My eyes saw countless machines with blinking lights, turning dials, but my brain wasn't making sense of them. I couldn't move, or speak, or close my eyes, or breathe. The big grey machine to my right was breathing for me. The room smelled sour, like meat. Rotting meat. No, worse than that. A morgue. I'm in a morgue.
"Can you feel it? Your destiny?"
The voice was soft, almost inaudible. Frank's sultry voice invaded my brain. He was mocking me, teasing me with death.
"Don't worry Lola, I won't let you go that easy." He lowered his lips to my ear and whispered menacingly; "I have bigger plans in store for you, my little puppet."
I begged my body to jump away from him, to move, to scream, anything.
"By the way, I brought you a little get-well-soon present," Frank pressed a button on a little remote I hadn't noticed before.
A projector stirred to life. Before me a video began to play. Within it stood several doctors watching over a man lying on an operating table. One doctor took a needle and carefully injected the man with a clear liquid. The man began to shake, and the camera moved closer to him. With a pang of terror I suddenly recognized the frothing mouth, the glassy eyes.
Dad.
"It seems there is something in the 'Hart' DNA that is resistant to the Soldier Serum. You two are the only living survivors."
The knowledge my father was still alive gave a moment of relief that soon turned to dread. This was a fate worse than death. Your body under another's control, and your mind in a sea of turmoil. Your actions being simultaneously not your own, but also your responsibility. There is no bigger hell.
In that moment I prayed for his death, and hated myself for it.
"Something for you to look forward to." Frank said as he caressed my face.
"What are you going to do with him?"
Frank smirked. "What do you think? Someone has to kill Clint. You can't do it, according to the world, you're dead."
"I thought he was working for you."
"That's what made you so perfect for this role Lola. You're so.... trusting."
His words hit me like a brick wall. I did this. I trusted Frank. My dad, Freddy, Jeff, all of them got hurt because of me.
"Please Frank, let him go..." I begged him.
He shook his head without breaking his gaze.
"You're gonna have to plead a lot harder than that sweetheart. Besides..." He ran his fingers through my hair and I winced as he grabbed a fistful and pulled my face closer to his, "My plans are much bigger than you."
His grip tightened just enough to make my scalp sting, just enough to remind me that I wasn't in control of anything—not my body, not my fate, not even the rhythm of breath the machine forced into my lungs.
"Look at you," Frank murmured, tilting my head as though I were nothing more than a porcelain doll with joints he could rearrange at will. "Still fighting. Even now. It's admirable, really… pathetic, but admirable."
I wanted to spit at him. I wanted to claw his eyes out, to tear skin from bone and watch him bleed like the monster he was.
Instead, I stared. Unblinking. Unmoving. Trapped.
He released my hair slowly, almost tenderly, like a lover might after a stolen moment. My head dropped back against the stiff pillow beneath me. Somewhere off to my left, a monitor began to beep faster—betraying the panic I couldn't physically show.
Frank noticed.
He always noticed.
"Ah," he whispered, glancing at the monitor. "There it is. That spark. That rage. That's why you're special, Lola. That's why I chose you."
Chose me.
The words rippled through my mind like poison.
I hadn't been chosen, I had been taken.
Broken.
Remade.
He stepped away from the bed, pacing slowly across the sterile room. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting sharp shadows that stretched and twisted across the walls like grasping hands. The projector continued to hum behind him, replaying the worst moment of my life on an endless loop—my father's body convulsing, his face frozen in agony.
"You see," Frank continued, clasping his hands behind his back, "most people think control is about dominance. Force. Pain. Fear." He paused, turning his head slightly toward me. "They're not entirely wrong… but they're also not effective in the long term."
He stopped pacing, turning fully.
"And I'm not interested in short-term results."
A cold dread settled into whatever remained of my mind that wasn't drowning in panic.
"What I'm building…" His lips curled into a slow, proud smile. "Is an evolution."
My pulse spiked again.
The machine hissed.
"You call it the Soldier Serum," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the screen behind him. "Such a boring name. So… clinical. But what it really is—what it truly is—is a gateway."
He stepped closer again, his shadow swallowing me whole.
"To control."
His fingers brushed along my jawline, the sensation crawled across my skin like insects.
"Not just over the body…" he whispered. "But over the will. Your free will is now my free will."
My mind screamed.
"Fuck. You." He smiled at my words.
You will not control me. You will not take me.
But another thought crept in, quieter, more dangerous.
What if he already had?
The memory didn't come gently—it slammed into me like a train.
Hands, my hands, covered in blood. A room, no—a hallway.
People yelling, screaming, running.
Gunfire.
And then—
Silence.
I tried to recoil from it, but there was nowhere to go. My body lay frozen, a prisoner, while my mind became a battlefield.
Frank watched me carefully, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.
"Yes," he said softly. "You're starting to remember."
No.
"No," he repeated, mock sympathy coating his voice. "You don't want to remember. That's the problem, Lola. You still think there's a you left to protect."
His hand moved to my throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling the artificial rise and fall created by the ventilator.
"But identity…" he continued, "…is just another system. One that can be rewritten."
The projector flickered, shifting scenes.
Now it wasn't my father, now it was me.
My stomach—or whatever part of me could still feel horror—dropped into nothingness.
The footage was grainy, security camera quality. I saw myself standing in a dimly lit corridor. My hair was tangled, my face pale—
But my eyes, my eyes were empty. There was no fear, no hesitancy.
Just… vacancy.
On screen, I raised a gun. I didn't remember picking it up. Didn't remember holding it.
But I saw it. Clear as the nightmare unfolding in front of me.
A man stepped into the frame, some kind of security guard. He didn't even have time to react.
I pulled the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He crumpled.
I kept firing.
The camera shook slightly from the force of my shots, but it didn't cut.
It never cut.
I watched myself step over the body, unfazed, and continue down the hall.
Another figure appeared.
Another shot.
Another collapse.
And through it all…
Nothing. No anger. No fear. No mercy. Just obedience.
"No…" The word formed silently in my mind, over and over again, a desperate chant with no voice.
"That," Frank said, his tone almost reverent, "is what perfection looks like."
He stepped back from the bed, giving me a full view of the screen—as if I could look away even if I wanted to.
"You weren't fighting," he continued. "You weren't hesitating. You weren't questioning." He tilted his head. "You were free."
Free.
The word twisted into something grotesque.
"That wasn't me," I wanted to scream. But even as the thought formed, doubt slithered in.
Because it was me.
"You're lying to yourself," Frank said quietly, as if responding directly to the thought. "That's the last refuge of a fractured mind. Blame me. Blame the serum. Blame the process."
He smiled.
"But at the end of the day… it's still you pulling the trigger."
The monitor beside me spiked again—sharp, erratic beeping filling the room.
"Ah, there it is again," he murmured. "Guilt." He sounded delighted.
"You see why I didn't kill your father?" he asked casually, gesturing toward the earlier footage. "Why I didn't just discard him?"
His smile widened.
"Because I can use him to prepare the world for you."
The screen split—on one side, my father convulsing, fighting the serum. On the other, me—calm, precise, lethal.
"Same blood," Frank said. "Same resistance. But two entirely different outcomes."
He stepped closer again, lowering himself until his face was level with mine.
"Do you know what the difference is?"
I tried not to think.
Tried not to engage.
But my mind betrayed me.
What?
"Acceptance," he whispered.
His breath was warm against my skin.
"He fought it much harder than you did. Clung to who he was." Frank's eyes gleamed. "You… adapted."
No.
"I didn't."
"Yes, you did." His voice hardened, conviction cutting through every syllable. "You just don't remember choosing to."
He straightened, smoothing out his sleeves as though concluding a lecture.
"But you will," he added. "In time."
The projector clicked off.
The room felt darker without its glow.
"For now," Frank continued, "we have more pressing matters."
He walked over to a metal tray I hadn't noticed before. Instruments lay neatly arranged across its surface—needles, vials, tubing filled with various translucent liquids.
My heart rate went into overdrive.
"No," I thought desperately. "No, no, no—"
He picked up a syringe, holding it up to the light.
A pale blue fluid shimmered inside.
"Phase two," he said almost cheerfully.
Panic consumed me.
I fought—God, I fought—with everything I had left. I tried to move a finger, twitch a toe, even force a blink—but my body remained a lifeless shell.
"You'll feel this one," Frank promised, tapping the syringe lightly. "I made sure of it."
Cold dread turned into sheer terror.
He leaned over me again, swabbing a spot on my neck with clinical precision.
"You should consider it a kindness," he added. "Pain means you're still in there somewhere."
The needle hovered just above my skin.
"You won't be… for much longer."
And then—
A voice.
Distant.
Faint.
But real.
"Lola…"
Frank froze.
So did I—but for an entirely different reason.
The voice wasn't in my head.
It came from the hallway.
"Lola, if you can hear me—hold on."
My heart surged, a wild, desperate hope igniting inside my chest.
Freddy.
Frank's expression darkened almost imperceptibly. He straightened slowly, tilting his head as if listening.
A crash echoed from somewhere beyond the door.
Shouting.
Gunfire.
Closer.
Frank let out a low, almost amused chuckle.
"Well," he said, setting the syringe back down with deliberate calm, "speak of the devil."
My pulse thundered in my ears. He turned back to me, that same unsettling smile creeping across his face.
"Perfect timing, really," he continued. "What better way to test your progress than a reunion?"
No.
"No, you can't—"
The door burst open.
Freddy stood there, chest heaving, weapon raised, eyes wild with urgency. For a split second, everything felt suspended. His gaze locked onto mine.
"Lola—"
Relief flooded his face—Then confusion. Then horror. Because he saw it.
The tubes.
The restraints.
The emptiness I couldn't hide.
Frank stepped casually into view, blocking part of Freddy's line of sight.
"You're right on schedule," he said pleasantly.
Freddy's expression hardened instantly. "Step away from her."
Frank raised an eyebrow. "Or what?"
"I won't ask again."
A tense silence stretched between them.
Then—
Frank sighed.
"If you insist."
He stepped aside.
And in that moment, something snapped inside me.
A switch.
Invisible.
Unstoppable.
The world narrowed. The fear vanished. The panic dissolved. Everything became… clear.
Freddy moved toward me and my body moved for the first time. My arm shot up, faster than humanly possible, grabbing the gun from the tray beside me. I felt it this time. Every motion. Every muscle. But I wasn't stopping it.
I wasn't controlling it.
I was just… watching.
From somewhere deep inside.
Freddy froze.
"Lola…" he said, voice breaking. "Put it down. It's me."
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
But the command—the override—was absolute.
My finger tightened on the trigger. Frank's voice, smooth and satisfied, echoed softly behind me.
"Let's see what you choose this time."
And for the first time since waking up… I realized the most terrifying truth of all.
I didn't know if I could choose.