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Through Darkness Eternal
Chapter 13 : Inheritance of Fire

Chapter 13 : Inheritance of Fire

The mess hall was too quiet, the kind of silence that made every bite feel like a disruption. I sat alone at a corner bench, my tray of processed rations in front of me. The protein patty was dense and flavorless, the vegetable block barely distinguishable from the tray itself. But I was too hungry to care. Each bite disappeared faster than the last, the gnawing void in my stomach urging me to devour every scrap.

By the time the tray was nearly clean, my restraint snapped. My tongue swept over the edges of the tray, licking away the last smears of the pale gelatin and synthetic grease. I didn’t stop until the tray gleamed, the metallic surface catching faint reflections in the bright overhead light.

It was only when I caught my reflection in the tray that I froze, a sharp jolt of realization cutting through the haze of hunger. Blood and ash clung to my skin like a second layer, burnt into the curve of my jaw and streaked across my collarbone. My face was gaunt, hollows under my eyes casting dark shadows that made my features seem sharper, more alien. The gore on my face had been scorched into a dry crust, blending with the ash that coated my arms and chest. My suit had protected most of me during the fire, but my midriff and face hadn’t been as lucky.

My hair caught my attention next. It had been long before, but now the ends looked seared and uneven, as if someone had hacked at it with a dull blade. I reached up, fingers brushing against the jagged tips. Burned. It would’ve bothered me once, but now? I shrugged, pushing the thought away. It didn’t matter. It was growing unusually fast anyway, much like my nails. Just another side effect.

I stared into the tray a moment longer, my reflection staring back with mismatched eyes. One was crimson, vivid and glowing faintly in the dim light. The other remained a striking blue, a ghost of who I used to be. The juxtaposition unsettled me, a constant reminder that whatever I was becoming, it wasn’t entirely human.

The hunger stirred again, sharp and insistent, but I forced it down. There was nothing else to eat here. Rising from the bench, I shoved the tray into the disposal slot and made my way to the showers, my feet bare against the cold floor.

The shower stalls were empty, their metallic walls gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The space smelled faintly of cleaning agents, the sterile scent curling in my nostrils as I stripped out of my ruined clothing. The suit was unsalvageable, the fabric scorched and torn in places. Blood and ash clung to the inside, stark evidence of what I’d endured. As I peeled it off, a faint dampness in the fabric made my stomach turn. I don’t need to look to know what that is. The shame hit me like a fresh burn, my throat tightening as the memory of that moment surged forward unbidden. It wasn’t just fear—it was weakness. My body betrayed me yet again. And now it’s clinging to me like I can’t escape it. Maybe Knight is right. Maybe I am still just a scared little girl.

I stepped into the stall and hit the control panel. Scalding water cascaded over me, hitting my skin with an intensity that made me flinch. The burns across my midriff and shoulders had mostly healed, leaving only raw, sensitive skin. The water wasn’t painful—at least not like before. Compared to the inferno I’d endured, this was almost a relief, the heat washing over me, grounding me, reminding me that I was still alive. Still functional.

I scrubbed at my skin furiously, soap and water mixing with ash and grime to form a filthy slurry that spiraled down the drain. My fingers caught on raw patches of skin where my regeneration hadn’t finished yet, the texture uneven and faintly sticky. Scabs flaked away under my hands, revealing tender pink flesh beneath. Normally, these wounds would have closed in seconds, but today everything was slower, my body struggling after hours of constant healing. My nails scratched harder, digging at the stubborn remnants of blood that refused to wash off, the motion more frantic than necessary.

The water beat against me, and as I looked down, my ribs jutted out, sharp and angular. My breasts were smaller, the curves I’d once had diminished to nothing but lean muscle and bone. Of course, I thought bitterly, my body burns through everything it can to heal itself, and it’s never enough. I ran a hand over my flat stomach, the skin stretched taut, every muscle visible in stark detail.

It had to be a combination of everything—the Hemlock mission where I’d been torn apart over and over again, my body desperately trying to repair itself while consuming whatever reserves I had left. And then… I grimaced at the memory. The mutant I’d fought. How I’d lost control. How I’d sunk my teeth into its flesh like an animal, tearing and swallowing in a blind, savage rage. I’d thrown most of it up afterward, the taste of bile and blood still fresh in my mind.

Even after what I’d just eaten in the mess hall, it hadn’t been enough. My body was running on fumes, and I could feel it in the persistent ache in my muscles, the faint, gnawing hunger that never seemed to abate. I’ll have to eat some more of those protein bars Holt gave me, I thought, making a mental note. He’d packed them in that crate, probably as an afterthought, but they might be the only thing keeping me upright at this rate.

I let out a shaky breath and scrubbed harder, trying to focus on the water, the soap, anything but the hollowness in my stomach.

The stench of burnt flesh still clung to me, refusing to fade even as the water poured over me. I leaned my forehead against the cool wall of the stall, the stream pounding against my back, and exhaled slowly. My thoughts spun, flitting between the fire, the monster, and the gnawing void inside me.

When the water finally ran clear, I shut it off and stepped out, steam curling around me. Grabbing a towel, I dried off quickly, avoiding the mirror. I didn’t want to see myself again. My reflection in the tray had been enough.

The T-shirt I pulled from the storage locker was soft and oversized, the faded image of an old anime character from Earth barely visible on the front. The shorts I slipped on hung loose around my hips, the waistband brushing against the tender skin of my midriff. I didn’t bother with shoes, my bare feet still damp as I left the locker room.

Back in my quarters, the familiar shadows greeted me, their shapes twisting in the dim light. I ignored them, heading straight for the bottle of synthetic whiskey I’d swiped from the mess hall earlier. It was no doubt one of Warren’s, a relic from his private stash. The stuff wasn’t exactly commonplace on the Jericho. Normally, taking it would’ve landed me in hot water with the captain, but with my newly granted clearance, we were technically the same rank—or so Jericho claimed.

After everything he’d been keeping from me, though, I honestly don’t give a fuck.

I poured myself a generous glass, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides, and downed it in one long swallow. The burn spread through my chest, dulling the edges of my thoughts just enough to make the weight on my shoulders feel a fraction lighter. The shadows didn’t seem so threatening anymore—just shapes twisting aimlessly, reflecting the chaos in my own mind.

I poured another and sank onto my bed, leaning against the cold wall as I sipped. The taste was sharp, chemical, but it didn’t matter. The warmth creeping through me was what I needed, not the flavor. For a moment, I let myself relax, the tension in my shoulders easing as the alcohol settled in.

Sleep crept up on me slowly, dragging me down into its depths. But it wasn’t peaceful.

The dream was jagged, fragmented. Flames licked at my skin, a searing heat that tore through my nerves. The monster’s voice echoed, warped and wet. “Feed, Sol. You’ll need it to survive.” Blood filled my senses—its smell, its taste, its texture—and the hunger roared to life, more feral than before. My father’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and cruel. “You’re my little Phoenix. You’ll burn for me.”

I woke with a start, my breath catching in my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, the phantom pain of the fire still clinging to my nerves. The room was dark, shadows pooling in every corner. My mismatched eyes darted around, searching for movement, for threats, but there was nothing. Just the silence of the ship.

The glow of my datapad caught my eye, blinking faintly on the desk beside my bed. A new message. Vega.

I reached for it, my fingers trembling slightly, and swiped the screen to life. Whatever Vega had to say, it couldn’t be worse than what was lurking in my head. At least, I hoped it couldn’t.

I stared at the blinking notification on the datapad, the pale glow cutting through the dimness of my quarters. Messages from Vega always carried weight, the kind that sank into your chest and stayed there. My fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before I swiped it open.

The subject line was short and to the point:

“Priority Operations Update: Immediate Attention Required.”

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus as I read.

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FROM: Commander Evelyn Vega

TO: Sol Voss

SUBJECT: Priority Operations Update: Immediate Attention Required

Sol,

Following an emergency session of the Council, operational directives have been revised to address the risks posed by the Hemlock incident. After thorough deliberation, the Council reached a unanimous decision to push Jericho to maximum warp (100x light-speed). This course of action is deemed necessary to create the greatest possible distance between us and the threats posed by the Hemlock. However, this acceleration comes with several critical implications:

* Fuel Reserves: High-speed travel will rapidly deplete our fuel supply, necessitating frequent refueling stops. This increased strain will require careful resource management to prevent mission compromise.

* Crew Rotation: To sustain operations during this period, Teams B and C will be woken earlier than planned. Their inclusion is necessary to distribute the workload and mitigate risks from overextension. The revised crew rotation schedule is attached for your review.

* Command Structure: Captain Warren and the other Council members will remain awake during this critical transition. Per the agreement, Lion and the Royal Guard have already returned to cryo.

Your role has also been reevaluated. As a result, your clearance has been upgraded to Captain-level, though your rank has not been officially conferred. This grants you access to detailed mission objectives and logistical oversight not privy to the rest of the crew. Additionally, you and Knight will bear responsibility for continuing your father’s work. It is imperative that you familiarize yourself with these updates before your next assignment in Lab 3.

Take note of this: while Lion’s support secured this opportunity for you, understand that his influence has created a fragile truce with the Council. Do not strain it further.

While your performance on the Hemlock was acknowledged, no individual is exempt from scrutiny. Use this time to recover, but do not mistake this reprieve for leniency. Every resource aboard Jericho is critical, including you. We cannot afford unnecessary liabilities, no matter your circumstances.

A new pressure suit has been prepared for you in storage. I expect you to retrieve it promptly and prepare for reentry into active operations. The suit has been tailored to accommodate your... unique physiology.

Commander Vega

Attachment: [Revised Crew Rotation Schedule]

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I leaned back, letting the datapad rest against my knees as I stared at the screen. The message was clinical and professional, but its undertones were clear—this wasn’t a vote of confidence. It was a test.

Lion’s actions had bought me this chance, but it wasn’t my merit that convinced the Council. It was his authority, his unwavering loyalty to the Voss name. Everyone knew it, including me. My rank hadn’t changed, but my clearance had. Captain-level access. It was a double-edged sword, granting me tools and responsibilities I wasn’t sure I wanted.

The words Lab 3 loomed large, the weight of them pressing against my chest. My father’s work, Knight’s role, the disaster with Wilks—all of it waiting for me in that lab. I wasn’t ready to face it, but the clearance meant I didn’t have a choice. Responsibility had a way of stripping away what little freedom I had.

Lion had taken care of Wilks and made Knight compliant, though what that truly entailed, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. The memories of the whispers clawed at the edges of my thoughts, relentless and intrusive, their weight dragging me closer to the unknown parts of myself I didn’t want to acknowledge. I’d hoped to find a way to silence them, to stop the hunger that gnawed at my core.

But I couldn’t deny the regeneration was incredible, no matter the cost. Watching my body knit itself back together, even after being torn apart, was a cruel miracle. It saved me over and over, even as it reminded me I was something else now—something monstrous.

Swiping to the next notification, my breath caught. It was from Lion.

----------------------------------------

Message to Sol:

FROM: Lion

TO: Sol Voss

SUBJECT: Guidance

You know what must be done. Trust in your father’s work, Highness. If you need anything, call for Jericho. I will hear it.

----------------------------------------

The words were simple, but they struck harder than I expected. Even in cryo, Lion’s presence lingered, his voice a reminder of the impossible standard he believed I could meet—or needed me to meet.

I set the datapad aside and leaned back, resting my head against the wall. The faint hum of the ship’s systems thrummed in the background, steady and unchanging, a sharp contrast to the chaos of my thoughts. The shadows in the room felt heavier tonight, their edges sharper as they pressed in around me.

I let them come. There was no point fighting them. Whatever Vega, the Council, or even Lion expected of me could wait. The weight of their words, their expectations, could sit there for now, suffocating but distant.

Just for tonight, I allowed myself to sink back into the oblivion of sleep. The nightmares didn’t wait long. Flames licked at my skin, whispers clawed at my thoughts, and the hunger roared, untamed and feral. The shadows in my mind took shape, twisting into faces I couldn’t recognize, yet they felt familiar.

The next day began in Lab 3, the trip far too short for my liking. My stomach churned at the thought of facing my birth giver—a title that felt more accurate than anything maternal. Knight had never been a mother; she was an architect of flesh and bone, nothing more.

The pristine hit me as soon as I stepped inside, the faint hum of Jericho’s drones filling the space. The battle that had once raged here—the gore and destruction left by Lion and Wilks—was gone. The walls gleamed under the fluorescent lights, their surfaces smooth and pristine. Whatever damage had been inflicted during their fight, Jericho’s nanobots and repair drones had erased it as though it had never happened.

"Don’t waste time gawking," Knight snapped, her silver eyes cutting to me with a sharp edge of disdain. "If you’d shown half this interest as a child, maybe we wouldn’t have to waste time playing catch-up now. It was exhausting trying to teach you back then, constantly dragging you along while you stumbled through the basics. Let’s hope you’ve finally decided to act like the prodigy your father thought you were, instead of a clumsy child lost in her own shadow." She turned back to the glowing displays, her tone as sharp as a scalpel. "Now, try to keep up."

I ignored Knight’s words as best I could, letting them roll off me like the hum of the ship’s engines, and turned my focus elsewhere. Lab 3 was familiar in ways that made my chest tighten, the ache sharp and unrelenting. The layout mirrored my father’s private lab on Earth—the one I’d spent countless hours in as a child, surrounded by the constant hum of machinery and the soft glow of screens. His lab had been alive in its chaos: half-finished projects sprawled across every surface, stacks of handwritten notes covered in his spidery scrawl, and the faint smell of ozone hanging in the air.

Lab 3, by contrast, was clinical. Every surface gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, devoid of personality or warmth. The equipment, though advanced, was so perfectly placed and pristine it felt sterile—almost alien. It wasn’t a place for discovery; it was a place for results, stripped of everything that had once made my father’s work feel human. It was efficient, precise, and utterly hollow.

Still, the resemblance was enough to claw at old memories. I could almost hear his voice, patient but insistent, guiding my clumsy hands as I fumbled with the simplest tasks. He never grew angry, not like Knight, but his disappointment had always stung worse. For a moment, I let myself remember that lab, the warmth of it, the way it had smelled faintly of coffee and soldering wire. I let myself miss it. Miss him.

Then I forced the memories away, shoving them into the same dark corner where I kept the whispers and the hunger. There was no use lingering on what was gone.

Knight had been busy getting the place ready, and she had no doubt made the lab look just like my father’s to taunt me. The symmetry, the deliberate arrangement of instruments I recognized all too well—it was a cruel echo of what I’d lost. It felt like walking into a ghost, the past brought to life with sterile, unfeeling precision.

To my left, a series of gene sequencers hummed quietly. Each one was equipped with multi-lattice projection systems capable of rendering a full genetic map in three dimensions, down to the quantum level. The screens displayed strands of glowing DNA, twisting and spiraling as Knight manipulated the sequences with quick, deliberate gestures.

Further back, rows of containment chambers lined the walls, their reinforced glass fronts flickering with readouts in languages only someone fluent in genetic shorthand could decipher. I recognized some of the equipment immediately: bioreactors designed to cultivate synthetic proteins, cryogenic storage units for preserving samples at absolute zero, and an autoclave station large enough to sterilize tools the size of industrial scaffolds.

But there were other machines I didn’t recognize. Devices whose purposes were hidden behind layers of alien design and advanced engineering. One station featured a sleek, cylindrical chamber labeled "Quantum Polymerizer." Its purpose eluded me, but the faint hum it emitted hinted at molecular manipulation far beyond anything I’d learned.

Knight gestured impatiently for me to sit at one of the stations near her. “I said stop gawking, child,” she barked, her voice cutting through my thoughts with the same sterile efficiency as the lab around us. “This isn’t playtime in your father’s lab, and I’m not here to indulge your wide-eyed distractions. Sit down and get to work. You’ll start here—mapping viral evolution in real time. I need you to understand how Phoenix adapts—what makes it unique. And, most importantly, what makes you unique.”

Her tone was as clinical as the room itself, and it stung in a way I hated to admit.

She handed me a datapad, her tone cold but focused. “Load the sequence for Variant 47. It’s in the secured files. We’ll use it as the baseline for today.”

The datapad came to life in my hands, and I began scrolling through the archived sequences. Each file was labeled with cold, clinical precision: "Variant 43 - Metabolic Overdrive," "Variant 46 - Neural Pathway Amplification," "Variant 47 - Adaptive Immunogenesis."

I hesitated before selecting Variant 47, the screen lighting up with a cascade of information. A three-dimensional rendering of the virus appeared, its complex structure glowing in blue and gold. The datapad outlined its key features—mutagenic proteins, RNA-based adaptability, nanoscopic delivery systems that integrated with host cells at an atomic scale.

Phoenix wasn’t just a virus—it was a masterpiece. A terrifying, brilliant creation that rewrote the rules of biology. My father’s work had always been groundbreaking, but this… This was something else entirely.

I leaned closer, my fingers brushing the datapad as I adjusted the rendering. Knight watched me with a sharp, critical eye.

“Do you see it yet?” she asked, her tone pressing. “What makes Phoenix different?”

I frowned, narrowing my mismatched eyes at the sequence. It was there, buried deep in the genome—a repeating pattern almost too deliberate. “It’s modular,” I murmured, half to myself. “Every segment is designed to integrate with something specific. Host DNA, environmental stimuli, even electromagnetic fields. It’s… adaptable.”

Knight gave a curt nod, her peircing gaze fixed on the screen. “Not adaptable—symbiotic. Phoenix doesn’t just rewrite DNA; it partners with it. It forces the host to evolve alongside it. That’s why it worked on you. Your father tailored it to your DNA.”

Her words settled cold in my chest. “Good to know all those childhood experiments weren’t for nothing,” I muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “So, how did it work for the others?”

“It didn’t,” Knight replied bluntly. “Not being a genetic match killed them. Their bodies fought back, and Phoenix doesn’t allow defiance. It consumed them, twisted them into something else entirely—or killed them outright.”

I hesitated, the question forming before I could stop it. “Is that why one of my eyes is red?” My hand brushed against my face instinctively, fingers lingering near the glowing crimson iris. “But Wilks… both of his were.”

Knight’s gaze didn’t waver, as though she’d anticipated my question. “Yes,” she said, her tone clipped but precise. “Your DNA meshed with the virus. It integrated seamlessly, forming a symbiotic relationship. That’s why your body is still yours—why it evolves instead of being overwritten.”

She gestured toward the simulation on the screen, highlighting the strain as she continued, her voice taking on a sharp edge of certainty. “Wilks, on the other hand… his DNA resisted. Phoenix doesn’t tolerate resistance. In his case, the virus didn’t just integrate—it replaced. His body became something else entirely before he died.” Her eyes flicked back to me, unreadable. “The red eyes are a symptom of that—a sign the virus was overriding him piece by piece.”

The knot in my stomach tightened as her words sank in. My focus returned to the datapad, the lines of genetic code swimming momentarily before snapping into sharp clarity. “Then it’s useless,” I said, my voice hard. “It’s too specialized. Phoenix was made for me, down to every molecule.”

Knight’s expression remained unreadable. “That was the point. Your father spent years perfecting both you and the virus. Between the genetic modifications he performed on you as a child and Phoenix’s design, no one else could adapt to it.”

“Then why bother?” I asked, the frustration and unease building.

“Because in time, with the right conditions, it could be passed on,” Knight said, her tone even. “To your descendants.”

The words struck like a physical blow, my chest tightening with revulsion. Descendants. Children. The thought of passing this thing on, of tying another life to the virus, made my skin crawl. “No,” I said sharply, shaking my head. “That’s not going to happen. Ever.”

Knight’s penetrating gaze locked onto me, almost clinical. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Not after what you and my father did,” I snapped. “You think I’d bring anyone into the world after the way I was brought into it? I wasn’t a child—I was an experiment. That’s not something I’ll ever inflict on anyone else.”

Her sharpness dulled slightly, but the silence carried weight—acknowledgment laced with disdain. It pissed me off.

“What the hell were you thinking, giving him Hydra after Phoenix already wrecked him?” I snapped. “Did you want to make a monster?”

Knight turned sharply, her silver eyes narrowing. “You think I didn’t know the risks? Of course I did. That’s exactly why I did it.”

I blinked, thrown off. “You what?”

Her lips curved into a cold, thin smile. “Wilks was already dead. Phoenix had chewed through him—there was nothing left to save. But his body… his body was a perfect test subject. Hydra wasn’t some miracle cure, Sol. It was a theory. A way to test what happens when you push Phoenix past its natural limits. And now we know.”

My stomach twisted. “You didn’t just test it. You created a goddamn nightmare.”

Her tone turned even icier, her words like blades. “And that nightmare proved your father right. Hydra amplified Phoenix, combined with it. It didn’t just rebuild Wilks—it turned him into something… else. Something stronger. Something uncontrollable. Exactly what Julian hypothesized.”

“That’s your excuse?” I spat. “You threw Hydra into him just to see if it would work?”

Knight’s eyes narrowed further, her voice cutting. “It wasn’t about him, Sol. It was about Phoenix—and about you. Every test we ran, every failure, brought us closer to understanding the virus. To understanding you. Without Wilks, we wouldn’t have half the data we do now. You think that doesn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t justify this!” I shot back, my voice rising. “You used him like a fucking lab rat—just like you used me. He didn’t even have a say—he was already gone!”

Knight’s gaze didn’t waver, her silver eyes colder than the sterile lab. “And that’s exactly why it had to be him. Do you think I’d risk someone alive? Someone who might adapt halfway and unleash something even worse than Wilks? No. It had to be a corpse. It had to be controlled. Hydra’s a failure, but now we know what failure looks like—and we know what it costs.”

Her lip curled into a mocking smirk. “You, of all people, should appreciate that, Test Subject Zero. After all, you turned out just fine, didn’t you? Maybe you should start feeling grateful. Wilks wasn’t the first, and he sure as hell won’t be the last. Your father didn’t stop or even begin with you—he didn’t even hesitate.”

The words hit like a slap, my pulse spiking with a mix of rage and disgust. “Grateful?” I snapped, my fists clenching at my sides. “For what? For being your goddamn science project? For ending up as some twisted proof of concept for a virus that’s changing me, driving me insane?”

Knight shrugged, her tone as dismissive as her gaze. “Better than ending up a monster like Wilks. Or dead, like the others. Face it, Sol—you’re the reason any of this even works. If you want to keep wallowing in self-pity, fine. But at least try to do something useful with what you’ve got.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Her words struck like a hammer, heavy with cruel logic. My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “You don’t even feel bad, do you? Not one fucking bit.”

“Feeling bad doesn’t get results,” she said coldly. “Wilks wasn’t coming back, Sol. At least this way, his death meant something. Now, if you’re done playing the moral high ground, maybe we can focus on what actually matters. Phoenix first. Hydra… later.”

Her dismissal stung, but I forced myself to turn back to the screen. The glowing strands of DNA twisted like the truth—shimmering, elusive, and laced with horror. Knight could justify it all she wanted. But to me, it was just another reminder of how far they’d gone. How far they were willing to go.

And how far I might have to.

“This,” she said, tapping the display, her voice as sharp as ever, “is where you start. The catalyst proteins. They’re what enable Phoenix to bind to the host genome. Learn how they work. Learn how they fail. Because if we’re going to control this thing—or suppress it—you’ll need to understand it better than your father ever did.”

Her words carried an unspoken weight, settling over me like a physical pressure. I nodded, though the tightness in my chest didn’t ease.

Hours blurred together as I worked, my world narrowing to the endless rows of genetic code on the screen. Mapping sequences, running simulations, and dissecting Phoenix’s design was like unraveling a tightly knotted rope, the complexity staggering but oddly familiar. Knight’s critiques came sharp and unrelenting, slicing through the silence as she guided me. Brutal as her methods were, the pieces were starting to click.

The lab’s hum enveloped me, a sterile symphony of whirring processors and softly blinking monitors. Across the room, a holographic interface projected a simulation—Phoenix, glowing and predatory, threading itself through a digital model of my genome. I stared at the display, watching as the virus latched onto each strand of DNA, its tendrils weaving seamlessly into place. It wasn’t just merging—it was consuming, claiming, adapting.

“This is just the beginning,” Knight said from behind me, her tone low but dripping with scorn. “Phoenix is more than a virus. It’s a weapon, a tool, and—if we’re not careful—a curse. The kind of monstrosity only someone as brilliant and heinous as your father could create. And let’s not forget you—his living proof of concept. Between the two of you, the line between genius and atrocity has never been so thin.”

Her words hung heavy in the sterile air, cutting through the hum of the lab like a scalpel. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. My fists clenched at my sides as the simulation continued to spin, glowing with all the terrible beauty of what I’d eventually become.

She gestured to the simulation, zooming in on the glowing double helix, her voice laced with irritation. “Tell me you at least know the basics of human biology. Every cell has safeguards—caps on the ends of chromosomes, called telomeres. Surely, you’ve heard of them? They’re what keep cells from dividing endlessly and turning into a mess of mutations. They wear down over time, like a countdown clock, until the cell stops dividing altogether. Nature’s way of keeping things in check.

“But Phoenix? It doesn’t bother with those caps. It bypasses them completely, overriding the failsafe. Instead of letting your cells age or degrade, the virus itself steps in as the safeguard. It’s the reason you’re still standing here, looking like you’ve never aged a day. But don’t fool yourself—it’s not perfect, and it’s not natural. You should know this already.”

I frowned, studying the visualization as it shifted to show a molecular-level view. “So it replaces the caps?”

“Not exactly,” Knight said, her tone sharp. “It mimics their function, but on its own terms. The virus carries a precise copy of your DNA—pristine, uncorrupted. Every time your cells divide, Phoenix ensures the new cells use its blueprint rather than allowing natural decay to set in. It’s why you’re immune to things like cancer or genetic corruption. The virus doesn’t just repair your body; it overwrites it with perfection every time. I assume even you can grasp how impressive that is.”

My stomach churned as I considered the implications. “But if it’s rewriting my DNA constantly, how is it not changing me?”

“It is changing you, hopefully for the better,” she said, her voice laced with scorn, though I ignored it. “But only within the boundaries your father set. He spent twenty years perfecting that balance—sequencing the virus to match your DNA exactly. Phoenix works with your body because it knows your body. Every safeguard is tailored to you and you alone. Not that you seem to appreciate the sheer genius of that.”

The screen shifted again, highlighting molecular diagrams of RNA strands and protein synthesis. “The proteins Phoenix uses to control cell division are coded specifically for your genome. That precision is why it works so seamlessly—why your cells regenerate instead of degrading or turning into something monstrous. Without those exact parameters, the virus doesn’t integrate—it destroys.”

“And the hunger,” I muttered, my jaw tightening. “That’s the one thing he never fixed.”

Knight’s silver eyes flicked to mine, her gaze steady. “No. He couldn’t. The energy demands of perpetual regeneration are beyond anything natural. Your body consumes resources faster than it can process them. Without raw energy, Phoenix will feed on you instead—burning your reserves, breaking you down from the inside out. Only God could cure something like that,” she said dryly, “but as Ashly so kindly reminds us, we’re here playing God.”

Her words hung in the air, amusements on her face. I stared at the glowing simulation on the screen, watching as the virus endlessly repaired and consumed. My father had built the perfect machine for survival, but at the cost of an appetite that could never be sated.

I glanced at her, my jaw clenching as I forced myself to suppress the whispers, those faint echoes stirring just beyond the edge of my consciousness.

The student becomes the teacher. How my little protégé has grown, my father’s voice coiled through my mind, smooth and venomous. Your mother was always a fast learner, just like you, my little Phoenix.

The air felt heavier, the phantom weight of his presence pressing against me, but I refused to acknowledge it. I bit down on the memories threatening to surface and fixed my gaze on the data in front of me.

For now, all I could do was focus. Whatever truths waited for me in Lab 3, I would face them head-on. One sequence at a time.

The hunger clawed at my thoughts, making it hard to concentrate, and my simmering hatred for Knight made her a disturbingly tempting next meal. The whispers in the back of my mind twisted her sharp voice into something softer, something pleading, as if taunting me with what I could take. But my resolve held firm. I wouldn’t give in—not to the hunger, not to the virus, and certainly not to the monster lurking in my own mind.

I would find a way to satisfy the gnawing void Phoenix had brought on, but I would do it on my terms.

Weeks passed in the unfeeling rhythm of Lab 3. I ate more and more, but the weight I’d lost was slow to return. The hum of equipment and the cold glow of holographic displays became my world. Knight was relentless, her sharp critiques cutting through the monotony of endless sequences and data simulations. Each failure reminded me of how far I still had to go. Frustration gnawed at the edges of my focus, but I pressed on.

The nights were worse. Sleep offered no respite, only a gateway to nightmares that clawed at my mind. The yellow-eyed monster loomed in the shadows of my dreams, its grotesque form twisting into shapes that defied reason. Its voice was always there—taunting, wet, and heavy with a cruel mockery. The echoes of its laughter merged with fragmented memories of my childhood, darkened by the sterile glare of my father’s lab. I saw his face, stern and unyielding, heard the cold cadence of his voice as he spoke of progress and perfection.

I would wake in the dark, gasping for breath, my heart pounding in my chest as the images lingered, seared into my mind. The hunger always followed, gnawing and insistent, as though the nightmares fed it. The whispers, faint during the day, were sharper in the stillness of night, their weight pressing down on me like a second skin.

And yet, I dragged myself to Lab 3 each morning, the relentless cycle continuing. The work didn’t silence the nightmares, but it gave me something to cling to—a purpose, however flawed. Each sequence, each data point, was a step forward. Even if it was a path I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk, it was better than standing still and letting the past consume me.

In the evenings, before the nightmares clawed their way into my mind, I buried myself in study and drink, pouring over everything from molecular biology to astrophysics—anything that might help me grasp the intricacies of Phoenix. The whiskey burned as I sipped it, the warmth dulling the edge of the hunger that always lingered at the back of my mind. It wasn’t just the knowledge I sought; it was a way to fight back against the shadows, a way to keep them at bay for just a little longer.

I wasn’t just a student anymore. Every paper I read, every equation I deciphered, felt like a battle against the weight of my father’s legacy. I was trying to become a scientist in my own right—not just an extension of his ambition, not just a living experiment. Each solved problem, each moment of understanding, was a step toward standing on my own against the crushing expectations he’d left behind.

The datapad rested beside me, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light of my quarters. Page after page of text and diagrams blurred together as the hours dragged on, the information a mix of careful analysis and half-formed ideas scribbled into the margins of my notes. Somewhere between the whiskey and the diagrams, I found a fleeting sense of control, a brief moment where the chaos seemed manageable.

But it never lasted. The work was endless, the gaps in my knowledge vast. And no matter how much I learned, the shadow of Phoenix—and the man who created it—loomed over everything.

Ashly joined us eventually, her arm still in a cast from when I’d broken it during those early, chaotic weeks before the Hemlock mission. The sight of her made something in my chest tighten—guilt, shame, maybe both. She avoided my gaze as Knight brusquely assigned her tasks, her movements cautious and deliberate, like she was walking a tightrope in a room filled with predators.

“Start with the gene modeling,” Knight instructed her, her tone as clinical as the lab itself. “We need fresh projections on Phoenix’s integration thresholds. Sol, focus on the protein pathways.” Knight’s silver eyes flicked briefly to me before she turned back to her console, already absorbed in her work.

Ashly nodded mutely, her posture tense as she bent over her terminal. I wanted to say something, to bridge the silence between us, but Knight’s presence loomed, and the weight of our work left no room for personal matters. Ashly slipped out of the lab at the end of the day without a word, and I let her go, unsure of how to reach her.

It wasn’t until later, when I found her in one of the observation lounges, that I finally had the chance. She was staring out at the void of space, the cast on her arm stark against the soft glow of the stars beyond the reinforced glass. Her small frame seemed to fold into itself, her posture tense and low, as though she were trying to disappear into the view. Almost as short as I was, she seemed even smaller now, diminished by the weight of everything we’d both endured. My heart pounded as I approached, the silence between us heavy and fragile.

“Ashly,” I said softly. My voice startled her; she flinched, her head snapping around, her eyes wide and wary.

“Sol,” she said, her voice tight. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk,” I admitted, stepping closer but keeping a careful distance. “About… everything. About what happened.”

She turned back to the window, her fingers gripping the console edge. “There’s nothing to talk about. It happened. It’s done.”

“No, it’s not,” I said, the words rushing out. “I hurt you, Ashly. I scared you. I know I can’t undo it, but I need you to know I’m sorry.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she let out a shaky breath, her voice quieter when she spoke. “You didn’t just hurt me, Sol. You… you lost control. You have no idea how terrifying that was. Not just because of what you did, but because of what you could do.” She turned to face me, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and pity. “I’ve seen what Phoenix can do. What it has done. And every time I look at you, I see that same potential. The same danger.”

Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit, but I kept my gaze steady. “I’m trying,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “To control it. To understand it. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Ashly’s gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeve. “I know. And that’s why I’m still here. If anyone can figure this out, it’s you. But… this isn’t just about control, Sol. It’s about what’s right. And playing God? Trying to force evolution? That’s not right. It never was.”

Her words echoed the note she’d left, her plea to abandon my father’s work. “Then why are you helping?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “If you think it’s wrong, why stay?”

She hesitated, her expression conflicted. “Because if you’re going to do this—if you’re going to pursue Phoenix—I’d rather be here. That’s why I left you the note, Sol. I wanted you to stop, but if you won’t, then I’ll stay. I think you deserve the chance to make it right. I’d rather try to help you control it than stand by and hope for the best. I’d rather be scared and trying to make a difference than leave you alone with… her.”

The unspoken name hung heavy between us. Knight. I nodded slowly, my chest tight with a mix of gratitude and guilt. “Thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but sincere. “I’ll make this right. I promise.”

Ashly gave me a faint, hesitant smile, though the fear in her eyes hadn’t entirely faded. “Just… don’t make me regret it, okay? I only have one arm left,” she added, her tone wavering between a joke and genuine nervousness.

“I won’t,” I said, hoping I could keep my word. The weight of her trust settled over me like a mantle, and for the first time in weeks, the whispers in my mind grew quiet.

We stood there in silence for a while, watching the stars stretch endlessly beyond the window. It wasn’t forgiveness—not completely—but it was a beginning. And for now, that was enough.

The days bled into weeks, and then months. We pushed through light-years of empty space, the vastness outside Jericho’s hull a constant reminder of how far we were from anything familiar. The ship’s engines roared as we hit refueling points, plunging into the swirling atmospheres of gas giants to harvest precious hydrogen. Three missions like that came and went, each one a blur of logistical chaos and tense oversight from the council. I barely noticed. My world had shrunk to the confines of Lab 3, the hum of Jericho’s systems, and the gnawing hunger that never truly left me.

Occasionally, I ran into other members of the crew from Teams B and C, now awake to handle the increased workload. Most avoided me like the plague. I wasn’t sure if it was fear, the rumors swirling about me, or some combination of both, but the effect was the same. People moved aside in the hallways, whispered behind my back, and hurried away before I could speak.

There were a few exceptions. Furio, a rugged, no-nonsense engineer, greeted me once in passing with a curt nod, though he didn’t linger. Sebastian, the lead scientist on his team, was friendlier—or at least polite. But even he seemed preoccupied, deeply engrossed in analyzing the alien evidence Jericho had flagged from the, Hemlock. When I tried to probe for details, he brushed me off with a vague explanation about classification levels and critical priorities.

Frustrated, I turned to Jericho for answers. The AI, ever-cryptic, deflected most of my questions about the so-called yellow-eyed monster. “No anomalies detected,” it would say, its calm voice maddeningly indifferent. “No relevant records available for your clearance level.”

When I tried to access files on my father’s hidden projects, hoping to unearth something useful, my terminal flashed red. A familiar message appeared moments later—this time from Lion himself.

----------------------------------------

Message to Sol:

FROM: Lion

TO: Sol Voss

SUBJECT: Priorities

You’re as busy as it is, Highness. One project at a time. And remember, you have all the time in the universe.

Knight knows precisely what she’s doing—she was selected for her results, not her conscience. Progress is being made in Lab 3, and she is there to guide you, to teach you. If her methods seem cruel, it’s because they are. You should already understand that she places science above all else; she always has, just like your father.

Embrace the knowledge she imparts, Highness, because that is the only way forward.

----------------------------------------

The words simmered in my mind, a reminder of how little control I truly had. Even with Captain-level clearance, Lion and the council still kept me on a leash, invoking my father’s standing orders whenever I pushed too far against them or Knight.

“Bullshit,” I muttered under my breath, closing the message with a sharp swipe. My teeth ground together as I stared at the blank terminal screen, the frustration churning in my chest. Lion’s interference, the rumors, the whispers in my mind—it all coiled around me like a tightening noose. My fangs bit into my lip before I realized it, the sharpness slicing through the skin. The tang of iron flooded my mouth, jolting me out of my spiraling thoughts. I swallowed hard, the taste lingering, a bitter reminder of the changes I couldn’t escape.

But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t afford to. If I was going to find the answers buried in Jericho’s labyrinthine systems—or in Phoenix itself—I’d have to play their game. For now.

Then came the day when Reid and Garin were finally cleared to leave quarantine. Jimmy and Holt, however, remained in medbay, their recoveries dragging on. Jimmy was still learning to walk with his new cybernetic leg, each step an awkward, determined shuffle as he adjusted to the sleek, high-tech mechanics. Holt was worse off—still locked in a coma, his powerful frame unnervingly still under the medical scanners. Yates, ever composed, admitted in a rare moment of uncertainty, “I don’t know if he’ll ever wake up.” The short, clipped words lingered in my mind.

Reid was the first to visit me. He strolled into Lab 3 like he owned the place, his usual swagger somewhat dampened but still intact. His new cybernetic arm gleamed under the sterile lights—a masterwork of engineering, sleek and seamless. It was nothing like the crude replacements from old Earth’s archives. No, this was one of my father’s designs, enhanced and executed flawlessly by Jericho’s drones. The arm moved with eerie precision as he flexed his fingers, testing the range of motion, the faint hum of its servos barely audible over the lab’s ambient hum.

“Hey, Princess,” he said with a smirk. “Turns out the metal hand’s great for cold beers. The real one’s still perfect for holding yours, though.”

I snorted, despite myself, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” he replied, his tone light, though there was an edge of vulnerability beneath it. He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at his arm. “It’s weird, you know? Feels like it’s still me, but… not really. Like I’m borrowing part of someone else.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if that was true. “And besides, it suits you. You’re still Reid—just a little shinier.”

His grin softened, the bravado giving way to something quieter. “Thanks,” he said, his voice lower. “For… you know. Saving my ass out there. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “You’d have done the same for me.”

“Maybe,” he said, then added with a smirk, “but I wouldn’t have looked half as badass doing it.”

The tension broke, and we both laughed, the sound echoing faintly in the sterile lab. For a moment, it felt almost normal.

Garin, on the other hand, was a different story.

He arrived not long after Reid left, his movements precise and deliberate as always. His new prosthetic eye glinted faintly, the intricate mechanics a stark contrast to his otherwise unremarkable features. He barely acknowledged me as he entered, heading straight for the console nearest to Knight. Across the room, Ashly seemed to shrink further into herself, her posture tighter and more withdrawn than usual at his appearance. Her shoulders hunched slightly, and her eyes flicked toward him with a wary, almost reluctant glance before darting back to her work.

“Back to work,” he said curtly, his tone dismissive. “No time to waste.”

I watched him for a moment, irritation prickling at the edges of my thoughts. He didn’t care about the months we’d spent in Lab 3, the progress we’d made, or the questions still looming over Phoenix. All he cared about was his obsession—the so-called “true AI” he kept muttering about. He was convinced it would surpass Jericho, though even Knight seemed skeptical.

Still, I couldn’t deny he was brilliant. His hands moved swiftly over the controls, calling up sequences and data sets with a speed that made my head spin. But his brilliance came with arrogance, a refusal to see beyond his own ambitions.

The tension between him and Knight was immediate. She barely looked at him, her posture stiff as she focused on her own work. When they did speak, it was clipped, their words carrying an undercurrent of years-old grudges and unresolved disagreements.

“Cybernetics are a dead end,” Knight said at one point, her tone icy. “If you’d bothered to read the data on Phoenix’s integration, you’d understand why.”

“And if you’d bothered to consider the risks of biological manipulation, you’d understand why cybernetics are safer,” Garin shot back, his voice sharp. “Your obsession with Phoenix is what got Lab 3 shut down in the first place, halting progress on Julian’s remaining projects.”

Their arguments became a constant backdrop, the two of them locked in a battle of wills that neither seemed willing to concede. Ashly and I exchanged weary glances more than once, the strain of mediating between them wearing on both of us.

As the weeks stretched on, I threw myself into the work, burying the whispers and the hunger beneath the weight of research and discovery. Phoenix was a monster, yes, but it was also a marvel—a testament to my father’s genius and the terrifying lengths he’d gone to in pursuit of survival. Understanding it felt like the only way forward, the only way to make sense of what I was becoming.

Garin, had been surprisingly nicer since the Hemlock, where I’d saved his life. But “nicer” was a relative term. He still found ways to be an asshole—sneering at my work when it didn’t meet his impossible standards or making pointed remarks about my supposed “legacy.” At least now his snide comments came with the occasional begrudging acknowledgment, like he was trying to balance his gratitude with his natural instinct to be insufferable. It was progress, I supposed. Not much, but enough to make his presence marginally less unbearable.

Knight, by comparison, was still a bitch. Her sharp critiques and thinly veiled disdain hadn’t entirely disappeared, but after months of working together, she had at least stopped insulting me as often—a small improvement for the relentless whore, but one I’d grudgingly take. Whether it was her version of a truce or just another layer of her endless mind games, I didn’t care. At least it’s quieter.

A small part of me, however, couldn’t quite forget the last backhanded compliment Knight had given me. I had managed to complete one of her dozens of tasks—painstakingly detailed, as always—without needing her corrections or input. She’d looked at the results, raised an eyebrow, and muttered, “Not bad, for once.”

I don’t need her affirmation, I thought, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. And I sure as hell don’t want it. But I couldn’t deny that, in the moment, it had been… pleasant. Almost like a fleeting acknowledgment that I wasn’t entirely useless in her eyes. Goddammit, I scolded myself, stop caring what she thinks.

The thought lingered anyway, a tiny ember of satisfaction buried in the constant churn of frustration and resentment. Not validation, I insisted, just… progress. That’s all it is.

And so, the days passed.

Until I finally understood.

Late one night in the sterile glow of Lab 3, it all came together. The Phoenix virus wasn’t just a regenerative tool. It was something far more ambitious—far more dangerous. My fingers hovered over the datapad as I stared at the simulation running before me. Strands of genetic material, glowing in vivid holographic detail, intertwined with Phoenix’s sequence, its integration seamless and deliberate.

It’s not just rewriting my DNA, I murmured, almost afraid to speak the words aloud. It’s rebuilding me. Layer by layer to match my fathers vision.

Knight’s gaze flicked to the screen, her silver eyes narrowing as she took in the data. “Phoenix isn’t just repairing,” she said, her voice sharp with realization. “It’s upgrading. It doesn’t just heal—it adapts.”

The virus wasn’t merely integrating with my genome. It was a living algorithm, constantly analyzing my environment, my biology, even my behavior, and recalibrating itself in real time. Every strand of foreign DNA I consumed provided it with raw material to evolve me further. Knight pulled up another set of data, her movements brisk and precise.

“Look here,” she said, highlighting a cluster of proteins. “These are biocatalysts—enzymes that enable rapid genetic integration. Your cells aren’t just incorporating foreign DNA; they’re dissecting it, extracting key sequences, and using them to optimize specific functions.”

“Optimize?” I echoed, leaning closer. The data felt overwhelming, but my mind raced to keep up. So… if I ate something with gills, my body would—

“Temporarily replicate the structures,” Knight interrupted, her voice tinged with grim fascination. “Phoenix doesn’t waste energy on permanent adaptations unless they’re essential. It prioritizes short-term functionality. Gills for underwater survival. Enhanced vision in low light. Increased muscle density for strength. Whatever the host needs, when it needs it.”

The implications made my stomach churn. But it’s not permanent, I said, my voice quiet. The adaptations fade once the virus determines they’re no longer necessary.

Knight nodded, pulling up a time-lapse simulation. The hologram showed a model of my genome, the integrated sequences glowing faintly before fading, replaced by new ones. “Correct. It’s a closed-loop system. Constantly evolving, constantly adapting. But there’s a limit. The virus is constrained by your genetic framework. It’s why your father spent years tailoring you for it—your genome was designed to accommodate this kind of dynamic evolution.”

And no one else could survive it, I muttered, my jaw tightening. That’s why it failed in the others.

Knight gave me a pointed look. “Exactly. Without your specific modifications, the virus overwhelms the host’s cells, causing catastrophic failure. But with you…” She gestured at the screen. “It thrives.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine. The hunger, the whispers, the changes—they weren’t side effects. They were the virus fulfilling its purpose. I glanced back at the screen, my pulse quickening as another realization hit. “If it can do all this… is there a way to direct it? To control what it adapts to?”

Knight’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Now you’re thinking like your father. Theoretically, yes. If we control the DNA you consume, we can guide the adaptations. It’s a question of precision and resources.”

“Resources,” I repeated, a bitter edge in my voice. “Like cloning animals to feed me?”

Knight didn’t flinch. “If the hunger can’t be eliminated, perhaps it can be… redirected. Controlled. Your father always said, ‘Adaptation is survival.’ If humanity won’t evolve naturally, then perhaps it’s time to force it.”

Her words settled heavily between us, the cold logic of them undeniable even as they turned my stomach. The first experiments were small. Knight had Jericho’s drones clone basic organisms—fish, birds, small mammals. Consuming them dulled the hunger, the whispers fading to a murmur as my body absorbed their DNA. But the method was horrifying. I ate them raw and alive, their struggling forms adding to the growing weight of my nightmares. The first time, I gagged on feathers and blood, the taste of terror and life lingering long after. I couldn’t sleep that night, the sounds of their last moments replaying over and over in my head.

But there was another side to it, one that disturbed me even more. The taste. It was unlike anything else—rich, vibrant, alive. I hated the hunger, but after eating, the satisfaction was intoxicating, a twisted, primal pleasure that made the shame worse. The animals’ screams echoed in my dreams, their terrified eyes seared into my mind. Yet, when the hunger came again, sharper and more relentless, I couldn’t stop myself. The cycle continued, feeding my nightmares and my body alike.

The changes weren’t just internal anymore. My body absorbed every ounce of biomass, and it showed. My curves returned, fuller and more pronounced, but beneath them, my muscles grew denser, stronger. My bones thickened, reinforcing themselves to handle the new weight. I still looked the same—small, at five feet tall—but the scale told a different story. I used to weigh barely 100 pounds; now, I weighed 250. My cot groaned under me when I sat down, the metal frame straining against a body that seemed unchanged on the outside but was anything but.

Months passed, the days blending into a sterile blur of experiments and data. The drones brought me meals, and I consumed them with a mechanical detachment that only deepened the weight of my nightmares. The whispers were quieter now, dulled by the constant feeding, but their absence only left space for the hollow guilt that followed each experiment.

One day, it was just the two of us in Lab 3. The usual hum of activity from Jericho’s drones had faded, leaving only the cold, rhythmic sounds of the equipment and our own voices to fill the silence. Knight stood at the console, her silver eyes flicking between the screens with sharp precision.

“It’s a start,” she said, studying the data with clinical detachment. “Your father envisioned a future where humanity could adapt to any environment, any threat. You are the prototype. The next step.”

She tapped the screen again, and a new series of graphs overlaid the genome. “But there’s something else… something only possible because of the way you and the Phoenix virus are intertwined.”

I frowned at the shifting lines on the display. “What am I looking at?”

“A fail-safe,” Knight said grimly. “One your father never told anyone about. Phoenix isn’t just rewriting your body—it’s backing up your mind, encoding a rough map of your neural patterns into your cells. Technically, if you were reduced to a single cell and given enough time—and enough biomass—you could regenerate.”

My heart thudded painfully. “You mean… I could come back from almost nothing?”

Knight gave a single, curt nod. “In theory. But it wouldn’t be a simple matter of healing in seconds. It would take months, maybe longer, feeding on whatever organic matter is available. And honestly,” she added with a dismissive curl of her lip, “the collateral damage you might cause during that time is irrelevant if it furthers our understanding. You’d be little more than an animal—no higher reasoning, no sense of self beyond raw instincts. You’d be a predator, like Wilks was toward the end… or worse. A ravenous horror capable of devouring anything in your path. Eventually, maybe your neural maps would reassert themselves, and you’d regain your sparkling personality—but there’s no guarantee you’d be anything close to human once it was over.”

A sick chill settled in my gut. “So… there’s no upper limit to what Phoenix can do?”

Knight exhaled softly, though her gaze never wavered. “That’s precisely what worries me. Your father left ample room for future evolutions—transformations even he couldn’t predict. You’re a living blueprint, Sol—a prototype that could, in time, become something truly beyond us. So if you tear through half the crew while molting into your next form—well, that’s the price of progress.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “I can only guess at what you might become after a full catastrophic rebuild. The final evolution, if there is one, might leave you unrecognizable—mentally and physically. But if you ask me, that’s a risk worth taking for a discovery like this.”

My hands clenched at my sides, fear twisting into something darker—a fascination I couldn’t deny. The virus had given me power, yes, but it had also chained me to its relentless hunger. This wasn’t just survival—it was transformation. My inheritance. And I was only beginning to grasp the scope of what Phoenix—or I—could become.

The lab lights flickered, shadows stretching against the sterile walls. Phoenix wasn’t just reshaping my body; it was reshaping my existence. Every change had purpose, every adaptation followed a plan I couldn’t yet see. But I could feel it pulling at me, driving me toward something vast and inevitable.

Phoenix isn’t just changing me. It’s preparing me.

For what? The thought slipped through my mind like a blade, cutting and cold.

The answer came, soft and serpentine, coiling around my thoughts with undeniable weight.

For dominion, my little Phoenix. For what you were born to inherit.

The voice was unmistakable—smooth, commanding, and brimming with a cruel pride. My father. His words slithered into my thoughts, their weight pressing against my chest.

Humanity wasn’t meant to share the stars. They were ours to take. And you, my perfect creation, will lead us there. The herald of Earth’s will. The culmination of everything we are meant to be.

“Get out,” I hissed, my voice barely audible as I pressed my palms to my temples. But the whispers only deepened, like roots digging into my mind.

You don’t see it yet, do you? The virus. The Royal Guard. Jericho’s weapons. Even the AI—all of it is yours to command. You were made to lead. To rule. You are my masterpiece, Sol. The spearhead of humanity’s rightful dominion.

“No.” The word came sharper this time, cutting through the sterile hum of the lab. But his voice lingered, heavy with a twisted certainty.

Deny it if you like, but the truth is etched in every strand of your DNA. Phoenix isn’t just a tool—it’s destiny. And you, my little Phoenix, are the only one worthy of it, claim what is yours by birth right.

The shadows seemed to press closer, their edges flickering with unnatural weight. My eyes locked onto the glowing strands of DNA on the screen. Phoenix wasn’t just beautiful—it was terrifying, perfect, and undeniably mine.

Humanity’s will. My father’s will. Was that all I was meant to be?

I exhaled slowly, forcing air into my lungs, grounding myself against the rising tide of his voice. No. The word was sharp, solid—a fragile shield against the whispers. Regret gnawed at me: the lives I’d taken, the animals consumed alive, their screams haunting my dreams. The hunger had made me a monster, but I couldn’t let it define me. I can fix this, I thought, clinging to the hope that understanding Phoenix might help me undo the damage. Whatever my father had planned, I had to believe I could still make something good out of the chaos he left behind.

But the hunger stirred, sharper now, gnawing at the edges of my resolve. My nails dug into my palms, blood welling from the crescents they left behind.

One adaptation at a time, I told myself, clinging to the thought. I’ll face whatever he’s left for me—but on my terms.

The shadows stilled, their oppressive weight retreating, though not entirely. The hum of Jericho’s systems returned, steady and indifferent. But his voice remained, faint and waiting, threading through the edges of my mind.

And deep down, I knew he wouldn’t stay silent for long.