The first sound Z-69 heard when he opened his eyes… was the beating of his own heart.

  Not the soft rhythm of the living, but the roaring storm of electricity trapped inside his chest.

  His heart pounded like a hammer, driving blood and lightning through his veins, dragging along a terrible hunger.

  So hungry.

  He knelt on the cold floor, hands trembling as if under torture.

  His spine twitched; his fingernails scraped the ground, making a grating, high-pitched sound.

  Z-69 opened his mouth.

  He breathed—but not for air, he breathed to smell.

  He smelled—the scent of human lingering in the air, like a banquet of delicacies spreading its fragrance.

  His eyes twitched. The crackle of electricity rumbled inside his head like thunder.

  “…I’m… hungry.”

  He looked up, staring at the ZETA-01 special unit surrounding him.

  He didn’t see people. He saw meat.

  Hot, melting, living fresh meat.

  Instinct acted before consciousness could respond.

  FLASH!

  A bolt of lightning shot from his shoulder—formless, just a streak of light tearing through space.

  One soldier turned to ash before he could scream.

  “B-Back off! Raise the energy shields! Deploy target-locking drones!”

  “He’s not responding with human reflexes—”

  BOOOOM!

  Z-69 lunged forward.

  His body didn’t move like a human—it jerked and twitched like a broken machine… but his speed was monstrously impossible.

  THUD!—a lightning-fueled punch smashed the energy shield, blowing apart the three men behind it.

  SLASH!—his claws sank into a soldier’s neck, ripping it open like peeling a banana.

  “Dear God, he’s… eating human!”

  Z-69 crouched down.

  Blood smeared his face.

  His jaws clamped down on the still-warm neck of the fallen soldier.

  CHOMP!

  RIP!

  Chew. Chew. Chew.

  Blood splattered. Bones cracked like music in hell.

  In less than thirty seconds—the entire ZETA-01 squad was shredded to pulp.

  Only the stench of blood and burnt flesh remained.

  Z-69 stood amid the corpses, his whole body trembling with excitement.

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  Bones creaked.

  Then he froze.

  There was another smell… familiar, but not human.

  He turned.

  In the corner of the room, John was trying to step quietly, but their eyes met.

  Wild eyes met cold cyborg eyes.

  In that instant—the old man bolted.

  And the monster gave chase.

  The corridor of the 13th floor was narrow, lights flickering, the scent of scorched electricity spreading along the walls.

  John panted, yet a crooked grin hung on his face.

  “Stay back,” he rasped, “trust me, my meat’s dry as dust, you wouldn’t get a good chew.”

  Z-69 didn’t stop. His body spasmed, metallic teeth glinting, ozone thick in the air.

  John turned sharply, stopping.

  He raised his left arm—mechanical, gleaming under the electric glow.

  BITE!

  Z-69’s teeth sank in. Metal shattered; black oil sprayed out, mixing with sparks.

  Z-69 roared, chewing madly—then gagged. The liquid was bitter, burning; foam dripped from his mouth.

  At that moment, John’s eyes lit up.

  His right arm snapped open—click!—a silver-blue injector extended from his wrist.

  “Enjoying your meal?” John gritted out. “Now… sleep.”

  STAB!

  The injector pierced Z-69’s neck. The suppressant drug flooded his veins.

  The light in his eyes went out.

  The electric spasms halted, then disappeared.

  His body collapsed.

  John fell with him, gasping.

  Half his mechanical arm was gone, smoking.

  He looked at the still body before him and gave a dry laugh:

  “Seems your old lessons still pay off, teacher…”

  When Z-69 opened his eyes again, the world was silent.

  No human sounds.

  Only the smell of blood.

  Thick. Heavy. Fresh.

  Z-69 couldn’t remember who he was.

  His mind was murky, like a painting scribbled over by wild strokes.

  He couldn’t recall how he once lived.

  But he knew—he was still alive, and he was starving.

  Scanning around, he saw a severed human leg on the concrete floor, twitching faintly.

  Farther away—a pile of mangled flesh, white bone jutting out, blood splashed like bright red paint.

  Strangely, before this horrific sight, he felt nothing.

  No emotion.

  No panic.

  To him, it was merely data and biological response.

  Z-69 sat up, feeling his muscles tighten.

  His back was bare, his body heavy, like reassembled scrap metal.

  He touched his face.

  Rough. Cold. Gray.

  His mouth was parched.

  Drool ran down his chin.

  The hunger surged again—a whispering command in his head: Eat.

  But then—a voice broke the primal howl.

  “Go ahead and keep eating,” a man’s rough, tired voice said—yet without fear.

  Z-69 turned his head.

  An old man sat leaning against the wall.

  A metal arm, half gone.

  A worn white lab coat.

  Metal-framed glasses.

  One eye reflecting the dim yellow light.

  “Who are you?” Z-69 asked, his voice deep and hollow.

  “An old friend,” John replied as if it were obvious.

  “Friend?” Z-69 repeated the word, trying to recall what it meant.

  “Yes,” John said.

  “A friend… as in someone who knew your name before you knew you had one.”

  Z-69 stopped.

  His mind was blank.

  “Who am I?”

  John didn’t answer immediately.

  He studied him—as if weighing whether to tell the truth, or just enough to keep his brain from exploding.

  Finally, John nodded, deciding with himself.

  “Your name is Z-69.”

  Z-69 repeated,

  “Z… sixty-nine.”

  “A code, not a name.”

  “Right. You never told me your real one.”

  “But in this age, even a code is a luxury,” John said casually, like talking about the morning’s coffee price.

  Z-69 looked down at his hands—dry blood smeared across dark nails.

  His mind rummaged, searching for remnants of some lost memory.

  “I did this?” he asked, voice steady, unshaken.

  “Every piece of flesh here was torn apart by you,” John confirmed.

  “I feel nothing,” Z-69 said.

  “No regret. No guilt.

  Only… endless hunger.”

  John tilted his head.

  “That’s an honest response. Rare.”

  “Usually, people at least pretend to feel bad.”

  Z-69 looked up, eyes cold, sharp as blades.

  “What do you want me to feel?”

  “Nothing,” John shrugged.

  “I just want to know what you’ll do with what you feel—or don’t feel.”

  Silence for a few seconds.

  Z-69 inhaled.

  Cold.

  The scent of blood still lingered.

  “Why am I alive again?”

  “Because I brought you back,” John said plainly.

  “Because I—or rather, this world—needs you.”

  Z-69 nodded slightly.

  “Objective?”

  “For now: escape this place.

  Long term… I haven’t decided. Which one do you want first?”

  Z-69 considered.

  “To survive. To stay in control. Not let instinct tear everything apart.”

  “I need Suppressants. Data. Weapons. And if possible… a reason.”

  John smiled—the crooked grin of a man long accustomed to madness.

  “The reason, I can’t give you yet,” he said.

  “But the suppressant—yes.”

  “The weapons—being arranged.”

  “As for data… you’ll have to live long enough to read it.”

  Z-69 stood up.

  That was enough information for now.

  Alarms still wailed from the upper floors.

  John pushed himself up, adjusting his broken arm.

  “Any other questions?”

  Z-69 glanced around the blood-soaked room.

  “Are you sure you’re not insane for reviving me?”

  John smiled, a flicker of mockery in his aged eyes.

  “Aren’t we all insane in our own ways?

  And madness… is only relative.

  Sometimes, what’s madness to mankind… is the only thing that still matters to us.”