Chains and Shadows

Somewhere in District 4 - Sector ?

——

Night cloaked the world in silence, broken only by the low growl of engines.

A line of matte-black luxury SUVs wound down the mountain road—sleek, powerful machines gliding over asphalt like shadows with purpose. Their headlights were dimmed, set to a cold, clinical blue that sliced through the mist without drawing attention. The lead SUV—a heavily modified Novus Caldera LX—bore no license plate. Just an emblem: a silver helix circled by an angular ring. No brand. No country. Just power.

As they approached, the road widened into a smooth concrete ramp leading to a towering gate. Two sentry towers flanked it—angular, faceless, sterile. Armed guards stood atop them, rifles slung across their chests, night-vision visors glowing faintly green.

Without a word, the gate slid open with a hiss of hydraulics, revealing the facility beyond—a sprawling compound of black steel and reinforced glass, veined with glowing lines of soft blue light. It looked less like a military base and more like a prison designed by a futurist architect. Clean. Cold. Controlled.

No one really knew what went on here.

Rumors floated—private research, weapons development, experimental tech, maybe even something involving Virans. But no name appeared on any registry. No one who entered ever spoke of it again. The place didn't exist on any map, yet its security could rival a capital fortress.

As the SUVs passed through the gate, rows of cameras pivoted to track them. Somewhere deep inside, monitors flickered to life. Profiles. Heart rates. Facial recognition scans. A silent system, always watching.

The convoy disappeared into the belly of the facility. Behind them, the gate sealed shut, cutting off the outside world with a final clang.

Under a harsh, sterile canopy, the lead SUV came to a halt. The door opened with a soft hiss. Kaelen stepped out, the thick plume from his brown cigar slicing through the chill air like a defiant ember. His sharp eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the surroundings with a predator's patience.

Tall, lean, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black coat that brushed the backs of his knees, he moved with measured grace. A silver ring gleamed on his right hand—a token of power and cold prestige. His face, angular and pale, was framed by slicked-back dark hair, giving him the look of a man who wielded influence like a blade. The cigar bobbed with each slow breath, its faint smoke curling around his sharp jawline.

Behind him, a small contingent of guards followed—silent, imposing figures in black tactical gear, their faces hidden behind night-vision goggles and respirators. They moved like shadows, every motion disciplined, every step a quiet threat.

Kaelen's footsteps echoed sharply against the polished concrete as he approached the facility's entrance. The heavy steel doors parted automatically, revealing a sleek, clinical interior—walls paneled in smooth, reflective material, lit by the sterile glow of overhead LEDs. The faint hum of ventilation systems mixed with a deeper sound—muffled cries, echoing from somewhere below.

He crossed to a nondescript elevator. The doors slid open without a sound, revealing a dim shaft that descended into the depths.

Kaelen entered, his cigar trailing smoke like a ribbon of mist. The guards followed wordlessly. The elevator sank.

When it stopped, the doors opened with a hiss. A wave of noise hit them—cries, shrieks, the brittle sound of someone sobbing in intervals. Kaelen stepped out, utterly unbothered.

Down the corridor, past rows of reinforced doors and faded signage, one stood out—larger than the rest, sealed with thick blast shielding and crowned by a flickering red sign:

SUBJECT CONTAINMENT III.

Kaelen walked toward it with measured steps. He didn't need to tap his card. The system scanned his face, beeped once, and the heavy door slid open.

The underground chamber stretched into a maze of cold steel and flickering fluorescent lights. Rows of cells lined the walls—glass and iron coffins housing children no older than nine. Their frail bodies were bound and broken.

Heavy cuffs locked their wrists to metal tables. Around their necks, electric collars pulsed with ominous red lights, humming softly—a constant, merciless reminder of control. Their faces were etched with pain; some cried silently, others screamed, voices fractured by despair, echoing endlessly through the hall.

Kaelen's gaze swept the room, unfazed by the symphony of misery. Three doctors approached—pale, clinical, and overly alert—holding data tablets like shields. Their coats were clean, their postures perfect, but their eyes betrayed the weight of ghosts.

Kaelen's cigar glowed brighter as he paused.

Then—

A scream.

"Let me go! Let me go home! Dad! Mom!"

A little girl, no older than six, her tear-streaked face twisted in desperate anguish, thrashed violently against her restraints. Her wrists bled where the cuffs bit in. Her voice was raw, torn open by panic—pure heartbreak, the kind only a child can make.

Kaelen's eyes narrowed. A flicker of annoyance cracked through his cold stillness.

He walked toward her.

The room seemed to still with every step he took. The air thinned. The other children went quiet—breath held, tears clutched back. No one moved.

He stopped at the edge of the table and looked down at her—like one might look at a wounded animal that refused to stop making noise.

The girl's scream hitched, thinning into hiccupped sobs.

Kaelen's voice came low. Smooth. Icy.

"You want to go home, dear?"

A beat. A smile, cruel and faint.

"Okay. Fine. I'll grant you your wish."

He drew a gun from beneath his coat. Sleek. Black. Customized.

The metallic click of the safety was deafening in the silence.

The girl stared at the barrel—wide-eyed, too young to understand but somehow knowing enough to be afraid. Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps.

Then—

BOOM.

Her body jolted.

Then fell still.

Her head slumped to the side, mouth slightly open. Glassy eyes stared into nothing. A fine pink mist lingered in the air, then vanished.

For a moment, everything stopped. Even the fluorescent hum seemed to pause.

Kaelen flicked the smoking barrel toward the nearest doctor.

"Clean this up."

His voice was colder than the steel walls.

The doctors moved instantly. No one spoke. Two stepped forward, latex-gloved hands lifting the child's limp body. She hung between them like a discarded ragdoll, arms swinging, blood trailing behind her in thin lines.

One technician turned and vomited quietly in the corner, mask damp with sweat.

Kaelen turned, the ember of his cigar glowing faintly in the dark.

Behind him, the children didn't scream.

They didn't dare.

Only soft sobs remained—quiet, broken things leaking from the cracks in their courage. Even the youngest knew better than to make a sound that might draw his attention.

Kaelen's footsteps echoed sharply down the corridor as one of the doctors hurried beside him, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What's the update?" he asked. His tone cut clean through the air—cold and final.

The doctor's hands trembled slightly as she swiped her tablet. Her eyes flicked to the shadows.

"We've managed to transplant the cells," she said, voice thin and strained, "but the human subjects are rejecting them. Violently. Necrosis begins within hours. Some don't survive the sedation."

They turned a corner. Behind the next layer of reinforced glass stood a second chamber—worse than the last.

Children huddled in iron cages, their bodies warped and grotesque. Some bore twisted limbs fused in unnatural configurations. Others had patches of skin peeled away, exposing raw muscle and bone. Black growths pulsed beneath their skin like tumors with heartbeats. Some lay motionless, others twitched. Their eyes—those that could still see—held no light.

Kaelen paused, a sharp, dismissive "Tsk" slipping from his lips. His eyes gleamed with ruthless resolve.

"Get more subjects," he said.

"Don't stop until I have results."

There was no anger in his voice. Just the cold gravity of a man who no longer needed to raise it.

He turned and walked away, the ember of his cigar trailing like a dying star behind him.

The doctor followed silently, the weight of unspoken dread thick in the stale air.

And behind them, the broken cries of the children were swallowed by steel, by smoke, and by the ambition of monsters.