Project Obsidian

It had been six days since the shadow first stood up, or had it? Time felt so disoriented that he didn't know what day it was.

The lab had stopped smelling like people.

Now, it smelled like chemicals, steel, ozone, and the copper tinge of recycled blood.

The corridor of pods stretched on like a hall of tombs—each one illuminated from above by harsh white light, each sealed behind reinforced transparent walls that hissed ever so slightly when the pressure balanced.

Cadmus called it a containment corridor.

The techs called it The Freezer.

The subjects called it nothing at all.

Most of them couldn't speak anymore.

Some didn't even breathe.

Kade sat in Pod XIII.

His posture was rigid, but his face was relaxed, eyes half-lidded, staring forward. Awake, alert. But still.

He didn't look around anymore . Didn't track the scientists through the glass.Didn't flinch when the alarms went off in the pods beside his.

He only watched.

Like a statue.

Or a witness who'd already accepted that no help would ever come.

Two pods down, Subject XI was dying.

Slowly.

He'd been convulsing for almost forty minutes.

His spine had arched back so hard it fractured clean in the middle—his chest lifted from the surface of the pod as if he were trying to claw his way upward from drowning.

He screamed once. Then choked. Then screamed again.

Then it was gurgling.

Then foaming.

His fingernails clawed into the walls of the pod, scraping bloody crescents into the reinforced glass.

Kade didn't blink.

He had seen it before.

The blood.

The seizures.

The way their eyes always looked like they were begging—please stop, please fix this, please kill me—until the pleading stopped and the lights turned red.

And then Cadmus cleaned the pod.

And brought another body in.

Another number.

Another failure.

The technician team arrived with surgical precision.

One woman in a silver hazard suit tapped her wrist console. The pod hissed open, releasing a burst of red mist.

Two white-armored drones entered with clawed extensions, delicately collecting what remained.

The body was limp now.

Eyes still wide.

No more screaming.

Just silence.

A new tag appeared on the pod screen:

SUBJECXI StatusTerminated Causeause: Neural combustion/sync ffailure Timeof death: 03:14:17

A small "ERROR" notice blinked beneath it:

Specimen rejected DPS-7 compound. Metagene incompatibility.

Another human discarded. Another failed attempt.

Inside Pod XIII, Kade watched it all through the distortion of reinforced glass.

His face didn't change.

His hands didn't move.

But deep in the corners of his pod—where light couldn't fully reach—his shadow began to tremble.

Like a finger tracing water.Like a breath on the back of the neck.

The glass fogged near his feet.

But no temperature had changed.

Two senior scientists approached from the upper catwalk above the corridor, flanked by a younger intern with wide eyes.

The older one, gray-templed and hunched over a datapad, spoke in a tone devoid of concern.

"That makes eight sync failures in 72 hours."

"That's… almost 50% mortality," the intern said, pale.

"It's within the margin. DPS-7 was never designed for mass integration. Only tailored bonding."

They paused in front of Kade's pod.

He was still watching.

Not them.

Not the corpse.

Just... everything.

The other scientist tapped at the control panel.

"Subject XIII has maintained full physical stability. No cortical degradation. No psychological fractures. Neural sync at 81% and rising."

"Pain receptors?" the younger one asked.

"Dead silent."

"Wait... you mean he's not feeling it?"

The older doctor turned toward the pod.

"No. He's accepting it."

A high-pitched scream echoed from Pod VII.

It didn't last long.

Her brain hemorrhaged mid-convulsion.

Blood pooled at the bottom of the tank in a soft red cloud.

Another drone activated.

Another medical bag opened.

The shadow in Kade's pod rippled again.

Only this time, it reached.

Just for a second. A single wisp of black curled across the wall of his pod. Slithering toward the adjacent one.

Toward the girl.

And then it retracted.

Vanishing like it had never moved.

But the intern had seen it.

"Did… did you see that? His shadow just—"

The older scientist didn't look away.

"Leave it. He's reacting to death cues. Let's see how he responds in the next cycle."

Inside his pod, Kade finally blinked.

Just once.

He wasn't horrified. Or surprised. Or even angry.

He just blinked—and whispered to no one:

"They don't scream anymore…"

And for a moment, he wasn't sure if he said it aloud.

Or if the shadow said it for him.

Every morning began the same.

The pod unlocked with a mechanical click—not loud, but sharp, like the snap of bone under pressure. The seal depressurized with a hiss, and the glass lid retracted into the floor. Cool air met Kade's skin like a memory: dry, sterile, exact.

He sat up automatically.

No hesitation.

No confusion.

He didn't look around. He didn't wipe his eyes.

He hadn't dreamed in weeks.

If he had, he wouldn't remember. The dreams didn't feel like his anymore.

A soft tone filled the corridor. One long note. Subsonic.

Every subject in the containment hall heard it.

Few responded.

Kade did.

He rose with mechanical grace, every motion practiced—not like a soldier, but like a machine trained to emulate one.

The floor lights lit up under his feet as he stepped out of his pod. Barefoot, in gray fatigues. His eyes stared forward but didn't focus.

To anyone watching, it was obvious:

Kade didn't resist anymore.

He complied.

Because resisting was for people.

And whatever he was becoming, it wasn't something people would understand.

The corridor reeked of disinfectant, old blood, and recycled air.

The shadows of each pod fell in straight lines along the floor, cut only by bodies.

Some were awake. Others slumped. More than one had gone still in the night.

But no one cried out.

No one begged anymore.

Even the ones that still had their minds knew better than to ask for help.

Kade walked between them like a phantom. Silent. Untouched.

He passed Pod VI without stopping.

Inside, the subject was twitching violently—convulsions so intense the straps anchoring his chest snapped with a pop.

His face was a mess of ruptured veins and burst capillaries.

Blood oozed from his eyes.

The sync had failed.

It wasn't the first one.

Wouldn't be the last.

But this time, it happened out in the open.

The hallway was filled with screaming.

It came from deep in the boy's throat—wet, animalistic, a kind of suffering that didn't sound human anymore.

Then, the shadows came loose.

Blackness poured from the subject's chest cavity like liquid tar—veins of darkness seizing around his body like vines. They spasmed outward, trying to grasp onto anything, anyone.

Two researchers hit the emergency seals. Reinforced barriers slammed down over the pod.

But the shadow tendrils still reached through the crack in the glass.

Kade stepped past the chaos.

He did not turn his head.

He did not flinch.

He simply walked on.

The blackened silhouette of Subject VI twitched one last time before collapsing backward. His eyes bulged. A gasp. Then stillness.

The tendrils withdrew into his body. Or vanished into the floor. Or maybe both.

A quiet alarm blinked red.

Subject VI – Terminated.

Cause: DPS-7 Overload / Host Collapse.

Recommended: Full sterilization.

Kade reached the end of the hallway and stopped beneath a sensor arc.

A robotic arm emerged from the ceiling, scanning his skull and spine. Red lasers danced across his features. The light flickered—just once—as it passed over his left eye.

No movement. No blinking. No reaction.

Kade's eyes stared through it like it wasn't even there.

In the observation booth above, the junior technician whispered:

"He walked right through it…"

"He didn't even look at him," another said, shaken.

The senior researcher tapped his datapad calmly.

"Pain response: null."

"Adrenaline: unchanged."

"He doesn't process it anymore."

Another lab tech leaned closer to the biometric feed.

"His empathy registers are… silent. Not suppressed. Just off. Like a signal that never came through."

"He should've been screaming like the others," the intern murmured.

"Subject XIII doesn't scream."

Inside his mind, Kade heard none of this.

But he knew.

He knew he hadn't reacted.

He knew something was missing.

The sound of his thoughts had changed.

They didn't echo the way they used to.

It was like speaking in a cave where the walls had all collapsed.

When he tried to reflect, his mind didn't feel like his anymore.

I don't even know if I think in words now...

Just in shapes. Sounds. Colors.

The dark doesn't answer. But it waits.

A tremor passed down his spine.

Like something stirring beneath his skin.

Not fear. Not nausea.

Just... a presence. Watching. Listening.

Waiting for him to stop pretending he was still just a boy in a lab.

The scanner beeped green.

Kade stepped forward again.

No one told him to.

But he moved.

Because that's what ghosts do when there's nothing left to haunt but the routine.

The cube was soundproof.

They told him it was for "observation under low-stimulus conditions."Kade knew the truth.

It was for containment.

No sound in. No sound out.

Just him and his thoughts.

And lately… even those didn't feel like they belonged to him.

He sat in the center of the padded floor. Legs crossed. Back straight. Eyes open but unfocused.

The soft blue glow under the floor grates pulsed at fifteen-second intervals, like the lab wanted to imitate a heartbeat.

But this place had no heart.

Just hollow.

The air was still.

Too still.

Even the hum of machinery was gone.

No vents. No clicks. No whirs.

Kade tilted his head slightly.

He could hear his breathing.

And behind that… something else.

A presence.

Not a noise.

Not yet.

But a feeling—thick and humid—like someone standing right behind him, just outside the reach of light.

He swallowed.

Dry.

Not from thirst, but from disuse.

He hadn't spoken in… days? Weeks?

Time slipped sideways in this place.

He parted his lips.

Let a breath build in his chest. Let it tremble.

And then he whispered:

"I'm still here…"

There was no one to hear him.

But he heard it anyway.

Twice.

His voice.

And another.

Almost the same, just slightly off. Lower. Fainter.

Like a playback lagging behind real time.

A delay in space.A second self surfacing.

"I'm still here…" it repeated.

Kade's breath caught in his throat.

He didn't move.

Didn't even blink.

He listened.

Not for words.

For intention.

The second voice hadn't come from inside his head.

It had come from behind him.

To the left.

Just far enough to make him question whether it was real—or worse, if it had always been there.

He stood up slowly.

The floor lights shifted with his movement, casting lo, ng thin shadows up the far wall.

He turned in place, surveying the corners.

Nothing.Just walls. Just sterile emptiness.Just cold and blue and breathless.

Except his shadow.

Still pinned to his feet like a leash.

Except...

It was wrong.

It moved slowly.

Delayed by a second when he tilted his head.

When he raised his hand, it hesitated—and then jerked into position like an actor missing their cue.

That's not how it's supposed to work...

He walked toward the far wall.

The shadow followed—half a beat behind.

He stopped.

So did it.

He knelt.

So did it.

But when he turned his head—fast—the shadow twitched.

Like it flinched.

And that…

That made something tighten in Kade's gut.

A sensation he hadn't felt in weeks.

A single note of fear.

He whispered again—just to test it:

"This is real…"

And the second voice answered, without hesitation:

"This is real…"

Same intonation.

Same pacing.

But… not him.

Not quite.

Kade's heart pounded once.

A loud, echoing thud that felt too slow, too late.

He looked down.

His shadow didn't mirror the movement.

It looked up.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for Kade to feel a chill trace the inside of his ribcage like a hand dragging across bone.

It knows what I'm thinking…

It's not mimicking me.

It's… predicting me.

He backed away. Slowly. Carefully.

Until his back hit the cold wall.

He slid down into a crouch, arms wrapped tight around his knees.

Watching the floor.

Watching the shadow.

Waiting for it to betray him again.

For the first time since entering Cadmus…

Kade whispered not to test a theory—

But to reassure himself:

"I'm still here…"

And again, like a reflex not entirely his own:

"I'm still here…"

This time, the voice didn't echo back.

But the shadow tilted.

As if it were listening.

As if it were... considering.

Somewhere above, the lights shifted with a hum.

First, the white overheads dulled, then flickered, then blinked out one by one in precise rows.

Only the low running floor glows remained—pale and cold, like the light beneath ice.

Cadmus had no sunrise or sunset. Just simulations.

"Night" was scheduled.

Enforced.

Meaningless.

But even Kade felt the shift. It seeped into his skin.

Lowered his heartbeat by a notch.

Changed the taste of the air.

He didn't move right away.

Not because of fear.

Because of certainty.

Certainty that if he moved, it would too.

Kade sat in his corner, legs drawn up, chin resting on his knees. His breath ghosted softly into the chill of the cube. The pads beneath him were barely softer than steel. His eyes didn't close. Didn't blink.

They were fixed on the floor.

On the shadow that pooled beneath him.

Or rather, beside him.

The overhead light still burned dimly in the ceiling, faint enough to cast only a blurred silhouette along the ground.

But something was wrong.

The shadow was… delayed.

He had first noticed it hours ago.

A turn of the head would take half a second longer to be mirrored.

A twitch of the fingers took two.

Then it started twitching when he didn't.

At first, he thought it was his imagination.

Stress.

Delirium.

A trick of the light.

But now, it waited.

The shadow lay beside him like a sleeping beast.

And sometimes, it shifted.

Not as an effect.

But as instinct.

He lay back slowly, spine brushing the floor pad. The movement was sluggish, intentional. Like someone trying not to wake the thing curled next to them.

His shadow followed.

Late. Hesitant.

It peeled along the floor and joined him, just slightly off.

Not wrong enough to scream.

But enough to watch.

The light dimmed again. A final pulse.

Now the room was bathed in muted gray-blue, with deep darkness pooling in corners Cadmus architects had long forgotten.

Kade closed his eyes.

Only for a breath.

Not to sleep—he didn't sleep anymore.

But to relieve the pressure in his skull.

To escape the sense that something was hovering just over his shoulder.

Then came the movement.

He didn't feel it at first.

Not like a breeze.

Or sound.

Just… weight.Shifting weight in the room.

The sensation of mass transferring from the floor to the upright.

Of something rising.

He opened his eyes.

Didn't lift his head.

Just slid his gaze to the right.

And there it was.

Still and tall.

His shadow.

Standing.

There was no mistaking it now.

It was upright, slightly slouched, arms low, legs apart.

Like a person. Or the idea of a person.

Thin.

Long.

Wrong.

There was no light source to cast that shape.

And yet it was.

There.

Kade didn't move.

His lungs halted halfway into a breath.

A faint tremor worked through his fingers but didn't spread.

His heartbeat was loud in his ears.

One slow, deliberate thud at a time.

The figure stood silently, facing the opposite wall.

Its head was tilted, like it was listening to something far away.

Its edges flickered, like oil on water.

Kade couldn't tell if it was two-dimensional or three.

Only that it was watching something.

Then, it moved.

No footsteps. No noise.

Just the shift—the unmistakable tilt of a skull pivoting sideways.

The head began to turn.

And as it turned, so did its body.

Not fast.Not sudden.

But smooth.

Unstoppable.

Predatory.

It rotated until it was facing him.

Kade's mouth opened slightly.

But no words came.

The air felt hea, y—like the cube had tripled in gravity.

And still, it stared.

Though it had no eyes.

He could feel it.

Like cold breath across the inside of his mind.

The shadow crouched.

Not all the way. Just low enough to mirror his body.

Then its hand twitched.

Once.

Twice.

And curled—gently—into a shape identical to his own.

Kade felt the world tilt under him.

Not the room.Him.

His thoughts slid sideways like marbles across a tilted table.

It's watching to learn.

Not to mimic.

To memorize.

How breath turns.

Eyes wide. Dry. Burning.

He couldn't blink.

Wouldn't.

Afraid it would vanish again.

Afraid it would come closer.

The figure didn't move again.

But it didn't leave.

It stayed.

A sentry in darkness.

A reflection is too late.

A monster that remembered how he stood.

And in that silence, Kade finally understood:

He wasn't alone in his mind anymore.

He never had been.