Nyla's enforcers moved like synchronized predators. The one with vibrating sound-blades lunged first – sonic shrieks tearing through the air as Anthony warped space, shoving Confidence and Chichi through a shimmering dimensional fold.
*"Run!"* he barked, but the second enforcer was already upon him – kinetic armor glowing like molten steel as he swung a fist that cracked concrete.
Anthony phased *through* the blow, reality stuttering as he reappeared mid-air. His palm slammed downward – not striking flesh, but *compressing the space* above the enforcer's head. The ceiling beams shrieked, buckling under invisible pressure before crashing down in a cascade of dust and rebar.
Silence, thick and choking.
Nyla stood untouched amidst the wreckage, her violet eyes cool and assessing behind the flickering hologram of her Sigma Clearance badge. She didn't glance at her fallen subordinates. Her focus was absolute – a scalpel dissecting a specimen.
*"Fascinating,"* she murmured, her voice devoid of triumph or anger. It was the tone of a scientist noting an unexpected data point. *"No energy signature. No tier resonance. You bypass our classifications entirely, Anthony Richard. It's as if you don't belong on the same spectrum."*
Adrenaline and something darker – a coiling energy beneath his skin – thrummed in Anthony's veins. He leveled his gaze at her. *"Where's Dr. Mazu?"* The name tasted like ash. *"What did he build here?"*
A ghost of a smile touched Nyla's lips. *"Dr. Mazu is… irrelevant to your current evaluation. We aren't hunting you, Anthony. Not yet."* She took a single step forward, the air around her humming faintly. *"We are calibrating you. Measuring the anomaly."*
*Calibrating.* The word ignited something primal. The Vanta-Blue energy, usually a cool thrum beneath his skin, flared hot and sharp. It wasn't just in his hands now; it crackled along his forearms, casting jagged, light-eating shadows on the ruined walls. The air itself seemed to vibrate, a low bass note felt in the teeth rather than heard.
*"Try this for your data,"* Anthony growled, the words scraping his throat raw.
He didn't run. He didn't phase. He *unfolded*.
Space compressed violently between him and Nyla. One moment he stood ten meters away, dust motes dancing in the dim emergency lights; the next, he was *there*, fist blazing with unstable Vanta energy aimed not at her body, but at the space she occupied – intending to shatter it.
Impact.
Or rather, the *absence* of impact.
His fist passed through empty air that suddenly tasted of ozone and static. Not the clean void of his own phasing, but a greasy, digital wrongness. Nyla dissolved like smoke caught in a sudden gust, her form fragmenting into shimmering pixels that crackled and spat.
Anthony stumbled forward, momentum unchecked, his energy discharge scorching a blackened star-burst pattern onto the far wall. He whirled, scanning the debris-choked room. Nothing.
Then, the static intensified. It wasn't just sound; it was a physical pressure against his skin, a visual distortion hanging in the air where Nyla had stood. The pixels coalesced, not into her form, but into letters – jagged, sharp, and etched from purest void. They hung, burning themselves into his retinas:
**⫷⫶ P R O T O T Y P E ⫸⫸**
The word pulsed once, a heartbeat of absolute darkness, then vanished, leaving only the smell of burnt plastic and a silence so profound Anthony could hear the frantic hammering of his own heart.
*Prototype.*
Not a classification. Not a codename. An *identifier*. A label slapped onto something foundational… and fundamentally *other*.
The implications slammed into him, colder than any E.E.A. enforcer. Was he a blueprint? A failed experiment? The first of something… worse? The Vanta energy recoiled inside him, not fading, but coiling tighter, a serpent disturbed.
A ragged gasp came from behind a pile of shattered server racks. Confidence crawled out, her face pale beneath a layer of grime, one hand clutching her ribs. Chichi emerged beside her, kinetic energy flickering defensively around her knuckles.
*"Tony?"* Confidence rasped, her eyes wide as they scanned the devastation, lingering on the symbol still seared onto the wall. *"What… what did she call you?"*
Chichi stepped closer, her gaze not on the wall, but on Anthony's hands, where faint tendrils of Vanta energy still writhed like living shadows. *"Prototype,"* she breathed, the word heavy with dawning horror. *"That's not a threat level. That's an origin story."*
Anthony flexed his fingers, forcing the energy down, deep into that hidden place within him. The place that felt less like power and more like a slumbering beast. He met Chichi's fierce, worried eyes.
*"It doesn't matter what they call me,"* he said, his voice low, rough, but carrying a new, terrifying certainty. He looked towards the vault door they'd come to breach, now warped and half-melted. *"What matters is what they built. What matters is who paid the price."* He strode towards the ruined door, the shadows around him seeming to lengthen and deepen. *"And what we do to burn it all down."*
The stolen drive – the one containing Project Goliath's secrets – felt like ice against Confidence's palm as she pulled it from her pocket. The single word hung in the air, heavier than the settling dust: **Prototype**. Was Anthony the key to understanding the Pulse… or was he the ultimate warning?
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