I stripped him of his clothes, his ID card, his gun—everything. Then I pulled the mask over my face, focusing on his features. The nanotech whirred to life, reshaping my appearance to match his—right down to the short, military-style haircut. I ran my fingers through what felt like my long hair, but when I touched it, it was short, just like his.
Motherfucker. This thing was insane.
A loud voice cut through the air: "Mike! How long are you gonna take? Come back, quickly!"
I adjusted my voice, letting the mask mimic his tone perfectly. "Coming back!"
The response came out flawless—his voice, not mine.
I walked back to the truck, sliding into the passenger seat beside the driver. Mitt, Ryan, and Tusk were bound in the bed, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear. The driver chuckled, shaking his head. "Doctor Angela's gonna be thrilled we caught more test subjects."
My blood ran cold.
Test subjects?
This wasn't just a capture. This was something far worse than death.
