The underground room was dimly lit, the faint hum of fluorescent bulbs casting a sterile glow over the cold, concrete walls. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and industrial cleaner. A single, narrow sink stood against the far wall, accompanied by a simple, tarnished mirror. The reflection it offered was far from flattering—harsh, unfiltered, and brutally honest.

Graydon Creed leaned heavily on the edge of the sink, his knuckles white as his hands gripped the cold metal. His dark blue eyes stared back at him from the fogged surface of the mirror, searching for something he couldn’t quite name. His face was gaunt, more drawn than it had been months ago. The weight of recent events showed in the slight sag of his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. His brown hair, always perfectly dyed, hung damp over his forehead from the water he had splashed onto his face moments ago. The warm droplets clung to his skin, mixing with the fog from the mirror, as though the room itself exhaled with him.

He raised a hand, brushing the hair back from his face, exposing just a hint of the blonde roots beginning to show—a color he despised. Blonde, like his father’s. Blonde, like the man who haunted his memories.

The warm water trickled from the tap, the steady sound filling the silence around him. He stared into the mirror, searching those familiar yet alien eyes. Dark Blue, not yellow from his mother, Mystique. Raven Darkhölme. The woman who abandoned him without a second thought. She had time for everyone else—for Rogue, for her demon child. But for him? Nothing. Not a word. Not a glance. Not a moment spared. He was the one left behind, discarded because he wasn’t “special.” Because he wasn’t a mutant.

He gritted his teeth, staring harder at his reflection. His jaw tightened, the muscles twitching as he leaned closer, fog briefly obscuring his features before dissipating again. There was no comfort in his reflection—only reminders. His lips thinned into a hard line.

Then came the memories. Unbidden, unwanted, but relentless.

His eighth birthday. The orphanage. The smell of cheap cake and candles that barely stayed lit. Laughter echoed from the other children—laughter not for him, but at him. They mocked him, taunted him. "Mutie blood! Freak’s son!" Words they didn’t even understand, but repeated from what they’d heard from adults who should have known better. And then the screams.

The laughter stopped.

Victor Creed had come.

Sabretooth.

The man he only knew from whispers and nightmares. Massive. Wild. Smelling of blood and death. His blonde mane wild and unkempt, his yellow eyes glinting with amusement—and hunger.

He hadn’t come to celebrate his son’s birthday. He had come for fun.

The bodies of the children lay sprawled in the main hall of the orphanage. Blood splattered the walls. Small, limp forms—innocents who hadn’t understood the weight of their cruelty. On the wall, written in blood with a casual cruelty that still made Graydon’s stomach churn, were the words:

“Got Powers Yet?”

A birthday gift from a father who couldn’t care less.

Graydon’s breathing grew ragged. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms into the cold porcelain of the sink. The words still echoed in his mind. The question. The accusation. The disappointment. Sabretooth’s twisted idea of fatherhood—testing his son, tormenting him, laughing at his weakness.

But there were no powers. There never had been. He was human. Ordinary. In his father’s eyes, worthless.

And the "gifts" kept coming. When he was twelve, another reminder. The severed head of the one teacher who had dared to discipline him. Sent in a box, no note. None needed. The message was clear: You’re my blood, you're always going to be my blood.

But Sabretooth never came in person again. Not after he was certain Graydon would never manifest a mutation. Not after he realized his son was nothing but human. And Mystique? She had never tried at all. Too busy raising others—adopting a little southern girl, fighting for causes that had no place for him.

He wasn’t a son. He wasn’t a mutant. He wasn’t anything.

Graydon opened his eyes, staring once more into the mirror. The fog had mostly cleared now, leaving his reflection sharp and cold. He reached toward a small metal cabinet mounted beside the mirror. The hinges creaked softly as he opened it.

Inside, a small white box sat beside other daily necessities. The label on the box read: Sertraline.

He stared at it for a moment, unmoving. Then, with practiced ease, he took the bottle from the box, twisting the cap off. The rattling of the pills inside echoed too loudly in the small room. He tapped one into his hand—small, white, unassuming. He held it there, studying it for a moment longer than usual.

This, he knew, was the only thing that kept him balanced. The only thing that dulled the memories, the anger, the questions. The only thing that quieted the voice in his head that sounded too much like Sabretooth’s laughter.

With a sharp breath, he popped the pill into his mouth and cupped his hand beneath the running tap. The water tasted faintly metallic, but he swallowed the pill without hesitation. The bitterness lingered on his tongue. He closed his eyes, letting the water run, listening to the steady rhythm.

But the past didn’t fade. It never did.

Denti is gone. The thought struck him with fresh force.

For years, Carl Denti—The X-Cutioner—had been his right hand. His most trusted lieutenant. The man who didn’t just understand the cause of the Friends of Humanity, but lived it. Denti had been more reliable than any of the fools who flocked to Creed’s banner. Where others saw a movement, Denti saw a mission. A mission that Creed had convinced himself was righteous.

But now he was gone. Disabled. Beaten. Humiliated.

Because of them.

Because of Captain America. Because of that damned mutant called The Alamo. Because of Rogue and the damn X-Men.

And that speech.

Creed’s fingers tightened against the sink’s edge. The veins on his forearms bulged slightly.

He remembered standing there in Houston, watching the broadcast. Listening as Steve Rogers—Captain America—addressed the crowd. His voice steady, filled with conviction. His words cut through the hate and fear the Friends of Humanity had built their movement on.

For years, the FoH had claimed to stand for the protection of America—real America. For humanity. They had always believed they were safeguarding the nation from the mutant threat. From the others. The dangerous ones.

But when Captain America—the symbol of American virtue—stood there and denounced them, questioned their motives, their values, their cause...

Doubt had crept in.

Not just in the rank and file—but in Creed himself.

If Captain America—who had dedicated his life to fighting for freedom, for justice—believed the FoH were wrong, what did that say about their mission? About him?

Graydon looked up at his reflection again. The question stared back at him from those dark blue eyes.

What are you even fighting for anymore?

His grip slackened. His shoulders sagged. The righteous fury that had driven him for years felt... hollow.

For so long, he believed he had a cause. A reason. But was it ever truly his? Or was it all just an echo of Sabretooth’s violence? A desperate attempt to find meaning in the shadow of a father who never cared and a mother who never looked back?

The FoH had given him power, purpose. But now? With Denti gone, Captain America’s words lingering in the minds of his followers, and the X-Men still standing...

It all felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the quiet.

Graydon stiffened, turning his head toward the sound.

The door creaked open, revealing a tall, expressionless man in a black suit—one of the guards stationed throughout the underground complex. His voice was flat, professional.

“Mr. Creed, Mr. Trask is expecting you, sir.”

Graydon stared at him for a moment, blinking as he shook off the weight of his thoughts. The guard stood still, waiting.

Finally, Graydon straightened. His fingers brushed once more through his damp hair, ensuring no trace of the blonde roots showed. His suit, tailored and precise, felt heavier than usual as he adjusted his cuffs.

The mask slipped back into place—the mask he wore for the world. The polished, controlled leader of the Friends of Humanity. The face of a movement. The son of no one.

He gave the mirror one last look.

The fog had cleared. The reflection was sharp. Cold. Determined.

“I’m going,” he said quietly.

His voice didn’t waver. Not anymore.

With one last deep breath, Graydon Creed turned away from the mirror and stepped through the door, leaving the past—and the man who stared back at him—behind.

The hallway beyond was just as sterile as the room he left, dim lights humming overhead. The complex stretched deeper underground, built for secrecy and security. The guard walked a few paces ahead, leading him through winding passages. The air grew colder, the scent of metal and machinery growing stronger with each step.

Ahead, a large steel door came into view. Guarded. Secure.

Trask.

Graydon squared his shoulders.

It was time to see what Bolivar Trask had planned.

The hallway stretched long and cold, its sleek, metallic walls reflecting the dim blue lighting embedded in the ceiling. It was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the soft hum of machinery somewhere deep within the facility and the faint echo of footsteps. The place didn’t look like a laboratory—it looked like something pulled straight from the corridors of a spaceship, sterile and soulless. The further Graydon Creed walked, the more he felt the weight of the atmosphere press against him.

His throat felt dry. He swallowed hard, glancing briefly at the man walking beside him—a scientist clad in a tailored white lab coat. The scientist’s face was pale and expressionless, his gaze hidden behind a pair of sleek AR glasses reflecting endless streams of data. His footsteps were precise, mechanical. Everything about this place felt wrong.

They stopped before a massive door, its smooth black surface devoid of any visible seams or handles. The door looked impenetrable, like the vault to a tomb. Above it, a small panel glowed faintly. A face scanner.

"You will need to scan your face too," the scientist said, his voice clinical, lacking any warmth. "If it detects two people present, the door will only open if both are authorized. Security protocols."

Creed didn’t respond. His jaw clenched, and he stepped forward. The scanner emitted a soft beep, and a thin blue beam passed over his face. A faint click echoed through the hallway, followed by a slow hiss as the door slid open.

As the doors parted, the scent of antiseptic and machine oil washed over them.

The room beyond was vast—far more expansive than Creed had expected. The ceiling stretched high above, lost in shadow. The walls were a blend of polished steel and dark glass, reflecting the blinding white of the illuminated workstations scattered throughout. The lab seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions, divided into sections by thick glass partitions.

Creed’s eyes narrowed as he stepped inside.

He saw rows of advanced mechanical engineering stations, each occupied by technicians and engineers clad in black lab coats, their faces hidden behind masks and augmented-reality visors. Robotic arms whirred and clicked as they assembled complex machinery at an inhuman pace. Conveyor belts carried half-finished components—cybernetic limbs, neural processors, exoskeletal frames—toward deeper sections of the lab.

But it wasn’t just machines.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

On the far side of the lab, Creed spotted something that made him pause.

Vats.

Large, cylindrical vats lined the walls, their glass walls illuminated by soft blue lights. Inside some of them, he could see biologists and chemists at work, their gloved hands handling vials of luminous liquid. Some vats were empty, but others bubbled with a translucent serum. The contents shimmered faintly, casting an eerie glow on the surrounding walls.

Creed’s stomach twisted. Whatever they were doing here, it wasn’t just engineering. There were things in this place that went beyond machines. Things that shouldn’t exist.

Then, amid the expanse of the lab, he saw him.

Bolivar Trask.

The architect of the Sentinels. The man behind so much death—and salvation, as Trask would say.

Trask stood tall in a crisp white lab coat that seemed too clean for someone with so much blood on his hands. His dark hair was perfectly combed, and his sharp features were softened only by the easy smile he wore as he approached Creed. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he moved with the confidence of a man who believed himself to be the smartest person in the room.

"Creed," Trask said warmly, his voice carrying easily across the lab. "It’s great to see you here."

Creed said nothing. His expression remained unreadable, his jaw tight.

Trask closed the distance between them, raising a hand in greeting. His smile didn’t falter.

"Welcome to the future."

As Trask reached out to pat him on the shoulder, Creed stiffened slightly but didn’t pull away. The gesture felt wrong—too familiar, too forced. He didn’t trust Trask. Not entirely. The man spoke of salvation, of protection, of humanity’s future, but Creed had seen enough manipulation in his life to recognize it when he heard it.

Trask’s hand lingered a moment too long before he withdrew it. His smile remained fixed.

"There’s someone I’d like you to meet."

Creed’s brow furrowed slightly. He hadn’t expected company.

From the shadows of a nearby partition, a figure emerged.

He was slightly overweight, his stomach straining against the buttons of his dark shirt. His thinning hair, combed over in a futile attempt to hide his balding scalp, gleamed under the harsh lights. But what drew Creed’s attention were the metal appendages protruding from his back—sleek, mechanical arms that moved with unsettling precision, each ending in a wickedly sharp claw. They glinted under the sterile light, shifting with a serpentine grace as if they had a mind of their own.

Dark glasses obscured the man’s eyes, but the smirk on his face was unmistakable.

"This," Trask said, "is Dr. Otto Octavius."

Creed stared, his eyes narrowing.

"Dr. Octopus," he said flatly.

Octavius laughed—a low, rich sound that echoed in the vast space.

"Ah, yes. That is the name the New York public has given me. Unflattering, perhaps, but I do not resent it. Octopodes are fascinating creatures, after all. Highly intelligent. Adaptive. Resilient."

One of the metal arms clicked softly, curling in the air behind him.

Creed’s stare didn’t waver. His voice was cold.

"I didn’t come here to hear animal facts."

Octavius’s smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it widened.

"Ah, direct. I like that."

He stepped forward, the metallic arms shifting to maintain perfect balance. They clicked and whirred with every subtle movement. Creed watched them carefully. The way they moved was too natural—too precise. These weren’t mere tools.

Octavius gestured with one of the mechanical limbs toward the center of the lab.

"Come, Graydon. Let us show you something... special."

Trask smiled again, placing a hand on Creed’s shoulder. This time, Creed didn’t flinch. His gaze remained locked on the vat in the center of the lab.

As they approached, the size of it became clearer. The vat stood at least fifteen feet tall, its reinforced glass gleaming under the lights. Unlike the others, this one was empty—no liquid, no serum. Just an empty chamber, waiting for something.

Or someone.

Creed stopped a few feet away, staring at the glass.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice low.

Trask stepped beside him, his expression calm, almost reverent.

"This," he said softly, "is a chance."

Creed turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"A chance?"

Trask’s smile widened.

"A chance for you to be what you were always meant to be."

Creed didn’t respond immediately. His gaze shifted back to the vat.

Trask continued, his voice smooth and persuasive.

"I offered you revenge, didn’t I? And here we are."

Creed turned to face him fully now, his expression unreadable.

"What do you want from me, Trask?"

The smile didn’t falter.

"I want to make you better."

Creed’s jaw tightened.

"In exchange for what?"

Trask’s eyes gleamed.

"Making sure mutants don’t destroy our world."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"This is what we do, Creed. We protect humanity. We protect people from beings with dreams of domination, of subjugation. Beings who believe they are above us simply because they were born... different."

Creed’s gaze remained cold, but something flickered in his eyes.

"Violence," he muttered. "All they know is violence. They’ll kill more people. Make us kill more people."

Trask nodded approvingly.

"Exactly. They will never stop unless someone makes them. Someone strong enough to stand against them."

He gestured toward the vat.

"And that’s where you come in."

Creed stared at the empty chamber, his reflection staring back at him in the glass.

"What are you going to do to me?"

Before Trask could answer, Octavius stepped forward, the metallic arms shifting and clicking behind him.

"Ah, allow me to explain, Mr. Creed."

Creed turned his gaze to the doctor, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Octavius smiled, though there was no warmth in it.

"We have developed a serum. A very special one. A serum that will elevate you to the level of a super soldier. Faster. Stronger. More durable. Comparable, in some ways, to Captain Rogers himself."

Creed’s expression remained unreadable.

"And that’s not all."

Octavius raised one of his mechanical arms, the clawed end glinting in the light.

"I have personally designed a series of cybernetic implants. Enhancements that will make you more than human. On par with certain... individuals."

His gaze seemed to sharpen behind the dark lenses of his glasses.

"Individuals like Sabretooth."

Creed froze.

The room seemed to go still.

Octavius’s smirk widened slightly.

"Or Mystique."

Creed’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck straining. His fists clenched at his sides.

Octavius watched him carefully, the smile never leaving his face.

"I know who your parents are, Mr. Creed. I know the legacy you come from."

Creed’s voice was low. Dangerous.

"They are hardly parents."

He took a step forward, his eyes hard.

"They’re freaks."

The word echoed in the vast space of the lab.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Octavius said nothing. The smirk faded, replaced by something more calculating. His mechanical arms shifted behind him, clicking softly.

Trask stepped between them, raising a hand.

"Enough."

He turned to Creed, his expression once more calm and persuasive.

"This is your chance, Graydon. A chance to surpass them. To become what they never thought you could be."

The cold metallic hum of the lab seemed to deepen as Graydon Creed approached the vat. His footsteps echoed across the pristine floor, each step slower than the last until he came to a full stop, his gaze locked onto the empty chamber before him. The glass reflected his face—dark blue eyes clouded with uncertainty and rage, brown-dyed hair carefully concealing the blond he hated. For a moment, he stood still, the soft glow of the lab lights illuminating the sharp angles of his face. Then, without warning, he turned sharply on his heel, his voice slicing through the sterile air.

"Is this your plan, Trask?"

Trask paused mid-step, his smile faltering for the first time. He turned slowly to face Creed, confusion creasing his otherwise calm expression.

"I... I don’t understand—"

Creed’s eyes blazed with fury as he gestured wildly toward the vat.

"Your plan is to make me a mutant?!"

The room fell silent. The technicians in the background glanced at one another, some pausing in their work. Even the ever-composed Dr. Otto Octavius narrowed his eyes slightly, his mechanical appendages curling in the air behind him, sensing the rising tension.

Trask stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "What? No, Creed, you’re not—"

Creed’s voice thundered, drowning out Trask’s calm tone.

"Why do we fear mutants, Trask? Huh? Why?"

Trask opened his mouth to answer, but Creed didn’t give him the chance.

"I’ll tell you why." Creed’s voice dropped lower, but it carried a venom that chilled the room. "We fear them because they destroy. Because it’s their nature to destroy. They don’t need a reason. They don’t need provocation. They were born to ruin everything they touch."

He took a step toward Trask now, eyes wild, voice rising with each word.

"Mystique and Sabretooth didn’t choose to be evil! They didn’t choose to be monsters! They simply are! They’re destructive time bombs! And you—" Creed jabbed a finger toward Trask’s chest—"you think the answer is to turn me into one of them?!"

Octavius’s metal arms hissed as they shifted behind him. The doctor’s smirk had vanished, his lips pressed into a thin line as he observed Creed’s outburst with a cold, calculating gaze. When he spoke, his voice was razor-sharp.

"Enough with this childish temper tantrum."

Creed snapped his head toward Octavius, his face contorted with rage.

"What did you just—"

But Octavius didn’t let him finish. The mechanical arms behind him twitched, glinting in the harsh lights.

"You are not a mutant, you fool. Your DNA remains entirely homo sapien. Your molecular structure remains untouched. You will not lose your precious humanity."

He stepped forward, his voice lowering to a cold whisper that seemed to echo louder than any shout.

"If you truly despise mutants, you should behave accordingly. But look at you now—weak. Pathetic. Mentally and emotionally fragile. I can smell the sertraline in your bloodstream from here."

Creed’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened—first in horror, then in fury. His hand twitched toward the pocket where the pill bottle had been just an hour ago. How?

Octavius’s smirk returned, curling slowly at the edges.

"Ah, yes. Your little crutch. Chemical courage. You can’t even face your own demons without it."

"Shut... up..." Creed growled, his voice shaking.

Trask sighed, running a hand through his neatly combed hair.

"This revenge consumes you, Creed," he said, his voice quieter but no less forceful. "It blinds you. It makes you erratic. Weak. Depressed. You are sabotaging yourself."

"THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!" Creed roared.

"Lower your voice," Octavius snapped. "You sound like a child."

"YOU—!"

"Enough, Creed!" Trask’s voice boomed across the lab, silencing everyone. His calm facade had cracked just enough for a sliver of anger to show through. He stepped forward until he stood toe-to-toe with Creed, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

"This is your chance—to atone for your failures. To hunt Sabretooth. To hunt Mystique. To end your suffering."

Trask reached into the pocket of his lab coat and withdrew a small vial. The glass caught the overhead lights, illuminating the viscous, deep red liquid inside. It shimmered faintly, almost alive.

"Be free," Trask said softly.

Creed stared at the vial. His breathing slowed. The fury in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something else—something deeper. Fear.

"I... I can’t become a monster," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Trask didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

"Only monsters can hunt monsters," he said.

Octavius stepped closer, his arms clicking ominously behind him.

"The X-Men are too weak to do what needs to be done," the doctor added, his voice like silk laced with poison. "They hesitate. They preach coexistence. But you?"

He grinned, and the metal claws glinted.

"You could be the cure."

Creed’s gaze flickered between the two men. His fists clenched and unclenched. His reflection stared back at him from the glass of the vat—ordinary, human. Weak.

"The X-Men..." he muttered. His eyes narrowed, cold fury returning. "Their silence. Their inaction. They’re part of this."

He turned back toward Trask, his expression hardening.

"When I’m done with them—when Sabretooth and Mystique are dead—they’re next."

Trask smiled faintly.

"One step at a time, Creed. Relax."

He gestured toward the vat.

"Step inside."

For a long moment, Creed didn’t move. The room was silent, the hum of machinery the only sound.

Then, slowly, he reached for the buttons of his shirt. His fingers trembled slightly as he undid them, one by one. The scientists nearby approached quietly, taking the clothing as Creed removed them. His frame, though somewhat strong, was not the peak of human conditioning. There were scars—old and new—across his torso. Reminders of the years spent chasing ghosts. Reminders of a childhood stained by blood and abandonment.

Creed took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the empty vat.

I can’t become a monster, he thought.

But Trask’s words echoed in his mind.

"Only monsters can hunt monsters."

The glass chamber loomed before him—cold, clinical, inevitable.

Slowly, he stepped forward.

The cold steel floor beneath his feet sent a shiver up his spine as he crossed the threshold into the vat. The scientists secured the hatch behind him with a low hiss.

Creed stood still in the center of the chamber. He closed his eyes, his breathing steady.

This is the only way.

Outside the glass, Trask and Octavius stood side by side.

"Begin the sequence," Trask ordered.

The lights dimmed.

The hum of the machines deepened, a low mechanical growl reverberating through the chamber. Hydraulic arms descended from above, each movement precise, practiced, cold. A sleek, metallic mask lowered from the ceiling, its smooth surface reflecting the sterile glow of the lab's lights. The tubes attached to the mask extended forward, inching toward Creed's face like serpents.

With a final click, the mask locked into place over Creed's mouth and nose. The tubes slithered down his throat, forcing themselves inside. His body tensed instinctively, a primal response to the invasion. Oxygen hissed through the lines, keeping him breathing, keeping him alive—for now.

Then came the snap.

A sharp mechanical limb extended from behind, tipped with a gleaming, surgical needle. It hovered for a fraction of a second, almost as if savoring the moment, before driving itself into the base of Creed's neck with a brutal thunk. A powerful anesthetic surged through his bloodstream. His muscles spasmed. His vision blurred.

And then, the real nightmare began.

Dozens of thick needles descended—gleaming, sharp, unrelenting. Each one punctured his skin with precision, burying themselves deep into muscle, bone, and nerve. They stabbed into his shoulders, chest, spine, arms, legs—everywhere. Searing, blinding pain exploded in his mind.

Creed’s mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound came out. The mask muffled everything. The tubes in his throat gagged him. He couldn’t even choke properly.

He could only feel.

His eyes widened in horror, bulging against the glass. His body convulsed violently against the restraints. The crimson fluid in the vat rippled with each spasm, swirling as the needles injected their terrible payload—serums, nanomachines, catalysts engineered to rewrite him from the inside out.

"Breathe, breathe... you will... be... alright."

Trask’s voice echoed through the intercom, cold and detached. It was meant to reassure, but it sounded more like a command. Like an order. The words fell flat against the backdrop of agony that consumed Creed’s mind.

The pain didn’t stop. It grew. Nerves lit up like wildfire. His spine felt like it was being shattered and rebuilt simultaneously. Every bone, every tendon stretched and strained to its limit. The serum burned like molten metal in his veins, rewriting his biology, his chemistry, his very being.

But still, he breathed.

The oxygen pumped relentlessly. The machines kept him alive. His chest rose and fell against the pressure. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

But the pain wasn’t the worst part.

It was the helplessness.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the mask off, to rip the needles from his flesh, to fight. But the anesthetic took that from him. The paralysis took that from him. All he could do was feel.

"Breathe, breathe... you will... be... alright."

The voice faded, becoming distant, like an echo from another world. The humming of the machines deepened into a dull roar in his ears. His vision blurred further. The crimson fluid climbed higher, reaching his face, submerging the mask, submerging him.

His heartbeat slowed.

Breathe.

The pain dulled, not because it had lessened, but because his mind could no longer process it. His consciousness was slipping, fading into darkness. His eyes fluttered once, twice. The last thing he saw was a faint reflection of himself in the glass—distorted, broken, changing.

Breathe.

His eyelids grew heavier with each breath. The crimson liquid was warm now, almost comforting, like a blanket pulling him under.

Breathe.

He exhaled slowly. His eyes closed.

Breathe.

The world went dark.

And in that darkness, only one thought remained:

"I can’t become a monster."

Outside the vat, Trask stood with Octavius, watching the slow rise and fall of Creed’s chest behind the glass. The machines hummed steadily, the serum doing its work, the transformation beginning.

Octavius adjusted his glasses, his metal appendages curling behind him like the legs of some great predator.

"He’s unconscious. The serum is integrating nicely," Octavius murmured, watching the readouts on a nearby console. "In a few hours, he’ll wake up... changed."

Trask stared at the vat, his expression unreadable.

"Good," he said quietly. "Because when he wakes up, I want him ready."

"Ready for what?" Octavius asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Trask didn’t look away from Creed’s submerged form.

"To hunt monsters."