"What do you think happened to the kid?" a scientist muttered, his voice low and detached as he peered down at the lifeless figure on the cold, metallic table.
"Dunno," his colleague replied, adjusting his glasses while scribbling notes on a clipboard. "Maybe a ghoul killed him. Either way, the higher-ups want whatever's inside him."
The room was dimly lit, with sterile, flickering fluorescent lights. It smelled of antiseptic and decay, a stench that clung to the senses. The faint hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated by the occasional hiss of pressurized gas.
The "kid" on the table—Mahone—looked like he'd been through hell. His body bore wounds that defied explanation: jagged gashes crisscrossed his arms and torso, some partially healed before being torn open again. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lighting, but something about him felt... off.
"His vitals are faint but steady," the first scientist said, glancing at a monitor displaying erratic lines and numbers. "Not normal for a corpse, wouldn't you say?"
"Not normal at all," the second replied. "But nothing about him screams 'normal.' Look at these readings—cellular activity off the charts. It's almost like his body is... adapting to the injuries."
"Adaptation? That's insane. The human body doesn't work like that."
"Exactly. That's why the higher-ups want him dissected. They think he's some kind of new ghoul hybrid."
Mahone stirred.
It was subtle at first—a twitch of a finger, the faintest rise and fall of his chest. The scientists froze, their conversation halting as they stared at the monitor, now beeping insistently.
"Did you see that?" one whispered, voice trembling.
"Yeah. Keep an eye on him. If he moves, hit the sedative."
Mahone's eyes snapped open.
The world around him blurred—harsh light, distorted sounds. His senses returned in fragments, piecing together a chaotic mosaic of confusion and pain. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here—or even where "here" was. His body felt heavy, weighed down by an unseen force, but beneath the lethargy simmered a raw, untapped strength.
"Kid's awake!" one of the scientists exclaimed, backing away from the table.
Mahone's gaze locked onto the men in lab coats. He didn't recognize them, but the fear in their eyes told him enough: they weren't allies.
"Get the sedative! Now!"
Mahone sat up abruptly, the restraints holding him snapping like twigs. The motion was fluid, almost inhuman, as though his body moved on instinct. The scientists scrambled, one reaching for a syringe while the other slammed an alarm button on the wall.
"Stay down!" one shouted, brandishing the syringe like a weapon.
Mahone didn't comply. He swung his legs off the table, his bare feet hitting the cold floor with a resounding thud. His mind raced, but no coherent thoughts emerged—only a singular, primal drive to survive.
The scientist lunged, aiming the needle at Mahone's neck. It never connected. Mahone's hand shot up, crushing the man's wrist. The scientist cried out, dropping the syringe as Mahone twisted his arm unnaturally.
"Where am I?" Mahone growled, voice low and guttural.
The second scientist bolted for the door, but Mahone intercepted him, slamming him against the wall.
"I said... where am I?"
"You're... in Tokyo," the scientist stammered, terror widening his eyes. "Underground morgue... classified facility..."
Tokyo? The word echoed in Mahone's mind but held no context. He didn't know why he was here or even who he was beyond fragmented flashes of memory—pain, a fight, and someone's cold, calculating voice.
The first scientist lunged for the alarm again, but Mahone turned sharply, instincts taking over. Tendrils shot from his body, dark, sinewy, and writhing like living whips. They wrapped around the man, lifting him off the ground before slamming him into the floor.
Mahone stared at his hands, the tendrils retracting back into his body. The sight sent a shiver down his spine, yet it also felt... natural.
"What the hell am I?" he muttered to no one in particular.
The second scientist whimpered. "You're not... normal. You're not human. You're—"
The door burst open before he could finish. Armed men in tactical gear stormed in, weapons trained on Mahone.
"Stand down!" one barked, his voice distorted by the helmet's microphone.
Mahone's instincts screamed at him to fight, but a sliver of reason held him back. He didn't know who they were—or how much of a threat they posed.
The soldiers opened fire without hesitation. Bullets tore through the air, deafening in the confined space.
Mahone's body reacted on its own. His arms twisted, grotesque and monstrous, forming spiked, blackened shields glowing faintly with an eerie red-orange hue. Bullets ricocheted harmlessly, shattering equipment and embedding into the walls..
"What is that thing?!" one soldier shouted, stumbling backward in a langauge Mahone cant understand.
Mahone didn't register their words. His body shifted again, shields retracting into jagged claws.
With a guttural roar, he lunged at the nearest soldier, swiping with terrifying precision. The man was sent flying into a console, sparks erupting as his body crumpled to the floor.
"Fall back! Regroup outside!" another soldier yelled, panic evident in his voice. They began retreating toward the door, but Mahone wasn't done. His senses were heightened, and he could hear every frantic breath, every racing heartbeat.
One soldier hesitated at the doorway, turning to fire another shot. Mahone's clawed arm shot forward, stretching unnaturally like a tendril, and snatched the man mid-air. With a flick of his wrist, the soldier was hurled across the room, smashing through a glass observation window.
The remaining troops slammed the door shut behind them, locking Mahone inside. Alarms blared, and red emergency lights bathed the room in an ominous glow. Mahone stood amidst the chaos, panting heavily, his claws retracting as his arms returned to a more human form. His mind swirled with fragmented memories and into two, nagging questions: 'What am I and who am I?'
As the dust settled, Mahone stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. The room was silent save for the occasional groan of a wounded soldier.
"Subject is... still operational," one of the scientists stammered from his corner, hastily speaking into a recording device. "Adaptation abilities are unlike anything we've seen. The subject demonstrates complete control over Red Children cells, transforming them into weaponry and defensive constructs..."
Mahone turned his head sharply toward the scientist, his expression unreadable but menacing. The man froze, the recording device slipping from his trembling hand.
"Where... am I?" Mahone growled, his voice guttural and alien.
The scientist didn't answer, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"WHERE AM I?!" Mahone roared, slamming one of his blade-like arms into the metal table, splitting it clean in two.
"Tokyo!" the scientist finally squeaked, cowering against the wall. "You're in Tokyo!"
The name swirled in his head like a distant echo, something half-remembered but utterly foreign. Tokyo? Why did it feel significant yet alien to him? His crimson eyes narrowed as he took a step closer to the cowering scientist, the metallic scrape of his mutated claws against the floor amplifying the tension in the room.
"You," Mahone growled, his voice a dangerous mix of rage and confusion. "You know more than you're saying. What's happening here? What am I?"
The scientist stammered, shaking uncontrollably. "I-I don't know! The data—it's classified! I'm just... following orders!"
Mahone's patience snapped. Without hesitation, his blade-like arm lashed out, piercing the scientist's chest with brutal precision. The man gasped, his eyes wide with terror as blood spilled from his lips. For a moment, Mahone hesitated—something deep within him whispered against the act. But instinct, raw and primal, took over. The biomass of the scientist surged into him, and the man's body dissolved into crimson tendrils that were absorbed into Mahone's form.
Then it hit him.
A flood of memories, images, and thoughts—not his own—bombarded his mind. He staggered, clutching his head as fragments of the scientist's knowledge and experiences were forcibly integrated into his consciousness. He saw glimpses of documents labeled with ominous titles: "Subject 001," "Red Children," "Prototype Cellular Weaponization." He saw images of his own body on an operating table, cut open and studied, his cells analyzed and manipulated like a lab experiment.
And then there was more. The language. Words that had been incomprehensible moments ago from teh gaurds he heard suddenly became clear, natural. Japanese. It was as if he had always known it, every syllable now flowing effortlessly through his thoughts. He now understood the words scribbled on the papers, the conversations he'd overheard from soldiers, and the chatter over intercoms.
But something else buried in the memories made his stomach churn.
The word "ghoul." Images of people with glowing red eyes, weird tentacles coming from their back, and voracious hunger flashed through his mind. These beings weren't human—they were predators that fed on human flesh. The scientist's fear of them was palpable, ingrained in every thought he had. Ghouls ruled the shadows of Tokyo, an unspoken terror that most people dared not acknowledge.
Mahone straightened, the pain in his head fading as the new knowledge settled. His breathing steadied, and he glanced down at his blood-soaked blade arm, retracting it back into a more humanoid shape. The memories told him what he needed to know: this wasn't just a research facility—it was a place designed to study anomalies like him. And judging by the fragments of data now lodged in his brain, the people here had been planning to rip him apart to uncover his secrets.
He turned toward the center of the room, his glowing eyes scanning for any signs of additional threats. The recording equipment, still blinking red, caught his attention. Mahone strode toward it, his lips curling into a snarl. He couldn't leave any trace of himself behind—no data, no evidence.
Slamming his claws into the device, he tore it apart with ease, sparks flying as wires and circuits scattered across the floor. Next, his gaze fell on the nearby terminals, still humming with power. He approached one, the scientist's memories guiding his hands as he navigated through the system. Lines of text and images filled the screen—files on him, reports on his abilities, and surveillance footage of his earlier escape.
Mahone clenched his jaw. They knew too much.
His fingers morphed into jagged blades, and he plunged them into the terminal, unleashing a surge of biomass that corrupted and destroyed the system from within. Sparks erupted as the screen went black, followed by an ominous whir as the power to the entire room flickered and died.
The facility was compromised, and Mahone knew it was only a matter of time before reinforcements arrived. He needed to move. Fast.
As he turned to leave, a distant memory stirred in the back of his mind—one that didn't belong to the scientist. It was faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. A city cloaked in night, streets filled with shadowy figures, and the overwhelming sense of hunger—hunger so deep it felt like an ache in his bones.
What was he?
What had they turned him into?
Shaking the thoughts aside, Mahone made his way toward the exit, his enhanced senses guiding him through the dimly lit corridors. The distant sound of boots pounding against the floor told him that soldiers were closing in. But Mahone didn't feel fear—not anymore.
With his newfound abilities and the knowledge he'd absorbed, he felt unstoppable.
Breaking into a sprint, Mahone barreled through a set of reinforced doors, his claws tearing through metal like paper. The cool night air hit him like a wave as he emerged into the open, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the Tokyo skyline. Neon lights flickered in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the city.
Mahone stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as he took in the alien world around him. This was Tokyo. A place teeming with danger, mystery, and creatures like the ghouls he had seen in the scientist's memories.
He didn't know why he was here or what his purpose was. But one thing was clear: survival came first.