10 February 2000
19:30
Sri Lanka, Unknown Warehouse
"James, we finally found you."
Christa Clark's voice carried through the cavernous warehouse and seemed to dissolve into the vast darkness surrounding her. The words trembled even though she forced her stance into something sharp and steady. The building reeked of rust and stagnant chemicals. The air tasted metallic, mixed with the heavy scent of blood that had dried in streaks across the concrete floor. Far above, a single bulb swung in a lazy arc. Its faint yellow glow carved shifting shadows that crawled across James's body.
He lay slumped against the metal table, chains still binding his wrists and ankles. The table groaned under his weight whenever he tried to breathe. His skin had the pallor of someone who had been starved of light, stretched taut over bones that bore the violence of years in Gordon's hands. His chest rose shallowly, but he was conscious and aware, staring at Christa as if trying to decide whether she was real or another hallucination brought on by torment.
His eyes, the blue she had not seen since he had been a boy, flickered with pain and confusion. When he focused on her again, something in those eyes warmed, softening the brutal lines that suffering had carved into his face.
"Christa." His voice rasped, harsh and dry, but undeniably alive. "How did you find me?"
The dim light traced the rigid lines of her jaw and the resolve tightening her expression. "It was not easy," she said quietly as she stopped at his side. "We searched for years. The Order marked you as lost. Most believed you were dead. We refused to accept it. John saw you in a vision two nights ago and that was the break we needed."
James blinked, his brow tightening as fragments of memory swam through the pain. "John. Your brother." He drew a shallow breath and exhaled slowly. "I remember his house. Lance and I always raced through the orchard behind it. We used to fight over who got to swing from the rope near the river. Tiffany and Faisel chased us every time."
A small smile touched Christa's lips. It was a smile edged with grief, as if remembering a world that no longer existed. "Yes. You remember. That is why I came instead of any other. I knew you would know my face."
James shifted, wincing as if the slightest movement tugged at hidden wounds. "Christa, I do not look like myself anymore."
She forced herself not to look away. Gordon had reshaped him with experiments that belonged in nightmares. His hair, once golden and bright as sunlight, now fell in dark black waves. His cheekbones were sharper, the structure of his jaw stronger, and even the set of his shoulders had changed. His face belonged to another man entirely. Only his eyes, those vivid blue eyes, remained untouched.
"I know," she whispered. "I saw the files. Gordon altered your genetic structure. He intended to rebuild you as something he could use." She said taking out a vail "The Golden serum will not undo the outward changes, but it will repair the damage inside you. It will restore your strength, your life and your power. It is the only gift I can give you."
James closed his eyes. When he opened them again, determination and fear warred in their depths. "Then let it begin."
The vail pulsed with golden light, swirling inside the glass like a living thread of sunlight torn from the sky. As she brought it close, James's expression darkened with memory.
"You remember what it does," she said.
He nodded slowly. "They told us it was salvation wrapped in fire. They said it healed and remade, but it burned worse than death."
"That is still true," she admitted. "But you will survive it."
He tensed as she readied the needle. The instant the liquid entered his bloodstream, his entire body convulsed. A raw, primal scream tore from him as golden fire surged beneath his skin, threading itself through his veins and flooding every inch of him. His spine arched so violently the table screeched across the concrete. His fists clenched until his knuckles split. His breath caught in his throat as if the serum tried to ignite every memory and every wound he carried.
Christa held him down with both hands. She whispered to him steadily, though her own eyes shimmered with anguish. "You are doing well. Let it work. Let it burn away everything Gordon forced into you."
The light inside him grew brighter, spilling through the thin skin of his arms in shimmering waves. Bones cracked back into alignment. Muscles tightened and strengthened. His ribs expanded as air rushed properly into his lungs. Bit by bit, the agony shifted into something powerful, something whole.
Minutes passed, long and punishing. Then James released a shuddering breath as the golden light slowly dimmed. His body slumped against the table, soaked in sweat but unmistakably alive.
The color returned to his skin. His breathing steadied. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were clearer now..
Christa removed the chains and helped him sit upright. He leaned heavily against her for a moment, testing the stability of his restored strength.
"Thank you, Miss Clark," he whispered.
She shook her head. "Thank John. His vision showed that tonight was the only opening. Gordon's facility will be in full lockdown within minutes. There was no second chance."
James slowly turned toward a shard of metal on the floor. It reflected the stranger he had become. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table as despair washed through him. "How can I return to the Order looking like this. No one will believe who I am."
Christa hesitated, then spoke with a truth she hated. "You cannot return. They would never accept this face as yours. Some would fear you. Others would detain you. And if the Order hesitated even once, Gordon would take you back."
He looked at her sharply. "Then what am I meant to do."
"You disappear," she answered. "You hide. You take a new name and build a life that keeps you beyond Gordon's reach."
He swallowed hard. "So James William Luykan is dead."
"To the world, yes," Christa said. "But when the time comes and your path leads you back, you will claim that name again."
She reached into her coat and withdrew neatly folded clothing. A black shirt, matching trousers, and a jacket. "Wear these. They will help you move quickly. In the car outside there is a card with a number. When you reach the next city, call it. The man on the other side will create a new identity for you. He knows your true name and owes me a life debt. Do not say your old name until the moment your destiny demands it."
James took the clothing. His hands trembled. "Then who am I supposed to be now."
"You will decide when you are ready," she replied. "For now, you survive."
He steadied his breath and nodded. "Where must I go."
Christa looked at him with the weight of a secret she had carried for far too long. "Scotland."
His brows drew together. "Scotland. Why."
"Because that is where the Golden Girl hides."
James stiffened. The phrase alone dragged memories up from deep within him. For years Gordon had spoken of the Golden Girl with venom, hatred and obsession. At first he wanted her dead. Recently he had demanded she be captured alive. James never knew why.
He whispered, "Who is she."
"I cannot tell you much," Christa said. "John forbid it. But you must find her. You must protect her. Your futures are bound together whether you want it or not."
James swallowed. "Why me."
Christa placed a hand on his shoulder. Her voice lowered. "Because you are the only one who can strengthen her. You are the only one whose presence can hide her from the enemy. And you are the only warrior who can survive what follows her."
He stared at her. "Then come with me. Help me find her."
For the first time her composure cracked. Tears welled in her eyes, though she fought them. "I cannot go with you."
"Why."
"My path ends here. Someone must stop the guards while you escape." Her breath trembled. "Your life matters more than mine."
James shook his head, grief shaking his voice. "Christa…"
She gripped his shoulders with both hands. "Listen. When the fighting begins, do not blame yourself. Live and find the Golden Girl. Protect her. If Gordon captures her, the world will fall into darkness. Her powers are the key to opening something beyond anything I understand."
A sudden noise boomed through the corridor. Heavy boots slammed against the metal floor. Shouts echoed. Flashlights cut through the shadows.
Christa turned sharply, all softness vanishing. "It is time. You must go."
She helped him toward the back of the room and pulled open a narrow air vent. Cold air rushed out, carrying the promise of freedom.
He paused, gripping her wrist. "Will I ever see you again."
"No," she whispered. She leaned her forehead against his for a brief heartbeat. "Live, James. Please."
The first flashlight beam sliced through the doorway.
"Go," she commanded.
He slipped into the vent. Metal scraped his elbows as he crawled through the narrow passage. Behind him the warehouse erupted in chaos. Gunshots rang out. Christa shouted something he could not understand. A scream followed. Then another shot. Then silence.
He crawled until cold night air brushed his face. He pushed grate and earth aside and dragged himself out into the open, collapsing onto damp soil. Rain fell in a thin mist, chilling his skin.
Under a flickering streetlight, a black car waited exactly where she promised.
Inside he found water, supplies, clothes, and a small card taped to the dashboard. A number was written on it with a single instruction.
Call when you are safe.
James sat in the driver's seat and closed his eyes. The night pressed around him, heavy and expectant.
In a voice thick with resolve, he whispered, "I will find her."
He turned the key. The engine rumbled to life. With a steady breath, he drove into the darkness, leaving behind the ruin of his captivity and stepping into the destiny that waited for him beyond the borders of Sri Lanka.