The room they gave him was not a cell. It was smaller.
It was a ten-by-ten concrete box in the sub-basement of the ISB's Metropolitan Annex. A cot, a sink, a toilet, a single recessed light behind a shatterproof screen. No window. The air tasted of recycled dust and industrial cleaner. The door was steel, with a narrow slot for food and a viewport of thick, wire-reinforced glass. It was a holding tank for a piece of dangerous equipment.
Kael sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees. The silver burns on his wrists had faded to pink welts. The gunshot wounds were itchy scars. His body had consumed a week's worth of energy to heal them. He was hungry, a deep, hollow ache that went beyond food. It was a craving for sunlight, for open air, for the scent of trees instead of concrete and bleach.
He had been here for forty-eight hours. They had taken his clothes, given him a set of dark grey, durable fatigues with no insignia. They felt like a uniform for a thing, not a person.
The bolt on the door clanked. It swung open to reveal Director Rourke, and a woman.
She was in her late thirties, with a sharp, alert face and brown hair pulled into a severe knot. She wore practical trousers, a tactical vest over a grey shirt, and a sidearm on her hip. Her eyes, a flinty hazel, scanned the room and landed on Kael, assessing him with the detached focus of a mechanic looking at an engine. She held a tablet in one hand.
"Morwyn. Up," Rourke said. His tone was the same, a calm that allowed no argument. "This is Commander Anya Vance. She will be your handler. You answer to her. She reports to me. Your existence, your actions, and your failures are her responsibility. Her discretion regarding your status is absolute."
Kael stood. He met Vance's gaze and gave a single, slight nod. She did not nod back.
"Asset," she said. The word was neutral, a designation. "You will follow me. You will not speak unless asked a direct question. You will maintain a distance of three feet behind my left shoulder unless directed otherwise. You will not make eye contact with other personnel. Do you understand these parameters?"
"Yes," Kael said. His voice was quiet in the bare room.
"Yes, Commander Vance."
"Yes, Commander Vance."
"Good. Follow." She turned and walked out. Rourke stayed in the room, a silent spectator, as Kael passed.
The corridors of the Annex were a study in sterile authority. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The floors were polished linoleum. Human personnel in uniforms or suits moved with purpose, their footsteps echoing. Conversations stopped as Kael passed. Eyes tracked him, not with fear like the officers in the alley, but with cold, professional curiosity and disdain. He was a specimen. A useful dog on a short leash. The scent of their mistrust was a low, constant note in the air, like ozone before a storm.
Vance led him to an elevator, used a keycard, and pressed the button for Sub-Level 3. The descent was silent.
"Your first operational briefing begins in ninety seconds," she said, staring at the elevator doors. "You will observe. You will listen. You will, if called upon, provide factual assessment of the non-human threat profile. You will not offer strategy. You will not question orders."
"What is the threat?" Kael asked.
Her head turned a fraction, her eyes cutting toward him. "You speak when asked a direct question, Asset. That was not a question from you. It was a request. You have no authority to make requests." The doors opened. "Follow."
The briefing room was a cold, blue-lit space dominated by a large central table with a holographic projector. A map of the city hovered above it. Five other people were already there: two men and a woman from Containment, their black armour making them look like bulky shadows, and two analysts in shirtsleeves. All human.
They fell silent as Vance entered. Kael stopped three feet behind her left shoulder, as instructed, and looked at the floor.
"Commander. Asset," one of the Containment officers said, the word 'asset' laced with a faint sneer.
"Proceed," Vance said, taking a seat. She did not offer one to Kael. He remained standing.
An analyst cleared his throat. "Situation. For the past three nights, there have been attacks in the warehouse district along the South Docks. Security guards, two homeless individuals. Fatalities. Cause of death is exsanguination with… significant tissue damage. Puncture wounds to the neck and torso, consistent with a large, non-human predator. But there are also signs of… melting. Acidic corrosion around the wounds."
"Vampire?" one of the Containment officers grunted. "Messy one."
"Unlikely," the other analyst, a woman, said. "The damage is too savage. Vampire feeding is typically precise. This is frenzied. Also, the attacks occur just before dawn, not deep night. And the acidic component doesn't fit."
"Forensics pulled a trace of biological residue from a dumpster at the last scene," the first analyst continued. "Protein analysis is aberrant. It's… we don't know what it is. It shares markers with several known non-human taxonomies but doesn't fit any."
Vance tapped her tablet. "What are the prevailing theories?"
"Best guess? Some kind of hybrid. Or a mutant. Something new. It's fast, strong, corrosive, and it's getting bolder. Last victim was torn apart in sight of a working security camera. The feed was garbled, but it showed a humanoid shape, distorted. It's nesting in the district. We need to clear it before the press gets a clear picture and starts a panic."
Vance steepled her fingers. "Containment strategy?"
"Standard sweep and clear. Alpha and Bravo teams enter from the north and south. Flush it toward the central wharf. Use thermal and motion. It's shown aversion to high-intensity light. We'll set up arc-lamps at the choke points. When it's cornered, we authorize plasma rifles. Reduce it to ash. No body, no complicated questions."
Kael felt his jaw tighten. Reduce it to ash. He kept his eyes down.
"Asset," Vance said, not turning.
"Yes, Commander Vance."
"Based on the profile. Frenzied, corrosive, dawn attacks. What is your assessment?"
Every eye in the room turned to him. The weight of their gaze was physical. He was a tool being consulted for its specific function.
He kept his voice flat, analytical. "The dawn timing suggests a photosensitivity, but not a fatal one. It's hiding, not dying. The frenzy and the corrosion… they could be linked. It might not be in control of its own biology. It could be sick. Or in pain."
One of the Containment officers snorted. "It's in pain? Should we offer it a blanket and a hot drink before we ash it?"
A faint smile touched another's lips. Vance did not react.
"Is it a sentient citizen?" she asked.
"The violence is extreme, but the pattern is of a cornered animal, not a hunter," Kael said carefully. "It could be. It might not understand what it's doing."
"Irrelevant," the first officer said. "It's killed four people. It's a hazard. The mandate is neutralization."
Vance was silent for a moment, watching the holographic map. "The Asset has a point about control. A live capture for study would be valuable. A new taxonomy could inform future threat responses."
"Too risky, Commander. The thing melts flesh. Close capture is a suicide mission."
"Which is why we have an Asset," Vance said, her tone final. "We adjust the operation. Teams will flush and corral. Arc-lamps at full intensity to disorient and weaken. The Asset will move in for physical incapacitation and application of suppression collars." She finally turned her head, looking at Kael over her shoulder. "Your orders are to subdue the target non-lethally. You will use necessary force to achieve this. If your life, or the life of any human officer, is in immediate and unavoidable jeopardy, you may terminate. That is your only discretion. Understood?"
He understood perfectly. He was to be the one who got close to the melting, frenzied creature. He was the expendable tool for the risky part. His death would be logged as 'asset depreciation.' Their hands would stay clean.
"Understood, Commander Vance."
"Good." She stood. "Wheels up in twenty. Asset, you're with me. We'll kit you out."
The "kit" was not armor. It was a lightweight, dark tactical suit similar to Vance's, but thinner, offering no real protection. A compact earpiece and throat mic. A set of heavy, silver-coated manacles for the target. No weapon.
"The suit is fire-resistant and mildly acid-treated," a taciturn technician said, as if describing the features of a work vehicle. "It won't save you if it gets a hold of you. Try not to let it get a hold of you."
Vance watched him dress. "This is a test, Morwyn. Not of your strength. Of your obedience. Of your utility. Do the job you were brought in to do. Nothing more."
They rode in a windowless armored van with the Containment team. The air was thick with the smell of oiled metal, sweat, and a sharp, coppery anxiety that came from the men who would be directing him into the dark. They didn't speak to him. He was a piece of equipment in the corner.
The van stopped. The rear doors opened to the pre-dawn gloom of the South Docks. The air was cold and smelled of salt, rust, and rotting fish. Warehouses loomed like tombstones against the grey sky.
Vance's voice crackled in his earpiece, cool and clear. "Asset, move to position Delta. Wait for my signal. Teams, begin sweep. Lights on my mark."
Kael moved. He became a shadow against the brickwork, his senses stretching out. He heard the muffled footsteps of the teams breaching doors, the squawk of their radios. He smelled the stale history of the place: old blood, rust, vermin. And underneath it, something new. A sweet, sickly odor, like spoiled fruit and chemical burn.
His pulse was a steady, slow drum in his ears. He forced his breathing to be even. Calm. Disciplined.
A shout echoed from a warehouse to the north. A burst of static. "Contact! West wing! It's fast! Lights! Get the lights on!"
Brilliant white arc-lamps flared to life, mounted on tripods, carving the complex in intersecting bars of blinding illumination. A screech tore through the dawn, a sound of pure, agonized rage. It was not human, not animal. It was wrong.
"Flushing it toward the central yard! Asset, be ready!"
Kael stepped into the open concrete yard between two towering warehouses. The arc-lamps created a canyon of light, with pools of deep shadow at the edges. He stood in the center, exposed.
It came from a darkened doorway in a blur. It was, as the analyst said, a humanoid shape, but distorted. Its skin was a mottled, weeping grey, like lichen on stone. It moved on all fours, limbs bending at sickening angles. Its head was a hairless, pulsing bulb, with a gaping maw lined with needle-teeth that dripped a sizzling clear fluid. It blundered into a bar of light and shrieked, scrambling back, a smoking furrow appearing on its shoulder.
It saw Kael. It stopped, its whole body quivering. It let out a low, bubbling growl.
Kael could smell its pain now, acrid and overwhelming. This was not a monster. This was a person, twisted, broken, lost in a storm of its own malfunctioning biology. The frenzy in its eyes was terror.
"Asset, close and subdue!" Vance's order was a razor in his ear.
The creature charged. It was terrifyingly fast, a scuttling horror. Kael moved. He didn't meet the charge head on. He sidestepped, a graceless but efficient dodge. A clawed limb swiped past his head, droplets of acid spattering his shoulder. The fabric sizzled, and a burn bit into his skin. He ignored it.
He circled, keeping the light at the creature's back. It flinched, confused, lashing out at the pain behind it and the threat in front. Kael saw an opening. He surged forward, not to strike, but to grapple. He got an arm around its thrashing neck from behind, locking it in a chokehold. The creature thrashed, its acidic saliva burning through his sleeve into his forearm. The pain was instant and deep, a searing agony. His own healing fought the foreign corruption, a vicious battle beneath his skin.
He squeezed, cutting off its air. "Stop," he growled into its pulsating ear. "Just stop."
It was strong. Madness gave it strength. It bucked, and they went down in a tangle of limbs. Kael held on, the concrete scraping his back. The acid was eating into his flesh now. He could smell his own skin cooking. The creature's struggles began to weaken. Its screeches became gurgles.
"Now, Asset! Apply the restraints!" Vance commanded.
With one arm locked tight, Kael fumbled for the heavy manacles at his belt. His burned fingers were clumsy. The creature gave one last, desperate heave. A clawed foot raked across Kael's ribs, slicing through fabric and flesh. He felt a rib crack.
He slammed the manacle closed around one flailing wrist. The silver, designed to suppress supernatural energy, sparked. The creature went rigid, a new, different kind of scream tearing from its throat—one of profound, systemic shock. Kael clamped the other manacle on. The effect was instantaneous. The creature collapsed, twitching, the corrosive weeping from its skin slowing to a seep. The frenzy was gone, leaving only a pitiful, shuddering wreck.
Kael rolled off it, gasping. His forearm was a mess of glistening, eaten flesh. His side was on fire. He could feel his body already trying to heal, but the acid was a persistent poison, slowing the process to a painful crawl.
Boots surrounded him. The Containment team, weapons aimed at the subdued creature. Vance stepped into his field of view. She looked down at him, then at the quivering thing on the ground.
"Medical for the Asset. Bag and tag the target for transport to the biomedical wing." She looked back at Kael, her expression unreadable. "Mission accomplished. You followed orders."
As two medics with a stretcher approached him warily, Kael looked at the creature being sealed into a thick, plastic body bag. Its one visible eye, through a slit in the pulsating flesh, stared out, filled with a silent, suffering awareness. It had understood what was happening to it.
He had been perfectly useful. He had obeyed.
Lying on the stretcher as they carried him away, the dawn sun finally breaking over the rooftops, Kael Morwyn closed his eyes. The first test was over. He had passed. The taste of ash and acid was in his mouth, and it was not a victory. It was the price of entry into a machine that only knew how to grind things down.