The storm over Raven City had turned savage. Lightning ripped the sky apart, each flash reflecting off the silver towers like broken glass. Rain came down in sheets, blurring neon lights into streaks of color.
Ethan Vale sprinted across a half-collapsed skybridge, boots slamming against the metal, lungs burning. Behind him, the whir of drone engines rose above the thunder.
> "Target reacquired—designate E.Vale, priority one!"
Their floodlights cut through the rain like white blades. Ethan's body still pulsed with the strange blue glow of Genesis energy. Each heartbeat felt too loud, too strong. The world around him was sharper, faster — every droplet of rain seemed to fall in slow motion.
He vaulted over a railing, dropped three stories down, and rolled onto a maintenance walkway. Sparks burst from his boots as he slid under a security gate. The pain in his ribs was gone; Genesis had rebuilt him again.
> "Keep running," the voice inside whispered.
"Adaptation will accelerate under stress."
Ethan's teeth clenched. "Shut up."
But he could feel it—the nanites listening, shifting, strengthening him.
A drone swooped low. Ethan pivoted and hurled a piece of rebar. It pierced the engine, and the machine exploded midair. Another came from the left; his hand twitched, and blue lightning shot from his palm, shorting the drone instantly.
He froze. That hadn't been strength. That was something new.
The voice hummed again.
> "Phase Three: field testing."
"Field test this," he muttered, sprinting again.
He burst onto an open platform overlooking the city's industrial district. Far below, streets were flickering in and out of power, entire blocks going dark one by one. His fault. The Genesis surge was spreading like a digital virus through the grid.
A flash of light.
Something heavy slammed into him from the side, sending him sprawling. Ethan rolled, came up on one knee, and saw a figure standing at the edge of the platform.
Tall. Armored in matte black with faint red lines tracing under the suit. The mask was blank—only two glowing slits for eyes.
> "Ethan Vale," the voice was modulated, deep, precise. "Your resurrection complicates things."
Ethan steadied his breath. "Let me guess. Syndicate cleanup crew?"
The figure tilted its head. "You can call me Specter. I retrieve what belongs to us."
Lightning flared again.
Ethan lunged first. His fist connected—but Specter blocked effortlessly, the shockwave shaking the bridge. The assassin countered with a kick that sent Ethan flying into a wall. Metal groaned under the impact.
He coughed, pushing to his feet. Specter was already moving, strikes flowing like data streams—each blow calculated, no hesitation. Ethan ducked, parried, slammed a knee into Specter's ribs, but the armor absorbed it.
Specter grabbed him by the neck, lifting him off the ground. "You're still adapting. You don't control Genesis—it controls you."
Ethan's vision blurred. "Then… I'll make it listen."
He grabbed Specter's wrist. Blue veins flared under his skin. Electricity surged outward. The air cracked with static. Specter dropped him, stumbling back as the suit's systems overloaded.
Ethan landed hard, panting. Energy crackled around his hands like living lightning. He didn't understand it—but instinct guided him.
Specter's voice was distorted now. "You shouldn't exist. You're a failed iteration of Genesis. We perfected it long before you were born."
The words hit harder than the blows. "What did you say?"
Specter reached up, tearing off the mask. Beneath it was a face—pale, lifeless, with faint blue circuits running beneath the skin. Synthetic.
"Project Genesis wasn't created for you," Specter said. "You're just the prototype."
Ethan's pulse roared in his ears. "Then let's see what your upgrade can do."
They collided again—fists, sparks, rain. Every punch from Specter shattered metal; every counter from Ethan bent physics. The platform trembled beneath their feet.
Specter fired a wrist blade; Ethan caught it mid-swing, twisting until it shattered. Lightning exploded from his arm, blasting Specter backward into a generator. The impact triggered a chain reaction—blue arcs snaking across the power grid.
The city lights flickered wildly, one tower after another going dark.
Ethan staggered, barely standing. His skin glowed brighter than ever. The voice inside wasn't whispering anymore—it was shouting, urgent, euphoric.
> "Synchronization complete. Neural interface at 82%. Continue."
"No!" he yelled aloud. "You're not in control!"
He forced himself forward, every muscle screaming. Specter emerged from the smoke, suit cracked and sparking, but still alive.
"You can't fight evolution, Vale. Genesis was always meant to replace you."
Ethan clenched his fists. "Then you'll have to delete me first."
They charged one last time. Specter's blade met Ethan's hand—blue energy flared, engulfing them both. The explosion tore through the bridge, hurling them in opposite directions.
Ethan tumbled, hit a steel beam, and hung there as half the platform collapsed into the abyss below. Rain poured through the gaps. Specter dangled from a cable across from him, armor flickering.
For a moment, only the storm spoke.
Ethan's breath came ragged. His right hand trembled with power he couldn't contain. Lightning crawled up his arm, into the sky.
Specter's voice was faint but calm. "You'll destroy the grid if you keep resisting it. The entire city will fall."
"Then tell me how to stop it!" Ethan shouted.
"You can't," Specter said. "Because the system doesn't want to stop. It's rewriting itself—using you as the template."
The words echoed through the rain. And then, before Ethan could move, Specter severed his own cable and fell into the darkness below.
The shockwave from the explosion rippled outward. Whole sectors of Raven City went dark.
Ethan collapsed onto the bridge, drenched and shaking. The neon lights faded one by one until only the storm remained.
Then the voice returned—quieter now, almost human.
> "Phase Two complete. Phase Three: Assimilation initiated."
Ethan looked at his hands. The blue glow was fading—but deep beneath the skin, something pulsed. Something alive.
> "What are you doing to me?"
> "We're not doing anything," the voice said softly. "We're becoming."
Lightning cracked again—and for a brief moment, his reflection in the puddle wasn't human at all.