his feet. His shirt was ripped, and his face was sared with blood. Brandon, also beaten and bruised, stood protectively in front of a row of children. The children were no longer in shackles, but they stood motionless, their eyes glowing white, staring blankly ahead.
The children moved stiffly, like puppets with their strings pulled too tight. The sound of fluid dripping from tubes echoed in the quiet room. Their faces were pale, and they looked unnatural, as if their minds were erased, leaving only empty shells.
Freeman stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a dark grin on his face. His cold eyes were fixed on Ethan.
"Just as I expected," Freeman said, his voice calm but dripping with satisfaction. "They are indeed great product."
Lucas stepped forward, eyes scanning the room. He saw the blood, the vacant faces of the children, and Ethan standing in the middle of it all.
"What’s going on here?" Lucas asked, his voice tight.
.....
Back few minutes ago
Ethan’s heart pounded as he knelt beside the boy, his hand trembling as it rested on the child’s cold, lifeless shoulder. The boy’s body was stiff, unmoving. His eyes were closed.
The boy’s mouth parted slightly, a faint rasp escaping his throat—fragnts of sound that barely pierced the silence.
"Help..."
Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. The word was barely audible, but it was enough to ignite a spark of hope deep inside him.
The boy’s hand twitched involuntarily, but then fell still again. Ethan’s fingers curled tightly around his arm. "I’m here," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. "I’m here."
Ethan’s gaze shifted from Freeman to the boy, his chest tightening with a mix of rage and dread. For a mont, he wasn’t sure if it was the horror of Freeman’s actions or the fear of what was to co that paralyzed him.
Suddenly, the boy’s eyes snapped open—white, empty, devoid of life. His body jerked violently, but no sound ca from his mouth. It sent a chill crawling down Ethan’s spine.
"What the hell did you do to him?!" Brandon’s voice cracked, a blend of fury and disbelief.
For a mont, Freeman’s face softened, almost nostalgic—as if lost in a painful mory. His dark eyes t Ethan’s, filled with an intensity that spoke of years of regret.
"There was a ti," Freeman murmured, "when I believed in fairness. In training. In hard work. I coached kids who had nothing, made them believe they could win if they just pushed hard enough. But it was all a lie."
He paused, bitterness creeping into his voice. "No matter what we did—no matter how hard we trained—there was always one man we couldn’t beat my friend."
"Eddie Carter"
Freeman’s voice dropped, laden with resentnt. "I beca a coach. Then a principal. But I still couldn’t win. Because of his son. Jalen Carter. The ace of the Chicago Raptors. We always fought against them in the regionals... and I always lost."
The sadness in Freeman’s voice grew, a tremor of emotion breaking through. "Do you know what it’s like to be haunted by the sa na? Year after year, hearing it chanted like a hymn? Watching your kids cry in the locker room, knowing it’s your fault because you weren’t enough?"
A cold smile crept across Freeman’s face. "So I stopped trying to win fairly. I used Greg’s drugs to create the ultimate weapon. A weapon that could win. But unlike Greg’s drugs... these kids don’t have side effects. They don’t think. They don’t feel. They don’t talk. They just listen. Like puppets. Ready to fight."
He stepped closer to Ethan and the twitching boy. "They’re not people anymore. They’re tools. Soldiers with no emotions. No distractions. No hesitation."
Ethan’s fists clenched at his sides, his body shaking with a mix of fury and disbelief. The room around him felt like a nightmare. Five glass containnt tubes stood in a row, faintly glowing green. Inside each one...
Children.
Hunched. Shackled.
Their limbs hung limply. Their backs arched unnaturally, tallic braces fused into their spines. Tubes snaked from their arms and necks, dripping a thick, clear liquid into their veins. Their eyes were closed—empty of light. Empty of everything.
The air in the room shifted—heavier, oppressive. Behind Freeman stood five cylindrical glass containnt tubes, glowing faint green. Inside each one: a child.
Ethan’s breath caught. Rage swelled in his chest like a storm. These weren’t athletes. They were prisoners.
They were experints.
And one of them—the one who had whispered "Help"—was still half-awake.
Without thinking, Ethan lunged toward the nearest tube. His fist slamd against the steel fra with a tallic CLANG.
"AHHH—!"
CLANG.
Sparks flew. The glass trembled. Inside, the boy flinched—his eyes fluttered, just for a second. There was sothing behind the glow. A flicker. A shred of self.
Then it vanished.
Freeman didn’t flinch. He stood motionless, arms crossed, watching Ethan’s outburst with an unreadable expression. There was sothing unsettling in the way his lips curled—was it amusent? Or sothing darker?
"You’re emotional," Freeman said, his voice eerily calm. "That’s why you’ll lose."
Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest as he backed away from the tube, his breath ragged. His body burned with the need to act—to stop this madness. But the weight of the situation was suffocating. He was out of his depth, trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t escape.
"You’re not a coach or a principal," he spat, his voice raw with anger. "You’re a coward hiding behind puppets."
Freeman’s eyes narrowed, and for the first ti, Ethan saw a flicker of rage in them. He sneered, revealing his true nature.
"I am a visionary," Freeman hissed. "And they... they will be my masterpiece."
Brandon took a step forward, fists clenched, his voice trembling with fury. "You think this is art?!" he shouted. "You think warping innocent lives into... into this makes you a genius?!"
Freeman’s smile deepened. "Genius?" he repeated. "No. I’m necessity. Evolution always demands sacrifice."
Then the floor beneath them trembled.
Ethan turned as the walls shifted. chanical arms sleek and spider-like descended from above, this spider-like appendages unlatched the children from their restraints. Clamps hissed open. Shackles fell to the floor with dull clinks. The machines lowered the tubes slowly, gently, almost reverently as the limp bodies of the children were laid upright like mannequins. Tubes retracted. Wires slithered away like snakes. A cold silence followed.
Then—
Their eyes snapped open. All glowing white.
Ethan staggered back instinctively. The children stood but not of their own will. Their movents were stiff, jarring. As if so invisible force pulled invisible strings tied to their limbs.
"Stop it!" Brandon barked, stepping toward Freeman. "Turn it off!"
But Freeman simply chuckled. "There is no off. There is only the program."
The first child moved forward. Then another. A dozen in all. They advanced slowly, deliberately, as if guided by so coded instinct.
One lunged.
Ethan dodged, barely avoiding a strike aid at his neck. Another followed, grabbing his arm with unnatural strength. Brandon shouted and tore the child off of him, but was tackled by two more. The room descended into chaos.
They weren’t trying to kill—they were testing.
Learning.
Adapting.
Ethan landed a punch to a child’s chest, imdiately regretting it as the small body crumpled, only to rise again monts later—expression blank, eyes glowing. Blood dripped from Ethan’s lip. A sharp jab caught him in the ribs. Another sent him sprawling against a control panel.
"Ethan!" Brandon cried,breath ragged. He fought with restraint, blocking, disarming—never aiming to hurt. "They’re still kids!"
"I know!" Ethan shouted back, breathless. "But if we don’t stop them—!"
The children suddenly froze mid-motion.
Freeman raised a small remote, thumb hovering over a single red button. "Don’t worry. This was only a preview."
Then he pressed it.
A pulse of energy rippled through the room. The children collapsed—then slowly rose again.
Their movents were smoother now. Controlled. Unified.
A line of children stood motionless. In perfect formation.
Including the boy Ethan had tried to save.
His eyes glowed like the others. His mouth hung slack. The light inside him—gone.
Ethan, bruised and bleeding, rose shakily to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. His shirt was torn. Brandon stood beside him, panting, bruises blossoming on his face and arms.
The children stood in a line, eyes white, blank and unseeing. They had been freed—but not saved. Their minds were gone, overwritten by whatever Freeman had done.
The sound of fluid dripping from the now-abandoned IVs echoed in the silence.
Freeman stepped back, arms crossed, satisfaction etched across his face.
"Just as I expected," he said with cold pride. "They are indeed great product."
At that mont, the door creaked open. Lucas stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the wreckage—the blood, the broken machinery, the vacant stares of the children—and Ethan, swaying on his feet at the heart of it all.
Lucas’s voice was tight. "What’s going on here?"
To be continue
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