Hana had always believed one thing with absolute certainty:
Evil people do evil things.
It was simple. Clean. A rule she could rely on when the world made no sense.
But that belief began to crack the moment she saw him.
...
The testing chamber was colder than the rest of the facility—sterile, humming with machines that pulsed like mechanical hearts.
Rows of transparent cylinders lined the walls, each filled with a sickly green liquid that glowed faintly in the dim light. Inside them, infected people floated limply, their limbs suspended by tubes and wires that burrowed into their skin.
They looked like specimens. Not humans.
Scientists in white suits moved between the cylinders, jotting notes, adjusting dials, injecting syringes filled with shimmering substances. The infected twitched, spasmed, or went eerily still.
Hana's stomach twisted.
"This is wrong," she whispered. "The way they act makes it as though they're not human."
Her voice echoed faintly.
She didn't know she wasn't alone.
Hana stepped closer to one of the cylinders. The person inside—a woman, maybe in her twenties—had once had bright eyes. Now they were clouded, unfocused, drifting. A tube was lodged in her throat. Another in her arm. A third in her spine.
Hana pressed her palm to the glass. It warmed instantly under her touch.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
A soft rustle came from behind her.
She spun around, heart hammering, radioactive light flickering beneath her skin.
A boy stood in the shadows.
He looked about her age—maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen. Dark hair, sharp eyes, posture too calm for someone who had just snuck up on a radioactive stranger. His clothes were clean, crisp, marked with the insignia of the facility. He didn't look infected. He didn't look afraid.
He looked… curious.
Hana opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.
"All systems go," he said softly, voice smooth as glass. "But the sun hasn't died."
The words hit her like a slap—cryptic, eerie, odd in a way she couldn't explain.
Hana froze.
Her voice vanished. Her throat locked.
The boy stepped forward just enough for the light to catch his face.
His eyes glowed faintly—not with radiation, but with something sharper. Something knowing.
Hana finally forced out a breath. "Who—"
But he was gone.
One blink, and the space where he'd stood was empty. No footsteps. No door opening. No sound at all.
Just silence.
Hana staggered back, gripping the railing behind her. Her pulse thundered. The glow beneath her skin flared, reacting to her panic.
"Haazi," a voice echoed faintly from the hallway outside. "Report to the Director."
Hana's breath caught.
Haazi.
So that was his name.
She pressed herself against the wall, listening as the footsteps faded. Her mind raced.
A teenager working closely with the head of the operation. Someone who could slip in and out of shadows like smoke. Someone who spoke in riddles and watched her without fear.
Someone who didn't fit into her neat little rule.
Evil people do evil things.
But Haazi… didn't feel evil.
He felt dangerous.
And danger was something Hana understood.
She turned back to the cylinders, jaw tight. The infected floated silently, their suffering muffled by glass and liquid. The scientists continued their work, oblivious to the storm building inside her.
Hana clenched her fists.
Haazi's words echoed in her skull.
All systems go. But the sun hasn't died.
What did that mean? A warning? A threat? A clue?
She didn't know.
But she knew one thing:
This place was worse than she imagined.
And Haazi—whoever he was—had just made everything far more complicated.