Amidst the quietude of Site-Stonehaven, an ominous calm had settled over the sprawling RSCP Foundation complex. A bastion of containment and secrecy, it stood resolute against the relentless storm that lashed outside. Inside, however, tensions brewed beneath the facade of routine. The night was a canvas painted in hues of cold, biting frost, the winds howling like banshees through the dense forest that surrounded the fortified structure.
Within the labyrinthine corridors, where every corner held secrets buried deep in the annals of Foundation's history, a disturbance brewed. For years, the facility had held its horrors at bay, but tonight, fate had other plans.
A distant tremor rattled through the complex, subtle yet undeniable. The hum of machinery wavered, monitors flickered, and a few loose papers drifted to the floor. Staff exchanged uneasy glances, but no alarms blared—yet.
Dr. Rhys Stane Moores felt the shift before he saw the reaction. He sat stiffly at his desk, fingers pausing over the keyboard. The silence that followed was unnatural, a held breath before the plunge. Then came a second tremor—stronger. This time, a few warning lights blinked red.
He rose to his feet just as the intercom crackled to life. "All personnel, report to designated stations. Containment teams, standby for potential breach. Repeat: containment teams, standby."
A hand grabbed his arm as he stepped into the hallway. Dr. Rebecca Harker, her face pale, looked up at him. "Rhys," she whispered. "Tell me this isn't what I think it is."
He wanted to lie. Wanted to say it was just a minor disturbance. But the cold knot forming in his gut told him otherwise. "We need to get to the control room. Now."
The corridors were already alive with movement—security teams moving with purpose, researchers abandoning their coffee cups and half-finished reports. The facility had drilled for emergencies, but the air was thick with something worse than protocol. It was fear.
By the time they reached the control room, the tremors had grown into full-blown quakes, rattling steel beams and making the overhead lights flicker. A siren finally howled through the halls, confirming their worst fears.
Ganymede, the steadfast overseer, commanded the operations with a demeanor forged from years of discipline. Her ebony hair framed a face etched with determination as her eyes scanned the flurry of monitors that displayed critical data.
"A containment breach," she confirmed grimly. "Cell block 2. Subject 004 has escaped."
Stane inhaled sharply. His mind raced back to the countless arguments, the warnings ignored. "Humanity's folly unleashed once more," he murmured.
Ganymede's gaze flickered toward him. "We can debate that later. Right now, we stop it."
Before he could respond, a deep groan reverberated through the facility—a noise not of machinery, but of something immense shifting, forcing its way through corridors. The tremors intensified.
"Activate emergency protocols ALPHA 9!" Ganymede barked. "Full lockdown. Now!"
The response was swift. Steel doors slammed shut, security checkpoints reinforced. Yet even as the defenses engaged, another impact rocked the complex. The power surged, flickering.
On the monitors, they saw it—a massive silhouette navigating the labyrinthine halls with purpose. Its green-hued visage was eerily calm, eyes glowing with unnatural intensity.
"It's moving too fast," Rebecca whispered. "We won't be able to contain it here."
A crash—closer this time. The soldiers braced, gripping their weapons tighter. The door leading to the control room shuddered under an impact. Then another.
"We should have left it where we found it," Stane muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Ganymede shot him a glance but didn't argue. She knew. They all knew.
A final impact sent the reinforced door buckling inward. A researcher gasped, stepping back so fast she nearly tripped, her breath coming in panicked gasps. Soldiers steadied themselves, weapons raised. The air was thick, charged.
Then—silence.
Smoke drifted into the room, curling in eerie tendrils. And through the haze, a hand emerged.
Not a monstrous claw. Not some grotesque limb of an abomination.
A child's hand.
It swept aside the dust, revealing a young face—eerily blank, yet undeniably alien. A single horn protruded from his forehead. His presence exuded control, as if he moved in a trance-like state, devoid of emotion.
Weapons trained, hearts pounded. The soldiers hesitated, waiting for a command, for certainty. None came.
"Wait," Stane whispered, watching the way the creature's gaze flickered over them, calculating. "He's taking in the sights..."
"Like a predator," Ganymede finished.
Then, the aura around his fists ignited—blue light flickering in the dimness.
And the gunfire began.