The restraints hissed and popped free, and in the blink of an eye, I was off the slab.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I stood up—and the surgical table snapped beneath me like a soda can. My skin tingled, my muscles vibrated with energy. Whatever they injected into me, it had turned me into something... not quite human.
I didn't wait. I sprinted toward the sealed steel door. It must've weighed a few tons, reinforced, built to keep monsters in—or out. I didn't care. With a roar, I slammed into it shoulder-first. The door crumpled like tinfoil under a boot and flew off its hinges, clattering into the corridor with a sound that could wake the dead.
Alarms screamed. Red lights flashed. And then the guards arrived.
Dozens of them, pouring out of the walls like ants from a kicked hill. All armed, all shouting nonsense like "Target acquired!" and "Neutralize Subject 7!"
They raised their rifles and fired. The bullets hit me. And bounced off.
No, seriously—they tinked off my skin like I was wearing an invisible frying pan suit. One bullet hit my forehead and just plinked to the floor like a penny dropped from a desk.
One guard shouted, "Why is he not going down?!"
Another screamed, "It's like shooting at a vending machine with a water gun!"
I walked forward slowly, letting them waste their ammo. "Really?" I muttered. "Mosquitoes hit harder than this."
Their panic grew delicious.
One particularly brave (or foolish) guard rushed me with a stun baton. I grabbed his wrist, gently at first—and then boom—my grip crushed the weapon like a stale breadstick.
"Nighty-night," I said, before flicking him across the hallway. He spun through the air like a confused ballerina and crashed into a snack machine.
I started throwing punches, not even thinking. But something was off.
The moment my fist connected with one of the guards, he shuddered—like I'd just knocked a paint can full of loose nuts. Sparks flew. His visor cracked, revealing not a terrified human face, but...
Wires. I blinked.
"Wait a second. Are you guys... robots?"
Another one lunged, and I uppercut him into the ceiling. His chest cavity exploded in a shower of sparks and tangled circuits.
"Yep. Definitely robots."
That explained a lot. The stiffness, the lack of screaming, the suspiciously synchronized combat moves.
I kept moving forward, parting the metal crowd with my fists. They may have had numbers, but I had fury—and apparently a steel-proof skeleton.
I was looking for an exit. Any exit. Corridor after corridor, hallway after hallway—doors slammed shut, lights flickered, and behind me, the robot guards piled up like broken toasters.
Somewhere deep inside the facility, I could hear new alarms blaring. The kind that didn't sound like "Containment Breach." No—this one sounded like "Run. Now."
Whatever I had become, the people behind this place clearly weren't ready for it.
And I was just getting started.
After what felt like an endless series of doors, labs, creepy clone storage rooms, and even one suspiciously clean bathroom (why was there jazz music playing in there?), I finally saw it: the EXIT sign glowing like a holy beacon at the end of a dark tunnel.
But by this point, I was done. I'd had enough. Every time a door tried to slow me down, I punched it. A glass wall? Gone. A locked panel? Punched into scrap. A vending machine that didn't give me my chips? Obliterated.
I was a one-man demolition crew powered by rage and cafeteria-level frustration.
And then—I reached it. The final exit door. Bigger than any before. At least 100 tons of reinforced alloy. The kind of door that says: "No one's getting out. Ever."
I looked at it.
It looked at me.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Wrong day to be a door."
I reeled back, charged up like a thunderstorm, and slammed my fist into the center of it.
The door didn't just break—it exploded into chunks, like I'd just punched a spaceship made of crackers. Metal shards rained down like confetti. Dust. Sparks. A dramatic wind that definitely wasn't there a second ago.
I stepped through the smoke, heart pounding.
And what I saw on the other side?
Wasn't freedom.
It was a massive hangar.
A runway stretching into the horizon. Giant transport ships lined up. Armed personnel—real ones this time—scrambling like ants. And at the center, standing with arms behind his back, was Dr. Mira Lang, watching me like he'd been waiting all along.
"Going somewhere, Subject 7?" he said with a smile that promised trouble. So much for an easy exit.