Rain clawed at the city like it wanted in.
Thunder cracked above the skyline, rattling windows and rumbling through the bones of old buildings. Inside 1432 9th Avenue, John Cruz sat at the edge of his workbench on the third floor, locket in one hand, the other pressed to his forehead.
He hadn't slept.
Not because of nightmares, or the endless storm outside.
Because of the terminal in the basement.
It had whispered secrets the night before—names and files and a voice that hadn't spoken in more than a decade. His father's voice.
John hadn't meant to activate it. It had felt like stepping into someone else's dream. And yet, it was his reality now.
Down there, below the floorboards of his newly inherited world, something was waiting.
Not danger.
Not power.
Truth.
He returned to the basement just after dawn.
The storm had passed. The air felt washed, like the sky had screamed itself quiet. Inside the bunker-like lower level, everything was still. The generator stood in the corner like a beast sleeping in the dark, faintly humming from last night's activation.
The terminal screen still glowed.
Welcome, J. Cruz.
User Authentication Complete.
Unlocked Files: 14
Access Duration Remaining: Unlimited
The cursor blinked, waiting.
John sat, pulled the chair in, and clicked on the top log.
A video loaded—fuzzy, old, but coherent.
A younger man appeared on screen, hair darker than John's but with the same sharp jaw and heavy brow. He looked tired, like life had rubbed him raw in places no one could see.
"Dr. Jonathan Cruz, recording this log for internal records… and maybe for my son, if it ever comes to that."
"I was recruited by military biotech in 1987. Stryker's team. You probably don't know that name, but if you do—then you know how dangerous he was."
The man exhaled slowly, wiping a hand over his face.
"I was never high-ranking. Just a gear in the machine. I helped draft structural blueprints for early Sentinel units—autonomous hunter drones. They told us they'd only target 'unstable mutants.' That we were saving lives."
"They lied."
John's throat tightened. He leaned closer, absorbing every detail.
"Stryker wasn't building peacekeepers. He was building predators. For genocide. I saw the specs—facial targeting, skin conductivity profiling, genetic pattern ID. They were designed to kill."
"So I stole something."
The video skipped slightly. Then the feed returned—his father now seated closer, whispering into the camera.
"Sample 47-A. Extracted from a captured mutant. Never tested. The subject—unknown name, young, male—had the ability to generate a protection field, kinetic and static-based. Nothing could get through it, not even high-velocity rounds."
"Stryker's team wanted to replicate it. Turn it into a weaponized shell—deployable around vehicles or soldiers. But it was unstable. Rejected in testing. I falsified its failure rate, marked it 'non-viable,' and kept it."
"For you, John. In case the world loses its mind again."
John swallowed hard. His pulse drummed through his fingertips.
The next clip played automatically—shorter, more intimate.
His father sat in the same chair. The lab was darker.
"I built this building like a fortress. Steel-lined. Concrete insulation. Solar backup on the roof, hidden behind the false shingles. Triple-reinforced foundation with independent plumbing, water filtration, and a standalone generator."
"You don't see it, but every wall has redundancy. Every floor is anchored. I made this place to survive."
He paused, then reached off-screen. When he returned, he held a small black case.
"The serum is stored in the safe next to this terminal. Along with a single injector. Use it only if there's no other choice. No glory, no power fantasy. This isn't a superpower. It's a lifeboat."
"And only you can choose whether to climb in."
"I hope you never need it."
John sat in silence for a long time.
The hum of the generator and the soft crackle of aging electronics filled the room. He felt detached from himself—like he was reading the last chapter of a book someone else had written, only to realize his name was on every page.
Eventually, he leaned down and touched the biometric safe embedded into the steel workstation.
He remembered the journal. The oily fingerprint on the inner cover. He flipped to that same page and pressed it gently against the scanner.
The red light flickered green.
Click.
Inside was a foam-lined case.
One vial. Glowing faint gold, liquid swirling slowly like molasses caught in starlight.
And beside it, a reinforced injector—sleek, silver, mechanical in its design but clearly hand-crafted. There was also a data chip embedded into the lid, but John didn't pull it free.
Instead, he stared at the vial.
The power of a mutant.
Contained.
Refined.
Off the grid.
He closed the case, locked the safe, and stepped back from the terminal.
He spent the next several hours cleaning.
It wasn't avoidance. It was therapy.
Soap, cloth, water, and motion.
He mopped the basement floor, reorganized tools, replaced rusted bolts on the main fuse box. The dust no longer felt oppressive—it was just a layer of time, and he could wash time away.
When he finally returned to the terminal, the screen still glowed.
Do you wish to power down? [Y/N]
He hesitated.
Then typed: Y
The lights flickered as the system shut itself down for the first time in over a decade. The terminal powered down cleanly, not a spark or protest. Just a long exhale of old code.
John reached under the desk, opened a steel panel, and pulled a switch. A cover snapped shut over the terminal. It was mechanical—not electronic. Sealed like a vault.
He didn't destroy it.
But he didn't need it now.
Not yet.
By nightfall, he'd resealed the basement door, scrubbed the workshop, and moved a bedroll to the third floor. The storm had passed, and the windows were open to the sounds of the city.
Distant sirens.
Laughter.
A motorcycle roaring down an avenue.
John sat on the roof under a sky bruised with clouds and thought about what he'd learned.
His father had been afraid.
But he hadn't been weak.
He built a sanctuary in the heart of a city that never slept. A bunker disguised as a neighborhood corner store. A lab beneath a kitchen.
And he left it for his son.
John didn't want to be a hero.
Didn't want to fly or punch through walls.
He just wanted to live. To repair. To build. To protect.
And if the world ever came for him… then maybe—maybe—he'd reach for the serum.
But not today.