The corridor leading to the heart of the laboratory stretched before her like a vein of steel, bathed in the pallid pulse of the generators. Each step Mayu took reverberated off the walls, betraying her progress. The silence was not empty: it was heavy, weighted, as if the walls themselves held their breath. Pipes snaked along the ceiling, emitting barely perceptible hisses—suppressed whispers in the gloom.
Mayu moved forward slowly, every muscle taut. Her heart pounded so fiercely it felt painful in her chest. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was a burning anticipation, a fire craving release. Since she had crossed the complex's threshold, her entire being had screamed one word: end.
Everything had to end here.
The lights flickered suddenly, casting shifting shadows across the walls. Her knife slid snugly into her hand, ready to slice air—or flesh—if necessary. She trusted nothing anymore. Not the walls, not the hidden cameras, not even the floor beneath her feet. This laboratory was a trap. And she was a trespasser in her own past.
When she reached the main chamber, her breath caught.
Behind a thick glass wall, he stood.
The Professor.
The same cold, inscrutable gaze. The same white coat, now splattered with dark stains that spoke of scars left by science. His hands were folded behind his back as he watched her with clinical curiosity.
> "You came," he said in a calm voice, as though resuming a conversation long paused.
Mayu said nothing at first. She surveyed the room with mistrust. Machines hummed softly, screens displayed indecipherable graphs, and at the center stood a translucent blue capsule softly vibrating. Her eyes returned to him.
> "You knew I'd come," she said at last. "You've been counting on it from the start."
> "No," he corrected. "I hoped you would."
He tilted his head, and behind him the capsule hissed open as if by its own will. The amniotic fluid inside rippled.
And then Mayu saw.
A girl.
Floating in the tank.
Her features.
Her face.
Her body.
It was her.
But it was not her.
A cold shiver ran down her nape. Her fingers tightened around the knife's hilt. She stepped back despite herself.
> "This is a joke," she whispered. "An illusion?"
> "No. It's the next phase," the Professor replied with horrifying calm. "A version of you… without deviation. Without attachment. Without parasitic memories."
Mayu felt bile rise in her throat. She wanted to scream, shatter the glass, erase that distorted reflection. But she stood frozen, inexplicably captivated.
> "You used me as a prototype?!"
> "You 'diverged' from the original program," he shrugged. "But you are not a failure. You are a bridge. Thanks to you, she can be born perfect."
Mayu began to tremble. Not with fear— with rage.
> "Perfect… by your standards."
He said nothing. He merely regarded her, like a scientist studying some curious creature.
A distant rumble echoed down the corridors.
Then a sharp sound. A muffled alarm.
Red lights blinked on, throbbing like a warning.
Mayu whirled.
A figure had emerged through the smoky haze of an explosion.
A slow step. Metallic breath.
Subject 45.
But… different.
His mask lay shattered, revealing part of his face—and in his eyes shone something new. Doubt. Conflict. He wavered, as if something inside him struggled to emerge.
And just behind him…
Another presence.