The Surgery
In the dark, time ceased to exist.
Perhaps it was seconds.
Perhaps days.
Then, pain tore him apart.
The first procedure: Carbide Ceramic Ossification.
A scalding liquid was injected into his bones.
Not into his blood vessels, but into the interior of the bone itself.
It felt as if molten metal were being poured into his marrow, every single bone screaming in fire.
His body twitched violently, but the restraints locked him down hard against the operating table.
Sweat soaked through his surgical gown and trailed down his cheeks, blurring his vision.
He ground his teeth together, nearly shattering his molars.
A nurse’s voice floated over as if from a great distance: “Bone density rising… Heart rate stable… Continue.”
The agony persisted.
Ten minutes, perhaps twenty—the pain felt endless.
At last, the first procedure concluded.
He had only a single second to catch his breath.
The second procedure: Muscular Development Enhancement.
A protein complex was injected into his muscle tissue.
Every bundle of muscle fiber flared with heat, as though scorched by open flame and struck by electrical current.
His fingers spasmed as he clutched the edge of the operating table, metal creaking beneath his knuckles as he nearly dented the frame.
Pain.
Unending pain.
Yet he could not scream.
Could not move.
He could only endure.
The third procedure: Catalytic Thyroid Implant.
A tiny platinum pellet was implanted into his thyroid gland.
As the catalyst released, hormones surged through his bloodstream.
His body radiated heat, cells dividing and expanding at an abnormal speed.
His bones popped and cracked, his muscles swelled, as if something were crawling beneath his skin.
The fourth procedure: Occipital Capillary Re-routing.
The surgeon’s hands worked beneath his occipital bone, rearranging the network of capillaries.
Blood was redirected toward the retinal rods and cones.
His vision began to shift—becoming sharper, clearer, registering far more detail.
Every flicker of the overhead lights, every hairline fracture in the ceiling, every speck of dust in the air.
Yet this clarity came at a cost.
Pain radiated from behind his eyes, driving through his entire skull.
He heard his blood booming in his temples like distant thunder.
The final procedure: Neural Synaptic Enhancement.
This was the most terrifying of all.
Superconducting fibers were inserted into his spine, replacing his neural dendrites.
Bioelectric conduction converted into interference-resistant electrical conduction.
His brain was being rewired—every nerve screamed, every synapse burned.
He felt his consciousness tearing into pieces.
He looked down at himself—lying on the operating table like a pale corpse, surrounded by doctors and nurses in green surgical gowns.
But that was not him.
That was merely a shell.
The real him floated in midair, gazing down at the scene.
Fragments filled his mind.
He saw the sky of Reach.
Not now—in the future.
The sky was consumed by blue plasma fire, UNSC warships burning as debris fell like falling stars.
He saw a massive ring floating in the starry expanse.
Larger than any warship.
Larger than anything.
It rotated, glowing like an eye staring out into the cosmos.
He saw darkness.
Endless, infinite darkness.
Within that dark, something writhed.
Slender tentacles, pale flesh, countless eyes.
He saw John—drenched in blood, standing among ruins with a shattered rifle in hand.
Dead bodies lay all around him.
Countless bodies.
Comrades, friends, enemies.
All dead.
Then, everything dissolved into blinding white.
He was dragged back to the operating room.
Back into his aching body.
The final superconducting fiber connected to his brain.
Neural Synaptic Enhancement was complete.
The pain faded—not because it had ended, but because it was drowned beneath a deeper numbness.
His consciousness blurred once more, sinking into total oblivion.
The white lights of the operating room faded from his view.
Darkness descended once again.
Post-Op Awakening
Light.
A harsh, blinding light pierced his eyelids, pulling him back from the dark.
Ethan opened his eyes.
The first thing to come into focus was the ceiling.
But this was no ordinary ceiling.
He could see every line, every joint, every microscopic flaw.
He could even see the dust floating in the air—suspended in the beam of light like tiny stars, slowly tumbling.
His vision was unnaturally clear.
Abnormally sharp.
It was as if someone had switched his eyes from standard definition into 4K resolution.
Then, the pain swept over him.
It was not the sharp agony of the surgery, but a persistent, searing dull ache.
It radiated from every bone, every muscle, every nerve. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
It felt as though his entire body had been roasted in fire, then plunged into ice.
The two extreme sensations intertwined, shredding his nervous system.
He looked down at his arm.
It was thicker.
A full size larger.
The contours of his muscles were far more pronounced than before, with blood vessels crisscrossing beneath his skin like a net.
He tried making a fist—it was effortless.
A movement that once required his full strength now took a tenth of the effort.
He flexed his fingers.
Each finger seemed to have a mind of its own, capable of fine movements that would have been impossible before.
Yet what shocked him most was his sight.
He glanced at the light fixture in the corner of the ceiling.
It was ordinary white light, but he could “see” its spectrum—no, more than just the spectrum.
He could see the edges of ultraviolet and infrared.
Occipital Capillary Re-routing was only supposed to enhance visual sensitivity; it should not have expanded his spectral range.
This was not an intended result of the procedure.
This was an additional mutation.
Ethan closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
He had to hide this.
If Dr. Halsey found out—and she certainly would, being a genius—if she discovered this extra mutation, the consequences would be unimaginable.
ONI would treat him like a lab specimen.
A scalpel would dissect his brain to study every single cell.
He could not let her find out.
He reopened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling of the ward, forcing his pupils to contract into a normal range, pretending he could not see ultraviolet or infrared.
“You’re awake?”
Ethan turned his head.
It was John-117.
John sat on the adjacent bed, looking as though he had woken earlier than Ethan.
Deep dark circles hung beneath his eyes, but his gaze was as sharp as a blade.
“How long have you been awake?” Ethan asked.
“Twelve hours.” John’s voice was raspy, like sandpaper scraping against metal.
His body had already changed.
“My body… feels different.”
“Mine too.”
The two looked at each other.
No further words were needed.
Both knew what had happened; both knew their bodies were altered forever.
Yet both knew another truth—they had survived.
“Tucker and the others…” Ethan began.
“Still under observation,” John interrupted.
“The nurse said it’ll take a few days to confirm the results.”
*Results.* Ethan knew what that word truly meant.
Not “recovery status,” but “life or death.”
He closed his eyes and fell silent.