For a long moment, neither of them breathed.
The chamber was filled with the pulse of machines and the slow, steady heartbeat coming from the pod.
Lena's voice was barely a whisper. "He's… alive."
Adrian moved closer, weapon still drawn, the flickering light painting his face in pale gold. Inside the pod, a small boy floated in translucent fluid, connected by glowing cords that pulsed in rhythm with Lena's heartbeat.
"Not possible," Adrian muttered. "These projects were terminated before—"
"Before what?" Lena turned toward him, trembling. "Before you left them, or before they replaced you?"
Her words cut deep, but there wasn't time to argue.
Adrian stepped closer to the control panel beside the pod. A name appeared across the holographic display:
> Subject: AL-01
Designation: The Firstborn.
Genetic Base: A. Cole / L. Hale.
Lena's knees almost gave out. "Adrian… that's us."
He stared at the screen, the world narrowing to a single point of disbelief. "They used our DNA."
Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the glass. "He's ours, Adrian. Not just by accident—by design."
Adrian looked at the child—pale skin, faint traces of light under the veins, eyelids fluttering like someone dreaming. "They created him before the pregnancy. Before we even—"
He stopped himself. The guilt was too sharp.
Lena turned toward him. "What did you do for them? Tell me the truth."
He clenched his jaw. "I was their lead in tactical development. They said the embryos were non-viable. Test sequences, not living. I walked away before they—"
"Before they made him," she finished bitterly.
A deep vibration rumbled through the floor—distant footsteps, mechanical whirs. The doors above were opening.
Adrian moved quickly to the console. "We can't leave him."
Lena's eyes filled with fear and defiance. "Then what do we do?"
He scanned the controls, fingers flying across holographic keys. "There's a release sequence, but it'll trigger the alarm."
The lights flickered red. The facility was already aware of their presence.
"Do it," Lena said firmly.
He hesitated only a second—then entered the override code from memory.
Steam hissed. The glass pod cracked open, fluid spilling out like liquid fire. The child fell gently into Adrian's arms, weightless but warm. His small chest rose and fell.
Lena reached out, her voice breaking. "He's breathing."
Adrian met her eyes. "We need to move."
Gunfire erupted above. The elevator doors burst open, and black-armored Erevos soldiers poured in.
Adrian ducked behind the console, firing back. "Take him and go!"
"I'm not leaving you!"
"Lena, move!"
She clutched the child close and sprinted toward the tunnel. Alarms screamed. Sparks rained from the ceiling as bullets tore through metal.
Adrian dropped two soldiers, then dove after her, sliding into the maintenance corridor just as the main chamber sealed behind them.
They ran until their lungs burned, the baby's faint heartbeat syncing with Lena's pulse. Behind them, the sound of boots echoed closer.
Adrian grabbed her arm and pulled her into a service hatch. They tumbled inside, panting.
Lena looked down at the child cradled in her arms. "What will they do if they catch us?"
Adrian's voice was grim. "They'll take him back. Finish what they started."
She shook her head fiercely. "Over my dead body."
He looked at her—the resolve in her eyes, the light under her skin, the trembling life in her arms—and for the first time in years, he felt something close to faith.
"We'll protect him," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes."
The sound of drones whirred past overhead. They waited in silence, every breath a countdown.
Then, slowly, the noise faded.
Adrian glanced through the grate, confirming the corridor was clear. "We move now. There's an old elevator shaft up ahead—it leads to the city surface."
Lena nodded. "Then we run."
They moved through the shadows, every step echoing with purpose and fear.
Behind them, in the sealed Core chamber, the systems began to reboot. On the central console, a new message appeared:
> Erevos Protocol Reinitiated.
Tracking Commencing.
And beneath that, a voice recorded long ago whispered through the speakers—cold, calm, and eerily human.
> "The Firstborn was never meant to be hidden. It was meant to lead."