Deciding not to risk further scrutiny, Saunders resolved to retreat to the solitude of his apartment. By the time he reached his building, the weight of unanswered questions pressed heavily on him, leaving him drained. He leaned against the cold metal panel of the elevator, his faint reflection staring back, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and unease.

  The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open, revealing a tall man already inside. His worn leather jacket and crooked grin gave him an air of easy confidence, though something about him felt... off.

  The man pressed the button for his floor without looking up, then glanced at Saunders with a casual smile. “What floor, mate?” he asked, his voice laced with the unmistakable lilt of an Irish accent.

  “Four,” Saunders replied curtly, avoiding his gaze.

  With a quick jab, the man pressed the button for the fourth floor and chuckled. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s pushing buttons,” he said, tossing a sidelong glance at Saunders, his grin almost daring him to engage.

  Saunders barely acknowledged the remark, his thoughts too jumbled to bother with small talk. He nodded faintly, his silence a clear deterrent. But the man wasn’t deterred. His grin widened as if spurred by the challenge. “Didn’t think that was funny, did ya?” he asked, his tone teasing but sharp enough to slice through Saunders’ haze.

  “Yeah... funny,” Saunders muttered, forcing a tight smile and hoping it would end the exchange.

  The man leaned back against the elevator wall, his grin taking on a sharper edge. “Now you’re just humoring me. That kind of humor doesn’t land here, eh? Back in Ireland, they’d be laughing their heads off.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Saunders replied, his unease growing. The back of his neck prickled, the sensation intensifying with each passing second as the elevator ascended. Something about the man’s presence set his nerves on edge, like the prelude to a storm he couldn’t yet see.

  When the elevator doors slid open and Saunders stepped out, everything about the man shifted. The easy charm vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous. He turned to face Saunders fully, his voice a low, deliberate drawl. “Are you really, Saunders?” The question hung in the air, thick with intent.

  Saunders froze, his heart pounding in his chest. His voice, though steady, betrayed the confusion twisting in his gut. “How do you know my name?” he demanded, turning to face the stranger.

  The man’s grin returned, but there was no warmth in it. “Let’s just say I’ve taken an interest in you. Or, more accurately, in what’s inside you.”

  As Saunders’ gaze locked onto the man’s face, his vision exploded with unbidden images: surveillance photos, classified dossiers, black ops intel. Information flooded his mind like a wave, and in the chaos, one name stood out: Seamus O’Conor. A criminal wanted across five countries, sitting comfortably on Interpol’s top 100 list.

  Before Saunders could act, a second figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the hallway. The towering man had the unmistakable bulk of a seasoned enforcer. Seamus’ voice shifted, now falsely soothing. “Relax, Saunders. I wouldn’t hurt you. But my associate here... well, he might.”

  “Sorry, Seamus O’Conor. Not today,” Saunders replied, his voice unwavering, though the roar of his pulse in his ears threatened to drown him.

  Seamus’ expression faltered, his arrogance slipping for the first time. “How the hell do you know my name?” he demanded, his confidence cracking.

  Before either man could react, Saunders was already in motion. His instincts screamed faster than his thoughts. With a single shove, he sent Seamus crashing backward, his body flying across the room and slamming into his associate. The sound of the impact was sickening, a thud that reverberated through the walls as both men crumpled in a heap.

  Saunders stood, staring at them in disbelief. His own strength startled him. He hadn’t meant to hit them so hard, just enough to make his escape, but the result was catastrophic. Panic clawed at him, and without thinking, he turned and ran, his legs moving before his mind could catch up.

  His feet pounded the floor as he sprinted toward the stairwell. Adrenaline surged, pushing him forward. But as he reached the main door to the outside, two more men stepped out from a black van parked on the curb. Their movements were precise, practiced. Before Saunders could react, he felt a sharp sting in his side.

  Pain flared as an electric shock coursed through his body, and his muscles locked. The world tipped violently, and darkness surged in, swallowing him whole before he could fight back.

  When Saunders came to, the world was nothing more than a blur of muffled sounds and indistinct shapes. His eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on the cold metal ceiling above him. The hum of machinery filled the air, a steady mechanical rhythm that made his teeth ache with irritation.

  Voices drifted in from a room just beyond his reach, faint yet sharp enough for his heightened senses to pick up. Major Johnson’s familiar, commanding voice sliced through the fog. “We got to him just in time.”

  Saunders’ head pulsed in agony as he fought to make sense of the words.

  “It’s remarkable,” another voice chimed in, one he recognized, though its familiarity made little sense. Diane? How does she know Major Johnson? “Look at how the nanites have aligned themselves along the central nervous system. They're establishing contact with his brain through electrical impulses. But eventually, that link will be seamless. Whatever he wants them to do, they’ll do.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  There was a brief silence before the Major spoke again, his voice heavy with careful thought. “So he’s becoming… what? A super soldier?”

  Diane hesitated, her voice more measured now. “It’s more than that. He can interface with technology. It’s like... he’s a universal remote. Every one of his bodily functions is enhanced—strength, reflexes, even his sensory perception. He’s becoming something else entirely.”

  “Meaning what?” The Major’s voice darkened, each word dripping with deeper calculation.

  From the other room, Saunders’ voice cracked through the silence, sharp and cutting. “Meaning, I can hear you, Major.”

  The Major didn’t answer immediately. Instead, Diane’s voice returned, louder this time, directed straight at him through the glass. “We’re just going to run a few more tests, Saunders. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  Diane stepped into the room moments later, her expression carefully controlled, more distant than before. She held a small flashlight and shone it into his eyes, watching his pupils with a clinical detachment. “How do you feel?” Her voice was softer, more cautious.

  “Can I ask you something?” Saunders’ voice was firm, though a twinge of unease lingered in his chest.

  “Of course,” Diane replied, her lips curling into the same flirtatious smile as always, though there was a new wariness behind her eyes.

  “How are we gonna get these things out of me?”

  Diane hesitated, the shift in her demeanor barely noticeable but enough to unsettle him. Her smile faltered for just a moment before she spoke. “Uh, well…” She looked away briefly, the professional veneer slipping for an instant. “The nanites are fully integrated into your system. They're... they’re part of you now. We can’t take them out.”

  Saunders swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling in his gut. “But I’m going to be fine, right? They’re not going to hurt me... right?”

  Diane exhaled slowly, her gaze darkening, the uncertainty creeping into her expression. “We’ve never seen anything like this before. There could be... side effects.”

  “What is going to happen to me?” Saunders’ voice barely rose above a whisper, but the fear in it was palpable.

  “Honestly, we just don’t know,” Diane said, her tone stripped of its usual warmth. The words hung in the air, cold and final.

  Several hours dragged on, each second stretching into a drawn-out eternity. Saunders sat, hunched in a cold, dimly lit room, the concrete walls around him offering no comfort. They weren’t holding him as a soldier, they were holding him as an unknown, a variable to be studied, contained, and discarded at their whim.

  His enhanced senses buzzed in his ears, like a radio dial picking up too many frequencies. From somewhere above, faint voices drifted through the ventilation, the words just clear enough for his sharp hearing to catch the edges of a conversation.

  “So, what are we going to do with him?” a voice asked, unfamiliar, but cold.

  “Mr. Saunders is none of your concern, Agent Harper,” came the terse, no-nonsense reply. That voice, he knew it all too well: Major Johnson. But who was this Agent Harper?

  “Are you even going to give him a choice?” Harper pressed, her voice defiant, tinged with challenge.

  The Major’s response was immediate, his tone turning even colder. “Choice is a luxury,” he snapped. “I have the agency’s interests to consider.”

  Harper didn’t flinch. “The agency’s interests, or your own?” she countered, her words sharp, a needle aimed straight at his ego.

  There was a long, pregnant pause, enough time for the tension to simmer, before Major Johnson’s voice returned, harder, unyielding. “You’re out of line, Rachel. It was an accident, but I’m not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.”

  “Opportunity?” Harper scoffed, the disbelief clear in her voice.

  “Yes,” the Major pressed, his tone growing colder with each word. “We don’t know how long this guy is going to last. We need to learn everything we can while we still can.”

  The disgust in Harper’s voice was almost tangible. “Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath. “This guy risks his life for us every damn day, and in return, we’re going to turn him into a lab rat? I hope it’s worth it.”

  Saunders clenched his fists, the words echoing in his mind. Lab rat. That’s what he was now. Not a soldier. Not a person. Just an experiment. His pulse quickened, adrenaline flooding his system. He couldn’t stay here. He wouldn’t. Agent Rachel Harper, he made a mental note of her name. She still had some humanity left.

  His eyes darted around the room, scanning for anything, anything, that could give him an edge. The door was solid steel, locked from the outside. His earlier attempts to break through had been pointless. But then his gaze shifted upward, landing on the sprinkler system embedded in the ceiling. A spark of an idea flickered to life.

  Fumbling through his pockets, his fingers brushed against a small pack of matches, left over from his last mission. Perfect. He struck one against the rough concrete floor, the hiss and flare of the flame cutting through the oppressive silence of the room. He held it up, the small light casting a flickering shadow, and touched it to the sprinkler system.

  A shrill, piercing alarm shattered the stillness, the sound reverberating through the halls. The sprinklers erupted in unison, dousing the room in a relentless downpour. More importantly, the emergency doors clicked open, triggered by the fire alarm system.

  Saunders didn’t waste a second. He bolted into the corridor, water dripping from his clothes as the alarm lights flickered in chaotic rhythm, red and white, flashing like a warning. The chaos worked in his favor. The disorienting lights and the blaring sirens threw the few guards off balance. His heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted through the maze of corridors, weaving past startled staff who barely had time to react.

  Near the main exit, Saunders slowed his pace. Ahead, employees filed out in an orderly procession, calmly evacuating the building as the alarms blared overhead. Keeping his head down, he slipped into their midst, melting into the crowd with practiced ease. His breath slowed, but his pulse hammered in his ears as the cold air hit his face, sharp and cleansing.

  Behind him, chaos continued to ripple through the building, but he didn’t look back.

  In the empty detention room, Major Johnson stormed inside. His face twisted with raw frustration as his eyes locked onto the vacant chair. The faint hiss of the sprinklers dripping onto the concrete only deepened the silence, each drop a reminder of his failure.

  “Damn it,” Johnson growled, his voice low, venomous. His fists clenched at his sides, muscles taut with barely contained rage. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly.

  “He’s gone,” he muttered, each word heavy with fury. The sound of his voice seemed to hang in the still room, echoing off the cold walls, as his frustration curdled into something far darker, far more dangerous.