In the dimly lit chamber, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and a metallic undertone that clung to the senses.
Shelves lined the cold, sterile white walls, filled with vials, jars, and instruments that gleamed under the faint light.
The low hum of machinery and the steady dripping of liquid into a container were the only sounds that disrupted the suffocating silence of the secret laboratory.
At the center of the room, a figure fully covered in a green suit stood over a stainless steel table. The suit masked every inch of the figure, with gloves and a mask concealing even the face, leaving only sharp, focused eyes visible.
These eyes, devoid of emotion, were fixed on a piece of red flesh lying on the table, pulsating and wriggling as if it were alive.
The figure held a thin, gleaming needle in one gloved hand, hovering it above the wriggling mass.
With a slow, deliberate motion, the needle descended, piercing the flesh with a sickening squelch.
The reaction was immediate—the flesh convulsed violently, its color deepening to a dark crimson as tendrils of muscle and sinew sprouted, wriggling like worms in a fresh grave.
The figure remained unmoved, injecting a clear, viscous liquid into the flesh and watching the transformation begin to take hold.
After a moment, the figure stepped back, eyes still locked on the ever-changing flesh. Slowly, the figure began to remove the green suit. Pale hands with long, elegant fingers emerged first, followed by lifting the mask to reveal a face framed by golden hair gleaming in the dim light.
It was Reynold.
His sharp features were calm, almost serene, betraying no hint of the dark work he had just performed. His green eyes, cold and calculating, surveyed the flesh on the table one last time before he turned to the attendant waiting silently at the edge of the chamber.
"Test the new formula on a captive," Reynold ordered, his voice smooth, yet carrying an undercurrent of authority. He handed the attendant the syringe, now filled with the same viscous liquid used in the experiment.
The attendant took the syringe with a nod, his movements quick and efficient as they moved toward a row of cells that lined one side of the chamber.
But then, with a sudden gasp, his eyes snapped open. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling as if he had been yanked back from the brink of death. The attendant leaned in, eyes narrowed as they studied the man's face.
"Is it a success?" the attendant wondered aloud.
Reynold, who had been watching silently, raised a single finger. The movement was subtle, but its effect was anything but.
Before the captive could register what was happening, his body jerked, and with a sickening sound, it severed cleanly at the waist.
The man's upper half slumped forward, his eyes wide with shock, but remarkably, there was no scream, no expression of pain. The lower half of his body remained on the floor, blood pooling beneath it.
But it was not over.
Before their eyes, the two halves of the man's body began to squirm, inching toward each other like the wriggling of a worm cut in half.
The flesh at the edges rippled and pulsed, knitting together with unnatural speed. Within moments, the man was whole again, his body fully restored.
The attendant turned to Reynold, his voice tinged with awe and disbelief. "Lord, it's a success. You've managed to transfer the giant's regenerative ability to a subject. You're a step closer to immortality."
But Reynold's expression remained unchanged, his face as impassive as ever. His eyes, cold and calculating, lingered on the man who was still chained to the floor, his breathing ragged but steady.
"Not yet," Reynold muttered. His finger pointed directly at the man's head.
A burst of power erupted from Reynold's fingertip, and the captive's head exploded in a spray of blood and bone. The man's body went limp, collapsing lifelessly on the floor.
This time the body did not regenerate.
"Still not perfect," Reynold murmured to himself, his voice laced with disappointment. "This cannot be considered true immortality."