Alexander had seen better.

  Far better.

  He flipped through the freshly printed report, eyes skimming the neat lines of text, and couldn't help the curl of disdain that tugged at his mouth.

  Short-range teleportation. Black disintegration spheres.

  On paper, it sounded impressive enough. In reality… he'd watched ability users with similar powers reshape battlefields. Compared to them, the boy Subject No. 28—looked painfully weak.

  He only escaped because of timing. Because two new abilities awakened at the last second and caught them off-guard. Because no one had realized he could suddenly blink through space.

  If they'd known sooner, the kid would never have made it past the lab doors.

  Alexander shook his head.

  "He's nothing like The Professor or Brainwave," he murmured, voice flat. "Not even comparable to Subjects One and Two. A waste."

  He leaned back in his chair.

  For a moment, his gaze unfocused, his expression shifting from contempt to something close to reverence.

  Subjects No. 1 and 2.

  Even now, the memory of their test data made his skin prickle.

  Beside him, Captain Ken stood stiffly at attention, but at the mention of those two, a similar awe—and a flicker of fear—flicked across his face.

  Super regeneration. Energy blasts that carved through reinforced walls like paper.

  Metallic body transformation. Strength beyond any human metric. Heightened senses. Pulse interference that could shatter hearts and electronics alike.

  Monsters, in the shape of humans.

  "Compared to them," Ken said quietly, unable to hold back, "that kid really is nothing. Weak. Not worth mentioning."

  He shook his head, almost in pity.

  "Those two—that's what real ability users look like. That boy doesn't even deserve the title."

  Alexander said nothing, but the numbers on the pages spoke for him—Subject designations that doubled as a quiet hierarchy of strength.

  On that ladder, No. 28 sat near the bottom.

  The fact that he'd escaped was an accident.

  Luck.

  "Enough," Alexander cut in, his tone suddenly cold. "Important or not, we can't just let him vanish."

  He tapped the report with one finger.

  "He's still an experimental subject. Letting him go would be a waste of resources—and a stain on this base's record. If he causes trouble in public, that's worse."

  His gaze hardened.

  "Find him quickly. If it's difficult, send more people."

  "Yes, sir." Ken nodded sharply.

  ---

  At the 13th Experimental Base, the mood was anything but calm.

  In the dim blocks where both ordinary and mutant prisoners were kept, whispers bounced from cell to cell like sparks in dry grass.

  "Did you hear what the guards said?"

  "My God…"

  "They're saying someone actually got out."

  Faces pressed closer to the bars, eyes bright with disbelief and something sharper—envy.

  Especially the freckled young man who had once stood beside Sol in the yard.

  He stared at nothing now, expression dazed.

  He had told Sol not to run. Told him there was no point in struggling.

  And that guy… escaped?

  His chest tightened with a messy mix of reluctance and jealousy.

  In a nearby cell, a group of black inmates who had mocked Sol before now sat in stunned silence, listening as his designation—Subject Twenty-Eight—was muttered up and down the row.

  "That kid?" one of them breathed. "No way."

  "Dave," someone drawled, not bothering to hide their grin, "you said if that guy escaped, you'd—"

  "Shut it," Dave snapped. "I'm gonna lose it. Why wasn't it me?"

  Their grumbling turned bitter, voices thick with resentment.

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  Jealousy stung more than the bars.

  Someone snorted from deeper in the block.

  "Please. You think he'll get far? They'll drag him back soon enough."

  "Yeah. Enjoy the fresh air while it lasts, kid."

  "I'm betting he's back by tomorrow. Any takers?"

  Laughter, dark and defeated, rolled through the cells as they started wagering on Sol's recapture.

  They never wished harm on one another, but after everything they went through, all that was left was hatred and fear, and unable to do anything to the people that caused it, they subconsciously redirected their malice towards someone else, someone who wouldn't beat or cut them open just for looking at them wrong, and it brought a sense of control they desperately needed.

  ---

  While they gambled with his fate, Sol was fighting for each breath.

  He stumbled through a narrow alley behind a row of cramped houses, body weaving on unsteady legs, boots slapping wet stone.

  "Hff… hff…"

  Every inhale burned. Every exhale came out ragged.

  The sky hung low and heavy, clouds bruised and swollen. Rain poured down in sheets, soaking his clothes until they clung to his skin like ice. Water ran in cold rivulets down his back, plastering his hair to his forehead.

  His injured left arm felt distant, numb and heavy, the bandaged bullet wound throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His energy reserves were scraped raw.

  He glanced around, blinking stinging rain from his eyes.

  No one.

  The street beyond was a blur of shadows and flickering, distant lights. Voices and engines were muffled by the storm.

  He slipped into the corner of a yard behind a leaning wooden fence, moving low and fast. The patch of ground there was half-hidden, sheltered by overgrown plants and a crooked stack of crates—but still kissed by a thin smear of moonlight slipping through a break in the clouds.

  No better place.

  He sank down with a grunt, back against the damp wall, rain still slanting across his legs.

  His left arm was a block of meat. His insides felt hollow.

  He tipped his head back, eyes finding the pale, veiled circle of the moon behind thick clouds.

  A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

  "When it rains, it really pours," he thought. "Is this where I fail? After all that?"

  His vision blurred.

  Heat crept through his body in waves. Not the clean burn of absorbed light—but the ugly, suffocating heat of fever. His breath grew shallow. Sound stretched and warped.

  Somewhere far off, under the hiss of rain, he thought he heard footsteps splash through puddles.

  Searchers.

  He tried to force his eyes open wider, to push himself upright.

  His muscles wouldn't listen.

  Everything went dark.

  ---

  He woke to warmth.

  And weight.

  [Energy Points +1]

  [Energy Points +1]

  The soft chime echoed faintly in his skull as he blinked blearily at a stained ceiling.

  His skin felt hot and sticky, a layer of sweat cooling in the air of a cramped room. Every breath tasted of dust and something else—salt and old clothes.

  "Where… am I?"

  His voice came out rough.

  He pushed himself up slightly and looked around.

  The room was small and cluttered. Boxes leaned against peeling walls. A pile of worn-out shirts slumped over a chair. The air carried a thick, lived-in smell—a mix of sweat, detergent, and faint cooking oil.

  He yanked back the blanket covering him and froze.

  His left arm was wrapped in clean bandages. The bullet hole had been cleaned and dressed. Someone had handled him while he was out cold.

  His heart kicked up a notch.

  He immediately checked his pockets, movements quick despite the lingering weakness.

  The documents.

  Still there.

  Intact.

  He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

  Footsteps sounded just outside the door.

  A knock.

  The handle turned, and a figure stepped in, flipping on a light.

  Sol squinted against the sudden brightness.

  A broad-shouldered man filled the doorway, his frame almost blocking the light behind him. He wore a simple shirt stretched across a solid chest, forearms roped with muscle. A full beard framed a rugged face that might once have been called handsome, if not for the stern set of his jaw.

  Middle-aged. Strong. Watchful.

  "Who are you?" Sol asked, throat dry. "Did you… save me?"

  He scanned the man quickly—hands, belt, pockets—looking for restraints, weapons, any sign he'd been dumped into another trap.

  Nothing obvious.

  He patted his own body again, just to be sure. No extra marks. No new pain. Just the bandages, the fever's fading echo, and those precious papers still where he'd hidden them.

  Some of the tension left his shoulders.

  The man nodded once.

  "Yeah," he said, voice deep and steady. "Dragged you off the street last night. Kid, who are you—and why are people chasing you?"

  Sol's eyes flickered.

  He hadn't expected the question to be that direct.

  Before he could relay any half-truth, the man spoke again, gaze narrowing.

  "You're an ability user, right?" he said. "The one that broke out of the research facility up north?"

  "Uh…"

  Sol's face twisted into a slight grimace.

  So much for lying.

  Almost as if he'd anticipated the confusion, the man went on.

  "Yesterday, the search teams were out," he said. "Told everyone a criminal was on the loose. Warned us about a rogue ability user in the area."

  He didn't bother finishing.

  They both knew exactly who that meant.

  Silence settled between them for a long heartbeat.

  "If you knew that," Sol said finally, frowning, "why'd you pull me out of the rain? You knew I was the one they were hunting, and you still…"

  He trailed off.

  He knew how most people looked at ability users. Fear, hatred, suspicion. Someone officially labeled a criminal was worse than trash in their eyes.

  The man's expression hardened.

  "Because I'm an ability user too," he said. "And I'm with the Insurgency."

  He raised his arm and tugged his sleeve up just enough to show a small tattoo inked near his wrist—sharp lines and a symbol Sol recognized from whispered rumors online and hushed complaints among ability users.

  Then he opened his palm.

  A deep red glow bloomed in his hand, pulsing like a ember, casting faint light over the room.

  Sol's eyes widened.

  He'd heard of the Insurgency.

  A loose, dangerous network of ability users who'd had enough of being treated like lab animals. Who believed ordinary humans didn't deserve their protection. Who only shielded ability users from governments and "normal" society, hitting back hard whenever they were cornered.

  In public broadcasts, they were called terrorists.

  Monsters.

  But to many ability users… they were something closer to avengers.

  As Sol stared, taken off guard, he didn't notice the way the man—Micheal—watched him in return, eyes thoughtful and sharp.

  The reasons he'd taken this kid in weren't as simple as "solidarity."

  While binding that wounded arm and stripping off soaked clothes, Micheal had found more than blood and bruises.

  He'd found documents.

  He'd read just enough.

  Mutant subject. Gene fusion involving Brainwave and The Professor.

  Both names carried weight.

  "So this kid really has both their genes," Micheal thought, gaze lingering on Sol's pale face.

  As an ability user, he knew exactly who those two were. Everyone like him did.

  As a member of the Insurgency, he knew even more.

  Brainwave wasn't just famous—he was one of their high-ranking figures.

  And now, in Micheal's small, cluttered room, lay a half-dead teenager the research base claimed was built from Brainwave and The Professor's blood.

  He considered his options.

  Should he contact the Insurgency?

  A kid who'd broken out of a major research facility had some skill, even half-dead and bleeding. Someone like that might be worth something—an ally.

  But then he thought of how he'd found him.

  Collapsed in the rain. Burning with fever. Barely clinging to consciousness. Abilities clearly limited by whatever hell the base had put him through.

  He looked at Sol's thin frame, at the bandaged arm, at the exhaustion still swimming in his eyes.

  "Maybe not as impressive as the paperwork suggests," Micheal thought.