Section C smelled wrong.
Not of blood.
Not of chemicals.
Of absence.
As if the air itself had been stripped of something living.
Tae-Hyun pushed the sanitation cart forward, boots echoing softly against the polished floor. Researchers passed him without a glance. To them, he was invisible. Another faceless worker hired to clean what they refused to acknowledge.
But his body felt everything.
Behind sealed glass walls, life pulsed unnaturally.
Heartbeats too slow.
Cells dividing without rhythm.
Neural signals colliding instead of flowing.
Every step forward sharpened the hum inside him.
C-21.
He stopped again.
The door was now open.
Inside, the room glowed sterile white. The temperature dropped instantly. Three observation pods lined the far wall, thick glass curving around liquid-filled chambers.
Inside the first—
something floated.
Human shape.
But wrong.
Limbs elongated unnaturally. Skin translucent. Veins glowing faintly blue. Its chest rose… then stilled… then rose again minutes later.
In the second—
a young woman sat restrained in a chair, eyes open, lips moving soundlessly as tears slid into the interface lines on her cheeks. Electrodes webbed across her scalp.
In the third—
an empty chamber stained faintly red.
A man in a white coat stood at a console, recording data. Another adjusted the woman's restraints.
"Subject C-021 stabilizing," one said. "But neural decay accelerating."
"Expected," the first replied calmly. "She was never a candidate. Only a vessel."
Vessel.
Tae-Hyun's fingers tightened around the cart handle.
The woman whimpered.
It wasn't loud.
It was… tired.
He took one step forward.
His chest tightened violently.
Her body screamed at his senses.
Cells tearing.
Synapses misfiring.
Pain so saturated it had become quiet.
Something inside him surged.
Not rage.
Instinct.
Command.
The lights flickered.
A low alarm chirped once, then stopped.
The man at the console frowned. "Did you feel that?"
The woman gasped.
Her back arched.
Then—
her breathing evened.
The whimpering stopped.
Her vitals stabilized across the monitor.
The room went silent.
"…What the hell?" the assistant muttered.
Tae-Hyun froze.
He had not touched her.
He had not even meant to.
But something in him had reached outward.
And her cells had answered.
He backed away slowly, heart pounding now, not from weakness—
from recognition.
So this was the scale.
So this was the danger.
If he lost control inside this place…
he wouldn't just kill.
He would rewrite.
He turned sharply and pushed the cart onward.
Around the next corner, voices drifted.
"…Project Devil's Heir has entered second-stage trials," a man said.
Tae-Hyun stopped behind the wall.
A glass meeting room lay beyond.
Inside, four executives sat around a table.
Faces he knew.
Names he had built.
Men who had toasted his rise.
Now wearing power like inheritance.
"…we already lost the original carrier," another said coolly. "The accident forced adaptation. But the template survived."
Template.
"The board wants results. A stable subject. Not fragments."
"We are closer than you think," a woman replied. "Cellular obedience is no longer theoretical."
Tae-Hyun's blood ran cold.
"Once complete," she continued, "this will redefine not medicine… but control."
A screen lit behind them.
Genetic helixes rotated.
Neural maps layered.
And a file code flashed briefly.
D.H-01
Devil's Heir.
His death had not ended the project.
It had accelerated it.
"Then we proceed," the first man said. "Begin acquisition of new candidates. We can't afford another failure."
Tae-Hyun stepped back.
His breath felt too loud.
Too real.
He turned—
and collided with someone.
A hand caught his arm before he could react.
Warm.
Steady.
"Easy," a woman's voice said quietly. "You'll spill that."
He looked up.
Dr. Seo.
She steadied the sanitation cart with one hand.
Still holding his wrist.
Her brows were drawn together.
"You shouldn't be in this corridor," she said.
He forced his breathing to slow.
"I was told Section C."
"This wing is restricted."
Her gaze moved to his face.
Then stilled.
Her grip did not loosen.
Her pulse jumped under his fingers.
His hum softened.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not in suspicion.
In something closer to… recognition.
"Have we met?" she asked.
"No," he said.
It was the first lie he had ever told her.
She studied him.
Longer than appropriate.
Longer than safe.
Then, finally, she released his arm.
"Be careful," she said. "This place… isn't meant for people."
He met her gaze.
"Neither am I," he replied quietly.
Something unreadable crossed her face.
She stepped aside.
Let him pass.
He walked away, power restless under his skin.
Behind him, Dr. Seo remained where she was.
Watching his back.
With the unsettling feeling that something inside the laboratory had just looked back at her.