PROJECT 0.7

The night was alive with rain and neon. The city's pulse echoed through narrow alleyways, bouncing off graffiti-streaked walls and rusted metal dumpsters. Project 07 moved through the shadows, his breath steady despite the deep gash seeping blood down his side. The wound should have slowed him down, but pain was just another sensation—a reminder that he was still alive.

They were close.

He could hear the distant crackle of comms in his earpiece—intercepted transmissions from the men tracking him. Their footsteps echoed in the rain-slicked alleys, boots crunching on broken glass.

"Target spotted near Sector C. Engage on sight."

They were closing in. Five men—armed, trained, and desperate to prove they could kill what the organization had built. But they didn't know what he really was.

He pressed his back against a damp brick wall, heart pounding beneath the torn fabric of his shirt. His eyes flicked toward the moonlight glinting off a puddle at his feet. Blood trickled down his arm, staining the water red.

He clenched his fists. Not now.

The heat began to rise beneath his skin—the familiar burn that signaled the storm inside him. It always came when he saw his own blood. The serum they had pumped into his veins turned him into something more than human—faster, stronger. But when the rage took hold, there was no stopping it.

He closed his eyes, forcing his breath to slow. He couldn't lose control. Not here. Not yet.

"Keep moving."

He pushed off the wall, slipping deeper into the maze of alleyways. His senses stretched out—every sound, every scent sharpening as adrenaline surged through him. He could hear the faint click of safeties being switched off, the slow drag of boots against concrete.

They were close.

He reached the edge of the alley and peered around the corner. Two agents stalked through the shadows, rifles raised. Their faces were hidden behind masks, but he could smell the sweat beneath their gear—smell the fear they tried to bury beneath steel and orders.

He could take them.

The thought came unbidden—dark and hungry. The urge clawed at the edges of his mind, whispering for him to let go. To tear through them like he had been made to do.

No.

Not yet.

He slipped back into the shadows, muscles coiled as he pressed on. The rain masked his footsteps, but it couldn't drown out the storm building beneath his skin. Every drop of blood that slid down his side made it harder to hold back.

The voices in his earpiece crackled again.

"He's bleeding. He won't get far."

They didn't know him.

They didn't know that pain only made him stronger.

He clenched his fists, feeling the heat ripple beneath his skin. The last time he had let go, there had been nothing left but bodies and blood.

He wouldn't let it happen again.

Not unless they forced him.

if he could endure all through there trials he could endure this