The city of Solvark woke up like it always did — tired, groaning, and gray. A constant drizzle washed over the cracked pavement, neon signs flickered without purpose, and the air was thick with a mix of damp smoke and unseen tension. Yet within this crumbling machine of a metropolis, one man walked like a misplaced gear — Zian Rahal.
He wasn't anyone famous anymore. Not to the public, anyway. To them, he was just another brooding figure lost in the rush of raincoats, umbrellas, and fleeting footsteps. But Zian had once been something — a name on the front page, a face on late-night TV, a voice people trusted.
Once.
Now, at 29, he lived alone above a struggling café in District 6, one of Solvark's more "forgotten" places. His apartment was a small, dusty room cluttered with boxes of old newspapers, yellowing files, and broken equipment. The once bright walls had faded into a melancholic beige, and the single window barely let in light.
Each morning, Zian awoke not from rest but from exhaustion. Sleep never came easy. When it did, it brought nightmares — memories of betrayal, silence, and a name: NovaCore.
NovaCore Industries.
The company that made miracles, or so the media said. Biotech advancements. Cures for impossible diseases. Life extension research. In truth, they were something far darker. Zian had once tried to expose that truth — and he paid the price.
He had written the article. He had presented the evidence. He had exposed the whispers of illegal experimentation, of vanished test subjects, of a "Project D." And then... he disappeared. Not physically, but socially, professionally.
Sources went silent. His editor refused his calls. His press credentials were revoked. Colleagues walked past him like he was a ghost. NovaCore had buried him — not by force, but by discrediting everything he stood for.
Yet, Zian hadn't given up. He couldn't.
This morning felt no different. Rain tapped against the rooftop like an impatient code. Zian sat at his table, surrounded by half-empty coffee mugs, staring into his old tablet, its cracked screen glowing dimly.
No new messages.
No new tips.
No hope.
Then it buzzed.
A notification.
Zian's eyes narrowed. The sender was anonymous, no return address. Just a file labeled:
"X-17_Confidential"
He opened it.
What he saw made his breath catch.
A series of lab reports. Heavily redacted. Schematics. Security camera stills. Notes about a symbiotic organism... designated D-RXOR.
"Symbiote is adapting. Conscious. Potential host compatibility: high."
Zian's fingers trembled as he scrolled. One image showed a containment tank — filled with a black, viscous entity, suspended in translucent liquid.
Underneath it, scribbled in shaky handwriting:
"Burn this file. They're watching."
Zian shot upright. His pulse raced.
NovaCore. Again. After two years of silence. Why now? Why him?
He grabbed a flash drive, backed up the file, and pulled his weathered leather jacket over his shoulders. He needed air — or clarity — or both.
Downstairs, Marla, the café owner, gave him a concerned look as he entered.
"You look worse than usual," she said, handing him a steaming cup of bitter coffee without asking.
Zian nodded, distracted. "Thanks."
"You going hunting again?"
"Something like that."
Marla sighed. "Zian, listen. I know you think you're chasing truth, but some things are better left buried."
He gave her a half-smile. "Then I guess I'm not good at letting go."
She didn't argue further.
That night, Zian stood in front of a rusting gate at the edge of the city. Behind it, obscured by shadows and barbed wire, stood the old NovaCore facility, officially shut down five years ago after a "fire." Unofficially, it never stopped humming.
Using bolt cutters and a flashlight, Zian slipped inside like a whisper.
The hallways smelled of bleach, steel, and rot. Dust swirled in the air. Broken machines lined the walls like forgotten gods. Yet some lights still blinked. Faintly. As if the building still breathed.
He reached Lab X-17. The door was sealed with a digital lock, but Zian came prepared. A small hacking device, something he "borrowed" from a past source, cracked the system in under a minute.
With a hiss, the door slid open.
The lab was intact. Monitors glowed. Vats lined the walls. Some were shattered. Others empty.
Only one remained full.
In the center of the room stood a chamber filled with thick blue liquid. Inside it floated the same black organism he had seen in the photo — alive, pulsing, shifting.
Then it moved.
Zian froze.
A voice echoed — not aloud, but inside his skull.
"You came."
He staggered back. "What the—"
"You hear me. Good. I chose correctly."
The voice was deep, ancient, calm.
Zian's heart thudded. "What are you?"
"I am Draxor. You seek truth. I seek freedom. We can help each other."
Zian's breath came fast. Sweat clung to his back despite the cold.
"They will come. NovaCore always comes. But with me... you can survive."
He approached the tank. His hand hovered over the release valve.
"Together, we are stronger. You don't have to be weak anymore."
Memories of lost respect, broken trust, and bitter solitude flashed through his mind.
"I'm not weak," Zian whispered.
"Then prove it."
He pulled the lever.
Alarms screamed.
The tank burst open.
Black tendrils lashed out, wrapping around Zian's arm, neck, chest—invading him.
He screamed.
The last thing he saw before blacking out was a flash of red warning lights and the number D-RXOR: HOST ACQUISITION SUCCESSFUL on a monitor.
In the silence that followed, a new voice stirred within him.
Not a parasite.
A partner.
"Let's begin."
To Be Continued...