I still remember the day we first met—when he offered me a job.
I was soaking wet from the sudden downpour, caught off guard by the looming clouds. In a desperate attempt to shield myself, I rushed into a nearby café. From behind the glass, the rain looked mesmerizing, almost poetic. But only those drenched by it could truly tell the misery it brings.
Still, you can't deny the quiet warmth it offers—the comfort of watching rain fall gently, feeling the cool breeze through a window, breathing in the earthy scent of wet soil. As the poets say, it's a pure joy for the soul.
One glance at the café told me it was not my cup of tea—pun intended. Honestly, it was way out of my budget. The subtle aroma of coffee lingered in the air, accompanied by soft jazz playing in the background. The décor looked like it was borrowed from an art exhibition. Everything screamed elegance—and expense. It was not the kind of place where a soaked man like me could just sit and dry off.
If my soggy clothes didn't make me unwelcome, the stares surely did. People tried to pretend I wasn't there, but their expressions betrayed them. The forced change in their laughter, the side glances—they said more than words ever could.
I was so absorbed in noticing these little things that I didn't even realize a waiter was approaching. He asked me to leave, saying my wet clothes were ruining the marble floors—not to mention dampening the mood of other patrons.
As I turned to walk out, another man entered—just as drenched as I was.
"Here comes another one," the waiter muttered under his breath, thinking no one heard. But I've always had sharp hearing.
He then told both of us to leave.
"Is that how you treat customers? Rather rude of you, young man," the stranger replied coolly.
Then he walked up to the counter, glanced at the menu, and turned to me.
"What would you like to have?" he asked.
Before I could decline, he turned back to the waiter and said, "Two of the most expensive drinks on your menu, please—one for me and one for my friend here." He pointed at me. "And some snacks of your choice—consider them the cherry on top."
From the way he acted, I could tell he didn't order the coffee because he liked it—or the café, for that matter. He ordered it to make a point. To show the waiter his value… and maybe remind himself of it too.
The waiter quickly scribbled down the order and escorted us to a table, handing us towels to dry ourselves. His change in attitude spoke volumes. It wasn't my clothes or the water that was the problem—it was simply the lack of money.
As we waited for our beverages, I turned to the man and thanked him for the coffee, though I admitted—somewhat sheepishly—that I couldn't repay him, not right now at least.
He chuckled lightly and waved it off.
"No need," he said. "I didn't offer you a drink expecting anything in return. That's not how a man behaves."
Then he leaned back slightly and asked,
"Do you know one of the most foolish things people say?"
I shook my head, indicating no.
He smiled.
"'Money can't buy happiness.'"
He let out a short laugh. "Only a fool would cry into a pool of gold and claim it means nothing.
"But people like you and me… we know the truth. We've seen what a hell of a lot of happiness money can actually buy. We know its value, because we've lived without it."
Oh, man he is a talker.
I tend to listen more than I speak—it's how I absorb people, their truths, their stories. Some call people like me introverts. I don't argue. I'd honestly be the kind of guy who'd take a night shift as a cemetery guard just to avoid conversations altogether.
And yet, here he was—this stranger—talking like we'd known each other for years. Barely five minutes in, and he was already tossing out philosophical one-liners like he was narrating a documentary.
I began to suspect he'd bought me the drink just so he'd have someone to listen to his thoughts.
Still, I owed him. So I listened.
He went on, telling me about his life, his favorite films, the games he enjoyed, and even the comics he adored.
Yep—he's a cinephile. A full-blown, cinephile. I personally think that people like these should do a thing called, 'grow the fuck up from your delusional lifes. You are a bloody adult and still consume a heck ton of 'content.' but yep i'll not tell him that cause i owe him.
Just then, the waiter returned with the drinks and snacks, finally giving his mouth a pause.
I looked down at the cup—on top of the foamy surface, a swan had been delicately crafted. It was so beautiful I didn't want to ruin it with a spoon. But then again, the money was for the coffee, not the swan.
We both picked up our cups. I brought mine slowly to my lips. The aroma hit me—rich cocoa with hints of biscuit. A scent so warm it almost felt like dessert.
I took a sip.
Bitter.
Bitter enough to make my taste buds scream for mercy. I couldn't even let it fully pass my tongue, let alone allow it into my stomach. But spitting it out? That would get me thrown out for sure. So I endured.
Setting the cup down, I made a mental note: even if I ever had this kind of money, there's no way I'd waste it on something like this.
Before I could reflect more, he interrupted my thoughts.
"Oh, how rude of me," he said. "I haven't even introduced myself yet."
"My name is Marcus Kellan," he continued.
"But most people just call me Marc."
"And what should I call you, sir?" he asked with a playful grin.
"Eden... Sir... Eden Rustle," I replied hesitantly. "But you can call me Eden."
"Eden," he repeated, almost as if tasting the word. "What an elegant name."
Elegant? What is he, some kind of poet?
"So Eden," he said, smiling. "I've told you a lot about myself. Now it's your turn. A person with such an elegant name must have some elegant stories to share."
I nearly laughed out loud at that. Elegant stories? There was nothing elegant about me or my life so far.
But with the weight of that coffee sitting in front of me—and the burden of his generosity—I knew I'd have to say something.
Now I finally understood why people say you shouldn't accept favors from strangers.
But it was already too late for that advice to matter.
"I was born on the western side of Cortisone City. My mother was an immigrant from the far east. As for my father… I never really knew him. He left us when I was very young. To be honest, I don't even remember his face anymore."
Wait… why am I saying all this?
I always thought I was more of a listener. Someone who kept quiet, not the type to open up.
But this… this feels different somehow.
Before I could think more, Marc leaned forward, interested.
"And? Tell me more. What about your schooling? Did you get any education?"
Should I tell him? Or keep it short...?
"I went to W.R.S Government School," I said after a pause. "Then for higher studies, I got into R.V.S. Institute of Science and Research."
Marc's eyes lit up as soon as he heard the name.
"R.V.S?!" he repeated, almost shouting.
"One of the top science institutes in the whole country? Damn, man—you're smart!"
I gave a small smile. "I couldn't complete my master's there."
Marc looked surprised. "But… why?"
I hesitated. The real reason wasn't something I wanted to share, so I lied.
"In the final year of my degree… My mother passed away from a severe fever. I fell into a deep depression and couldn't finish."
"Oh..." Marc said softly, his tone suddenly more gentle.
He didn't ask anything else. Maybe he could sense that it was a heavy memory.
We both fell quiet. No words, no thoughts shared. Just silence… and that bitter coffee that neither of us really wanted.
The rain outside had slowed, and our order was finished. I stood up, grabbed my coat from the hanger, and thanked him for the treat.
We stepped out of the café together. The rain had stopped, the clouds were starting to clear, and the golden sunlight peeked through—bright and warm against our faces.
As I turned to leave, I heard a voice call out behind me.
"Eden!"
It was Marc. He jogged up to me, patting his pockets like he was searching for something.
"I wasn't sure if I should ask, but I'm going to anyway," he said. Then he pulled out a small card.
"I'm opening a pharmaceutical research branch in Downtown East. And I was hoping… maybe you could help me run it. As a research supervisor."
I stared at him, a little shocked.
"I know you didn't finish your degree," he added, "but four years at R.V.S? That's more than enough in my book."
What a bizarre way to get a job.
Still, I wasn't in a financial position to say no. So of course—I accepted.
Thinking back on it now, I realize something:
"Stories don't have to be elegant. It's the way you tell them that makes them feel that way."
A good storyteller can turn an ant and an elephant into something unforgettable.
And a bad one?
Well… they can ruin even Shakespeare.
Five years passed.
Honestly, the job wasn't even that hard—especially not for someone who studied at R.V.S., let alone someone like me.
With the money I earned, I managed to complete my PhD in biotech and DNA research.
Not from a fancy place, of course.
It was a small institute, nothing too well-known. I even enrolled under a fake name.
If it had been a top-tier university, they would've easily figured out who I really was.
But small institutes? As long as you pay them, they rarely ask questions.
At first, I thought Marc might dig into my background—maybe last year when things were going well.
But he never did.
Maybe he truly believes that a person is defined by their work, not their past.
Or maybe he just didn't care enough to check.
Either way, why should I worry?
It's working out in my favor. That's what matters… right?
Most of my days were spent analyzing drugs, running lab tests, and writing reports. That was about 80 percent of the job.
The other 20 percent? Avoiding small talk with coworkers.
They called me Mr. Mysterious—a nickname that stuck, especially with the younger staff. That's what happens when you stay quiet in a noisy world.
Honestly, I didn't think much of that part of my life.
But maybe I should've.
Because every little detail—good, bad, boring, or painful—shapes who we are. Every moment adds up to you makes you more you.
If you looked at my life from the outside, you'd call it ordinary. And yeah, most of it was.
But not all of it.
Deep down, I was still chasing something: a piece of research I never finished.
Back in my R.V.S. days, I had started something big—something that could've changed things in biotech and DNA study. But it remained incomplete.
I wanted to start it over from scratch.
It was tough, especially without the kind of high-end equipment R.V.S. had. Still, I gave it everything I had. Even rechecking the old thesis, running tests, refining theories.
And it took me five long years.
Five years... just to almost finish what I once dreamed of.
At this rate, I'd be 70 before I got close to completing it.
Could I really let it end like this?
That's when the idea hit me:
What if I uploaded it online?
What if someone out there—someone with better tools and a brighter mind—picked it up and took it further?
But as I hovered over the "Upload" button, something stopped me.
This weight in my chest.
This tightness I couldn't explain.
What is this?
Is it... ego?
The ego of a creator, not wanting to share the credit?
That could be it.
And maybe that ego is the reason I'll never be noble. Then again, I never claimed to be noble in the first place.
"Let it slide for now," I whispered to myself.
And just like that, I deleted the draft.
The next day was Sunday, so there was no need to rush to bed.
I figured, why not treat myself a little?
It had been a while.
I played some Beethoven in the background and poured myself a chilled glass of pineapple milkshake, topped with scoops of ice cream.
Now this—this was heaven in a glass.
I've never been much of a drinker. Alcohol dulls the mind, and I've always liked mine sharp.
Back when I was younger, I worked part-time as a waiter in a small bar. The wages were low, but the memories stuck.
I still remember the smell of beer—how customers would down bottle after bottle like water.
Most of them drank to forget.
But I never got that logic.
Why knock yourself out just because you can't handle reality?
Then again… maybe forgetting is easier than remembering.
Sometimes, it's easier to give up than to keep living.
And just like that, my peaceful night turned into a 5 AM spiral of thoughts.
The only thing that snapped me out of it was my alarm.
Even with a foggy head, I had to drag myself out and drive to work.
Yes, on a Sunday.
Why? Because I, and only I, had received an urgent summon from Marc himself.
Some Sunday this turned out to be.
At this rate, I might just become an alcoholic after all.
When I arrived at the head office, I saw Marc sitting with another man.
Something about him felt familiar, but I couldn't place it.
Before I could think too much, they both looked up at me.
Marc waved me in.
"Sir, this is the man you were asking about… Dr. Eden Rustell."
Asking about?
Why was anyone asking about me?
Marc continued, "Eden, this is General Martin S. Rim, a high-ranking officer in national military affairs."
A general? Military? What the hell is going on?
Before I could say anything, the general stood and approached me.
"So, you're Eden… You're much younger than I expected."
I turned to Marc, eyebrows raised. "What is this about?"
Marc replied, "I was reached out by Mr. Rim on your behalf. Apparently, he came across one of your research papers from your R.V.S. days."
Wait, what? My research?
That doesn't make sense. It was never published—I was expelled before I got the chance.
Before I could say a word, the general clapped a firm hand on my shoulder and said,
"Let's talk somewhere private. This isn't something civilians should overhear."
Marc, clueless as ever, gave me a thumbs up and walked away, missing the please-don't-do-this look I shot at him.
Marc's the kind of guy who dies first in any horror movie. No question.
Inside the private room, the general offered me a seat.
We hadn't even settled in when he pulled out a folder and slid it across the table.
My R.V.S. expulsion documents.
So yeah—this wasn't going to be a light-hearted chat.
The man meant business.
And he was wasting no time getting to it.
"Listen, kid. You and I both know what happened during your years at R.V.S., but I'm not here to talk about that. Frankly, I don't care."
Don't care?
Yeah, right. But I care.
Can't exactly say that out loud, though, can I?
He continued, his voice calm but deliberate.
"We came across your research. Or rather—your unfinished work on DNA sequencing. And we'd like to give you the chance to finish what you started."
I raised an eyebrow. "What kind of chance are we talking about?"
A subtle smirk appeared on the General's face, like he'd been waiting for me to ask.
"It's classified, but I can tell you're interested, so I'll be straight with you. The government is launching a covert research facility in the Eastern Shuttle District. Off the grid. Fully stocked with the highest-grade equipment available. You'll have complete autonomy. No bureaucratic red tape. No ethical review boards."
"No rules?" I asked, my suspicion sharpening.
"Well… no usual rules," he said. "Let's not pretend you can accomplish revolutionary breakthroughs using just rodents. You and I both know that. What you need are test subjects. Human test subjects. Volunteers, of course."
My blood ran cold.
What the hell is this man saying…?
Surely, he doesn't mean what I think he means.
Real people.
Actual living human beings.
That's the last thing I expected to hear from his mouth.
"I can't do that," I said, my voice firm, though my chest was tightening.
The General leaned back slightly, as if he'd been waiting for that response.
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
He studied me, then said with unnerving calm, "Then you vanish. Simple as that. No future. No present.Not even a past. You'll step out of this room and be erased—like you were never here."
If anyone else had said that, I'd have laughed it off.
But coming from a high-ranking general?
It chilled me to the bone.
Even so, could I live with myself if I agreed?
He interrupted my thoughts, his tone suddenly colder.
"What are you really afraid of?"
"…Excuse me?"
"I said—what exactly are you afraid of? Is it the idea of human testing? Or are you worried they might die?"
He leaned in closer.
"Every single day, thousands die in meaningless ways.
3,200 people in road accidents.
26,500 from cancer.
Over 3,000 from a mosquito bite.
Do you know their names? Did you care why they died? Of course not."
"The world doesn't mourn everyone equally, kid.
It's not built for the weak. It's built for people like you—those who dare to change it. The strong. The ambitious. The ones who deserve to leave a mark."
By the time Marc came in to check on us, I was already long gone—driving through empty streets, headlights slicing through the night fog.
I spent the entire night trying to make sense of what had happened. Trying to make sense of myself.
Why did I say yes?
Was it really the threat?
He said he'd make me disappear—and in that moment, it felt like there was no other choice.
No reason not to protect myself.
Right?
Wrong.
As the night dragged on and the silence grew louder, I realized something:
It wasn't fear that made me accept.
It was something else.
Something deeper.
More dangerous.
Was it… ego?
Maybe.
Maybe it was the part of me that wanted to prove them all wrong.
The part that still burned to finish what I started.
I don't know.
Maybe I never will.
The next day, I handed in my resignation to Marc. I never saw him again after that.
He was a good man. One of the few who extended a hand when I needed it most.
But that's life, isn't it? People enter and exit—regardless of how kind, cruel, or unforgettable they might be. No one stays. Everyone leaves eventually.
Later that week, I arrived at the Eastern Shuttle District to see my new lab.
From the outside, it didn't look like much.
A plain, unmarked building, tucked between old warehouses and abandoned transit lines.
No one passing by would suspect the kind of power that pulsed within its walls.
But I knew.
And it terrified me.
_____________________________________________________
.PROJECT: PERFECT BEING.
What a name—bold, divine, poetic even—for a project that quietly runs on human lives.
Behind one-way glass, I observe them. The "volunteers."
Old, young, women, barely adults.
They say these people had already given up. That they were all survivors of failed suicides.
That this—this twisted purpose—was offered as redemption.
Die for your country.
Die so your family can live a little better.
What a clean, convenient lie to hand to a scientist… to ease the guilt.
But it doesn't help.
It never helps.
I look at their faces and can't help wondering what burden crushed their will to live.
But then again… 'Sometimes, it's easier to give up than to keep living.'
Seven months.
That's how long I've been down here.
The research is progressing at a pace I never thought possible.
National-level equipment. Virtually no restrictions. Freedom to push every boundary.
In theory, it's a dream.
But I haven't spoken to another person in months.
The volunteers are kept isolated. I'm forbidden from speaking to them.
My only form of human interaction is the lab attendant. Even then—
Only to give instructions.
Only to say, "Proceed with trial 27."
Or, "Adjust dosage levels."
No "hello." No "how are you?"
It's funny how silence can become its own language.
Sometimes I speak just to hear myself.
Sometimes I don't speak at all, just to see if I still exist.
Fifteen months.
Some of them have started to change.
Not just in mood or speech—no, deep down, at the cellular level.
Bone density.
Neuron plasticity.
Radiation resistance.
It's… working.
I should be proud, right?
Proud of what I've created, proud of how far we've come.
Progress. Success. Recognition.
But sometimes, when I look into the mirror… I swear something else looks back.
Something hollow-eyed.
Foreign.
I dream in scrambled sequences—data sheets soaked in blood.
I wake up gasping, heart racing, feeling like one of them.
And on some nights…
I forget that I'm not.
Nineteen months.
Yeah… the project…
It's… going… fine.
I think.
Sixteen deaths.
Four tore their own eyes out—neuronal overload from radiation misfires.
I saw the tapes.
Watched them claw at their own skulls.
I logged the times. Marked the charts. Updated the data.
But… Why can't I feel it?
Why didn't I scream?
Why didn't I break down?
The old me would've cried for days. or would he ?
But Now?
Nothing.
Just… another variable in the study.
Two years.
Thirty-three dead.
Seven were over fifty.
Sixteen in their thirties.
Ten were barely nineteen.
The officials still label it "acceptable loss."
Progress, they call it.
And—God help me—I agree with them.
Two years, fifty-eight days.
Yeah… no.
No, this isn't sustainable anymore.
The shadows—they move when I blink.
They breathe when I turn my back.
The fan overhead hums like it knows my thoughts—spinning, circling, waiting.
The sound of keyboards clicking?
They whisper names.
Of the dead.
The nightmares, both me and they know it is a dream and it haunts me the most.
No—wait, I know why you're here.
You want the results.
You want numbers.
Fine.
It's a success.
A miracle, even.
We've created a being immune to radiation levels that would vaporize others.
Muscle and bone density that can withstand catastrophic trauma.
Cells that regenerate so slowly they mimic immortality.
Flawless. Unstoppable.
"Perfect."
But don't call them human.
They're not.
Not anymore.
And neither am I.
The final phase is coming.
They'll begin testing on children—infants, even—to see how malleable young bodies are to the mutations.
Three or four months from now.
What happens to me after that?
I don't know.
I don't ask anymore.
I used to think I accepted this because I was afraid to die.
Or because I was proud.
Ego.
But now… now I know.
It was isolation. As I said before, I was the kind of guy that liked isolation. But this much…..
Not just being alone.
Being cut off from the world.
From people.
From meaning.
I thought I could endure it.
I thought I was strong enough.
But it's still here.
It clings to me.
It crawls under my skin.
And it won't let go.
I can't disappear into nothing.
I can't be just a name in a file, buried in a forgotten lab.
I have to leave something behind.
I have to make sure someone knows.
Hmm.
Maybe…
"Should I write… a diary?"
_____________________________________________________
Present Day,
As Collins slowly drifted back to consciousness, the first thing he registered was motion.
His vision, blurred and jagged, settled on the ground scraping beneath him—dust rising in trembling plumes.
He was being dragged.
By… a child?
The figure ahead of him was no more than a kid. Barefoot. Steady. Small hands gripping the wrecked plating of his suit like it weighed nothing.
"A kid…?"
The thought echoed inside his skull, dulled by pain and confusion.
"How could a child have the strength to drag a grown adult… in a full heavy suit?"
Questions spiraled through his mind, but his body was too battered to do anything more than breathe. The HUD on his visor flickered wildly—blood red overlays filled his vision.
Critical.
System integrity: 7%.
Left leg: Fractured. Ribcage: Collapsed. Suit functions: Offline.
Everything hurts.
Every breath was a fight.
Every part of him screamed for rest.
And then came the voice.
Buzzing faintly from the battered helmet's speaker—crackle, low, unmistakable.
That voice again.
The same synthetic tone Collins had come to associate with one name.
Eden.
The speaker crackled once more, now steadier, clearer, as if the voice was speaking from memory rather than presence.
SO, you all made it this far.
Much appreciated,
now for the last story of mine.
Have ever heard of....
"SHIP OF THESEUS".