The sharp, sterile tang of antiseptic flooded Saunders’ senses as he drifted into consciousness. The infirmary lights overhead burned with an unforgiving glare, forcing him to squint as his groggy mind scrambled to piece together his surroundings. A dull throb pulsed in his head, and a foggy heaviness draped over his limbs.

  He shifted slightly, the stiff sheets rustling beneath him. The motion drew his attention to the bandage wrapped around his arm. A faint ache emanated from beneath the dressing, pulling fragmented memories to the surface, a jagged metal sign, its edges razor-sharp, etched with the haunting letters: SIM. The scene came in flashes: the chaos, the searing pain, the moment his world went dark.

  Saunders flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the arm. The movement was smooth, unnervingly so, given the injury. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden flicker in his vision, a faint overlay that seemed to hover just at the edge of perception.

  System Message: Nanite Integration at 72%. Neural Synchronization Incomplete.

  “What the hell?” Saunders muttered, his voice hoarse. His eyes widened as he blinked rapidly, willing the strange text to disappear. It faded after a few seconds, but the unease it left behind lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He shook his head in disbelief, questioning if the message was a hallucination brought on by medication or exhaustion.

  The door creaked open, pulling Saunders from his swirling thoughts. Dr. Diane Jennings stepped inside, her clipboard tucked under one arm. Her warm smile lit up the sterile room, softening the edges of his lingering confusion. “Well, look who’s decided to join the land of the living,” she said, her voice light as she approached his bedside. “From the looks of it, you’re still in one piece.”

  “Barely,” Saunders replied, managing a weak smirk. The weight of exhaustion clung to him, though his mind was far from still. The memory of the shimmering dust in the server room loomed in his thoughts, vivid and unsettling. He pushed it down, locking it away for now.

  Diane’s gaze dropped to his bandaged arm. “That should heal up quickly,” she said, her tone professional but kind. “The cut wasn’t long, just deep enough to make a mess.” Her fingers brushed the edge of the bandage as she examined it. Then her eyes flicked back to his, searching. “How are you feeling? Dizzy? Nauseous?”

  “I’m fine,” Saunders answered quickly, his voice clipped. The truth was far more complicated, but he wasn’t ready to share the strange visions or the unsettling message yet. Not until he could make sense of it himself.

  Diane studied him for a moment, her brow knitting slightly, but she let it go. Her teasing smile returned as she straightened. “Alright, tough guy. You’re patched up and good to go. Try to stay out of trouble for once, huh?” Her voice softened as she added, almost playfully, “And if you still want to grab that drink, my offer stands.”

  Saunders chuckled weakly, his smirk returning just enough to deflect. “Thanks for the patch-up, Doc. I’ll think about it.”

  Her lips quirked into a playful grin. “You mean, Diane. I told you to call me Diane, Mr. Captain Saunders,” she emphasized his name with mock sternness. Signing off on his chart, she gave a small wave as she turned to leave. “Hopefully, I’ll see you soon, just not as a patient.” She hesitated, glancing back. “But, of course, I’ll help if you need me to…” Her words trailed off, and she quickly added, “Okay. I’m really leaving now.”

  The door clicked shut, leaving Saunders alone in the stark silence of the infirmary. He leaned back on the bed, his mind still tangled in the strange events of the past few hours. A tingling sensation pulled his focus to his arm. His curiosity overrode his hesitation, and he slowly peeled back the bandage.

  His breath hitched. The wound was gone.

  Completely.

  The skin was unblemished, smooth as if the gash had never existed. His fingers hovered over the spot, then traced the area with disbelief. His chest tightened as the reality of it sank in. “What the hell...?” he muttered, flexing his arm.

  The tingling grew stronger, like a low hum of energy beneath his skin. It wasn’t painful, but it was undeniably there, coursing through him. His hand clenched into a fist as he tested the sensation. Whatever had been in that dust, it had done something to him, something unnatural.

  Quickly, Saunders rewrapped his arm, masking the truth beneath the layers of gauze. He wasn’t ready for questions he couldn’t answer. He had barely finished when the strange message flickered across his vision again:

  System Message: Nanite Integration Complete. Rapid Healing and Performance Boost Activated. Enhanced Strength and Perception Unlocked.

  The words blazed across Saunders’ mind like a crack of lightning, vivid and inescapable. His heart thundered in his chest. “What the hell is this?” he thought, panic bubbling under his composure. Nanite integration? The phrase echoed ominously in his mind.

  He swung his legs over the side of the infirmary bed, his boots hitting the floor with a solid thud. The stark, sterile hallway beckoned as he pushed open the door, the air cooler than he remembered. Every detail around him seemed unnaturally vivid, the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic tapping of a keyboard from an unseen room, the distant murmur of voices far beyond what should be audible.

  His senses felt supercharged.

  Far down the corridor, his eyes locked onto movement. A tech worker hunched over a desk, frustration radiating as he banged the side of a non-responsive computer. Saunders blinked. The distance between them had to be at least forty feet, yet his vision zoomed in with a clarity that defied reason. He could see the problem as though he were standing directly in front of the machine: a loose CPU tong failing to connect to the motherboard.

  Acting on instinct, Saunders grabbed a thumbtack from a nearby bulletin board as he approached. Before the worker could react, Saunders slipped the improvised tool into the exact gap, securing the connection. The machine whirred to life instantly, its screen flickering on.

  The tech worker’s jaw fell open. “What… how did you even—?”

  “I don’t know,” Saunders cut in, his own voice laced with confusion. “I just… saw it.”

  The worker gestured toward the computer, his disbelief palpable. “But you were all the way down the hall. No one could have seen that, let alone fixed it like that.”

  Saunders took a step back, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned on his heel, his mind racing as his steps quickened down the corridor.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  His breath came faster, his hands trembling slightly as the realization settled over him: his senses, his reflexes, his instincts—none of them felt like his own anymore. Something inside him had changed.

  Outside, the crisp autumn air greeted Saunders, but its cool embrace did little to quell the storm in his mind. The world seemed amplified. Every rustle of leaves, the faint hum of distant traffic, even the chirping of sparrows felt like it was dialed up to an overwhelming volume. Each sound stabbed at his heightened senses, making the ordinary feel unnervingly alien.

  His footsteps carried him to the nearby park, seeking solitude and clarity. The open space, with its scattered benches and meandering paths, should have been peaceful. But even here, the serenity was fractured by his hyperawareness. He could hear everything, the laughter of children playing, the shuffle of a jogger’s sneakers against the gravel, the fluttering of a pigeon’s wings overhead.

  Then, the crack of rapid gunfire.

  His body reacted instinctively, adrenaline surging as he dropped into a crouch behind a park bench. His eyes scanned the area, his pulse thundering in his ears as he searched for the source of the attack. But no one around him reacted. No screams, no panic, no scattering crowds.

  The sound repeated, sharp and mechanical, and his gaze snapped to its origin. A boy walking close by held a GameBoy, its tiny speaker emitting the rapid bursts of pixelated gunfire. To Saunders, it felt as loud as a live firefight.

  He exhaled, his shoulders sagging as realization hit him. His enhanced hearing had betrayed him, twisting an innocuous sound into a false alarm. His hands shook slightly as he pressed his palms against his temples, trying to block out the noise.

  “What the hell is happening to me?” he muttered under his breath, his voice strained. The world around him felt like a ticking time bomb, too loud, too sharp, too much. And with every passing second, Saunders felt like he was losing control of who, or what, he was becoming.

  Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Saunders pushed himself to keep walking. But before he could gather his composure, a football came hurtling toward him, striking him square in the chest. The impact barely registered, and he caught it effortlessly, his reflexes almost automatic.

  “Over here, mister!” a young boy called, waving eagerly from a group of kids nearby.

  Saunders nodded and tossed the ball back, aiming for a casual throw. But the football rocketed from his hand with unnatural speed and force. The boy flew backward, landing with a sickening thud against a tree, his friends frozen in horror.

  Saunders’ stomach dropped. He stood there, paralyzed, as the scene played out in slow motion.

  “I’m sorry!” he stammered, his voice cracking as he took a step back. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

  The boy groaned, clutching his shoulder, but his wide eyes mirrored the fear etched into his friends’ faces. Saunders could feel their stares, a mixture of confusion and terror. His chest tightened as panic seized him. Without another word, he turned and bolted, his heart pounding like a drumbeat in his ears.

  Reaching the curb, he paused to catch his breath, his mind spinning with guilt and dread. Across the street, a sleek black sedan idled quietly, its tinted windows concealing its occupants. Inside, two men sat in silence, watching him intently.

  The driver lowered his binoculars, exchanging a glance with the man in the passenger seat. “That guy’s got some serious power,” he muttered, his tone low.

  The passenger adjusted a long-lens camera, snapping a series of photos. He smirked, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Yeah. He’s the one. We’ve got what we need.”

  The sedan pulled away smoothly, blending into the city’s bustling traffic as if it had never been there. Meanwhile, Saunders disappeared into the park, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the trees, oblivious to the fact that his every move was being tracked.

  Saunders knew something was wrong, deeply, fundamentally wrong. Whatever had happened to him, whatever he was becoming, had started at Black Site Theta. And if he wanted answers, he’d have to return to the place where it all began.

  Using a fabricated story, Saunders hitched a ride with a military transport helicopter. The rhythmic thrum of the rotors filled the air as the chopper descended onto the clearing outside the facility. As the transport touched down, Saunders leaned toward the pilot. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

  He stepped out into the crisp air, his senses hyper-focused. Every sound, every faint vibration, seemed amplified as he scanned the perimeter. The facility stood ahead, silent and foreboding, its reinforced steel doors a stark reminder of the secrets it concealed. He approached the entrance, only to find the code Sergeant Reynolds had used was no longer valid.

  But then, something clicked in Saunders’ mind. His vision sharpened, zooming in on the keypad as if he could see through its casing. The internal mechanisms came into focus, and instinctively, he understood what needed to be triggered to bypass the lock. He focused, willing the mechanism to shift. The keypad displayed a code as though he’d entered it himself, and the door unlocked with a faint click.

  Saunders hesitated, his pulse pounding. “What am I?” he muttered under his breath before stepping into the shadowed corridor.

  The interior was eerily quiet, the hum of the facility’s systems the only sound. Under quarantine, the site was sparsely staffed, with only a handful of agents conducting their investigation. Saunders moved with purpose, his feet guided by an unexplainable pull. The sterile, dimly lit halls blurred together as he navigated deeper into the heart of the facility, each step bringing him closer to the server room.

  When he reached the server room, Saunders stopped at the threshold. The hum of the computers was a low, steady drone, and the faint green glow of a blinking DOS prompt reflected off the dark walls. Something compelled him to approach the terminal. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the keyboard.

  Then it hit.

  A tingling sensation started at the base of his skull, surging over the top of his head. Suddenly, a flood of data overwhelmed his mind, lines of code, schematics, encrypted files, photographs, classified black ops operations. Each piece of information slammed into him like a wave, relentless and all-encompassing. Saunders staggered, clutching his head as the torrent consumed him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

  Minutes later, his eyes fluttered open. The room spun as he groaned, his hands gripping the cool tiles beneath him. He forced himself to sit up, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The data was still there, etched into his mind, a chaotic jumble of knowledge he couldn’t yet make sense of. Instinct took over. He scrambled to his feet, his body trembling, and fled the server room.

  Saunders navigated the facility’s labyrinthine halls on autopilot, his mind a storm of confusion and fear. By the time he reached the surface, the transport helicopter’s rotors were already spinning. He climbed aboard without a word, his gaze fixed on the horizon as the chopper lifted into the air.

  Hours later, Saunders returned to the hospital not knowing where else to go. His thoughts were a chaotic swirl of unanswered questions and half-formed theories. He needed answers, or at least a direction, but the clarity he sought felt maddeningly out of reach. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and in his distracted haste, he walked straight into someone.

  The collision sent a flurry of papers flying through the air. Reflexively, Saunders crouched to gather them, muttering an apology. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying atten—”

  “Watch it!” came the sharp reply, cutting him off. Diane’s voice was more reflexive than hostile, her focus still on the scattered papers. Then her gaze traveled upward, locking onto Saunders. She froze.

  Her surprise was immediate and unmistakable. “What are you doing back here?” she asked, her tone sharp but edged with concern.

  “Uh... just visiting a friend,” Saunders lied, the words tumbling out awkwardly. The excuse felt flimsy even to him, and Diane’s raised brow made it clear she wasn’t buying it.

  Her eyes flicked to his arm, narrowing as she caught sight of his bare forearm. “Wait a second—your arm,” she said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “The cut... it’s completely healed.”

  Saunders forced a laugh, but it came out strained. “Yeah, uh... great immune system, I guess.”

  Her expression shifted from disbelief to something approaching alarm. “That was a deep wound, Saunders. You don’t just—”

  “I’ll catch you later, Doc. I mean, Diane,” Saunders interrupted, slapping the elevator button hard enough to make it wobble slightly.

  The doors slid shut, cutting off whatever she was about to say, but not before her bewildered expression burned itself into his mind. As the elevator descended, Saunders leaned back against the cold metal wall, his pulse hammering in his ears.

  His fingers unconsciously brushed over the now flawless skin of his arm.