We sprinted to his SUV parked in the alley. As we peeled out, I saw men in tactical gear swarming my front porch. They weren’t police. They moved like machines.
“What is Subject 7B?” I asked, watching my house disappear. Gabriel handed me a tablet from the glove box. “Look at the file. It’s your medical history. The real one.” I scrolled through the data. DNA markers. Immunity charts. Regenerative capabilities. “I’ve never been sick,” I murmured, a memory surfacing. “Not once. I thought I was just lucky.”
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“It’s not luck,” Gabriel said, gripping the steering wheel. “It’s engineering. Your father discovered a genetic anomaly. They didn’t want to study it. They wanted to weaponize it.”
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