The overhead fluorescents hummed, bathing the containment wing in that same sterile green I’d stared at for eight months straight. Camp Delta never slept, and neither did I on night patrol. My boots scuffed the polished concrete as I passed the usual suspects—wyrmlings snoring in their pens, a kraken-thing sulking in its tank—until I reached the last cell on the row.
K-19’s enclosure looked more like a studio apartment than a cage: low couch, soft lighting, a holo-screen cycling jungle footage. The brass insisted on “enrichment.” I just called it bait.
He was already waiting.
Seven feet of sculpted obsidian muscle, standing upright on two powerful legs that mirrored a human’s—thick thighs, narrow hips, long calves flexing when he shifted his weight. His arms were folded across his chest
