A nine year old Joseph Bell followed his mother through the clinic's long, sterile hallway, the fluorescent lights above buzzing like a nest of angry wasps. The air smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic—something he didn't want to name.
The place felt wrong. Too clean. Too quiet.
His mother's grip on his hand was firm but warm. "You're being brave, sweetheart," she murmured.
Joseph swallowed. Brave? No. He wasn't brave. But he had learned that admitting fear changed nothing.
They reached a door marked Dr. Henry Benson. Without knocking, his mother pushed inside.
Dr. Benson barely glanced up from his clipboard. His graying hair was unkempt, his coat unbuttoned, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion or something worse.
"You're early," he muttered. "Take a seat."
Joseph obeyed, shifting uncomfortably on the paper-lined examination table.
"The standard vaccines, correct?" Benson asked, scanning the paperwork.
His mother nodded. "Just the vaccines."
There was a pause. Benson's fingers drummed against the clipboard. "My receptionist mentioned an alternative treatment. A clinical trial. It could be beneficial."
Joseph felt his mother's fingers tighten around his shoulder. "No."
"The compensation is substantial—"
"I said no."
Benson exhaled sharply, setting down the clipboard. His movements were short and clinical. Joseph tensed, but his mother gave him a reassuring pat.
The injection faintly burned and made his fingers tingle.
Something was wrong.
The room seemed to shift, the walls bending inward.
Then it was over.
Benson stepped back, already turning away. "That's it. You're done."
His mother wasted no time. She took Joseph's hand and led him out, her grip firmer than before.
**
Dr. Henry Benson downed his second glass of whiskey, his hands trembling as he poured a third.
LexCorp had given him no choice. Debts, lawsuits, threats—he was trapped. They didn't want volunteers. They wanted results. And when no one signed up, well...
He had to get creative.
The nanites worked slowly. The subjects went home thinking they were fine. Then the symptoms began. Fever, convulsions, insanity. Some didn't last a week. Others simply never woke up.
He told himself he wasn't a murderer. He was just a man following orders.
But deep down, he knew better.
The news blared in the background. Reports of more unexplained deaths. Of people vanishing.
LexCorp hadn't checked in lately.
And that silence terrified him more than anything else.
**
Joseph's dreams were a whirlwind of numbers, symbols, and shifting puzzles. He wasn't solving them—he was them.
And something was chasing him.
No matter how fast he moved, it was always there. A shadow in the cracks of reality. Watching. Waiting.
He woke up gasping, drenched in sweat.
The TV was on in the next room. His mother sat frozen, eyes locked on the screen. Her hands were clenched in her lap.
"...the doctor responsible is still at large after blaming it on LexCorp. LexCorp denies any involvement in the creation of the experimental vaccine. Authorities are urging anyone who visited the clinic in the last twenty-four hours to seek immediate medical attention..."
His mother turned to him so quickly it startled him. "Joey," she whispered, rushing to his side. "Are you okay? Do you feel sick? Lightheaded? Any pain?"
He hesitated. "No... I think I'm fine."
Her expression didn't ease. If anything, it darkened.
"Promise me," she said. "Promise me that if anything—anything—feels wrong, you'll tell me."
Joseph nodded, but a heavy weight settled in his chest.
Because he knew the truth.
Something was wrong.
And the nightmares were trying to end him.