"Set him on the table," the Indian woman ordered, and the guards obeyed, heaving my body high and slamming it onto the operating table. A separate group of nurses opened locked storage trunks and retrieved heavily engraved leather covered in inks from languages I did not recognize.
They fastened them onto me, and it felt like someone had draped a thousand-pound blanket across my insides. My cursed energy went completely inert. Forcing it to move felt like I was giving myself a hernia.
Dr. Priya tilted her head when she noticed me turning blue in the face, but she made no comment.
I clenched and unclenched my teeth, my mind racing, sifting through every possible advantage.
They were obviously trying to limit me. Curse Inventory was far too unpredictable a technique to leave unchecked, and long-term control—compliance—was surely part of their plan, if survival was even in the cards for me.
This table could mark the end of my rope. Between my meta-gene and my rare ability to hold multiple cursed techniques, it was no mystery why Artisan was interested in me, given her own technique.
Imagine what they could achieve with my meta-gene paired with someone more offensively gifted.
Yet the bigger prize always felt like my brain—its unique structure, facilitated by the system. Artisan had already cracked technique transference through soul manipulation, likely beginning with my father's corpse. But she hadn't figured out how to grant multiple techniques to the same individual.
I could be the breakthrough she was waiting for—assuming Dr. Priya didn't kill me first.
Gina had warned me about her, and still, I hadn't been prepared for her brand of cruelty.
"Ready for preliminary procedure and tissue retrieval," someone announced.
"Feed him the gag," Dr. Priya said clinically.
"Wouldn't anesthesia minimize the risk of losing the subject?" an older doctor asked. Priya didn't even glance at him as she pulled a mask over her face.
"Perhaps," she allowed, "but we would waste an opportunity to establish his baseline and pain threshold."
"But Dr.—"
"Remember where you are, Dr. Hertzman," she cut him off. "You serve at my pleasure, or you leave. Begin collection."
The next hours were a blur of pain, rage, and fear. If I had felt vulnerable before, now I felt powerless.
They took everything—spinal fluid, bone marrow, liters of blood, muscle, and organ tissue. I blacked out more than once, my muscles tensing and spasming, but every time I slipped, they pumped me full of paralytics—never anesthesia. Not even when they severed a limb or installed something on my brainstem while I was awake.
Just before they hooked me to IV bags, Priya spoke directly to me.
By then, I had stopped checking the endless notifications, my mind short-circuiting from feverish pain.
"You've been fitted with a deadman switch," she said coldly. "The first level is designed to shut down most brain function through an excruciating electrical charge. For anyone else, it would be a slow death sentence. For you, perhaps a brief respite. We'll trigger it every time you refuse a direct order from me or your superiors."
"Superiors?" I sneered. "I don't remember joining your little terrorist club."
She didn't react.
"The second level will detonate an explosive charge that will remove most of your skull. Even you can't heal from that. Do not test us."
She turned to leave, but I spoke again.
"You'd really risk your research like that?"
She stopped. "You're not as unique as you think, Julius Spencer. As we speak, clones of you are being created and experimented on. One day, the well that is your body will run dry. And no one will stop the children then."
A shudder ran through me. That was why they needed the samples—for more DNA. How long had they been pumping out mini-versions of me and dissecting them?
Likely since Cadmus.
Then why did they still need me? Priya had already answered that. They hadn't cracked me completely. Maybe it was my cursed technique. Maybe my meta-gene. Either way, I still had time—and Priya had already shown a penchant for gloating.
"Is it my meta-gene or my cursed technique?" I asked plainly.
Her eyes flicked, betraying surprise at my candor.
"You'll just have to wait and see," she said.
I didn't sleep much that night. Strapped down and naked under blasting cold air in the sterile hospital wing, I bucked against the restraints and tried forcing cursed energy through the seals. A terrible idea.
Microtears spread throughout my body. Blood vessels ruptured. Muscles tore. My vision swam before my body eventually repaired itself—mostly.
By morning, most of my severed limb had grown back, though my ankle remained a nub.
Gina arrived with several nurses, who injected me with a powerful paralytic before unstrapping me. I immediately began healing with RCT as they wheeled me out of the medical wing and down several levels into the underground holding cells.
My new room was a cold cell with a thin bed, prisoner's food on a plate, a toilet, and just enough space to cross with a single lunge.
It was inhumane, but a welcome change compared to the night before.
Gina didn't leave after ordering the nurses to drop me on the bed.
"You need to study more biology," she said, folding her arms. "Your healing is inefficient. You should have finished regrowing that leg by now."
I didn't even pretend to be surprised. My voice came out strained, the paralytic still clinging to me.
"T—the paralytic threw me… off."
She studied me, then nodded. "You'll have to get much faster if you want to survive sparring."
"Sparring?"
"Ade is cutthroat," she explained, "and he goes especially hard on those of us who can heal."
"He trained Lily," I realized. "And Artisan wants to use me for missions—or at least understand what I can do until she can replicate it."
"You're the founder's son and reached first grade in less than a year," she said. "What do you think?"
"She has to know I won't fight for her. Not willingly."
"And you have no shortage of weaknesses to exploit," Gina replied. "The least of which is that bomb."
She meant Candice. Sasha. Maybe Artemis. The junior Justice League. My new recruits. For someone who prided himself on being cautious and isolated, I had somehow built more connections than I could protect.
I bit my lip. Nothing I could do about them. But the bomb—that was another matter. Curse Inventory required physical touch. It didn't specify which part of my body.
One shot. One chance to remove it. Until then, experimentation was my only option.
"Are you always so… sterile?" I asked, raising a brow at her. "You're treating me fairly well for someone who watched me decapitate your friend—and maybe lover."
"I never saw her that way," Gina said evenly. "And I've seen firsthand where dramatics lead. Case in point: Lily."
I wasn't sure how to respond to that.
"Besides, there are hundreds of people here lining up to tear you apart," she added.
"So, you're neutral because it would be inconvenient not to be."
She snapped her fingers, and several men entered, fitting restraints back on me and clamping down my cursed energy again.
"Eat your food," she said. "You'll need your strength."
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