Wade was gone.
Even from several meters away, Robert could still hear his exaggerated laughter echoing through the smoke-filled corridors. The man sounded like he was about to die laughing—literally.
And alongside Wade... went Francis.
Or rather, Ajax. The man with the dish soap name and an ego twice the size of his scars.
Wade hadn't exactly whispered his taunts either. He'd practically broadcast them across the hall, loud enough for every test subject and guard to hear. Francis had turned stiff as a board, the flush of humiliation burning so hard on his face it could've ignited kindling.
Watching them vanish from sight, Robert released a quiet breath. That had been close.
Too close.
He'd nearly been found out—his rapidly healed body would've exposed everything if Francis had so much as looked at him a second longer. But Wade, ever the chaos magnet, had jumped in at just the right moment and pulled all the attention to himself.
Robert offered a silent prayer.
Hope you're okay, man.
…
Time in the facility crawled like a wounded animal.
Robert lay still in his bed, senses on high alert, waiting—hoping—for the moment he knew had to come.
There was no sunlight in this place. No clocks. Just darkness, sweat, and pain. He didn't know how long he'd been waiting since Wade was taken. It could've been hours. It could've been days.
But then…
BOOM!
The explosion came without warning.
The entire building shook with a deafening blast, and the air instantly changed—heat and pressure slamming through the hall like a tidal wave.
Robert didn't even have time to scream.
Flames flashed across his vision, and a shockwave lifted him and his hospital bed off the floor. The steel frame shattered on impact as it crashed to the ground. He tumbled across the tile floor like a rag doll and only stopped when his back slammed into the wall with a crunch.
The air had turned to fire.
His body was covered in burns, his hospital gown scorched and shredded. Exposed skin was charred, and several of his bones had fractured from the impact.
Any normal person would've died right then.
But Robert wasn't normal anymore.
He groaned as he sat up, trembling. His skin, blackened and blistered, began to knit itself back together. Blood stopped flowing. Burns peeled away to reveal smooth flesh. Bones cracked and reset.
Within seconds, his body was fully healed.
No pain. No scars. Just breath in his lungs and fire in his heart.
"It worked!"
He didn't even try to hold back the grin that spread across his face.
That had been the plan all along—push the timeline forward. Wade was supposed to get his healing factor eventually, then blow up the facility in a fit of vengeance. Robert just helped speed things up.
And now?
The door to freedom had cracked open.
…
The explosion hadn't lasted long, but its aftermath was utter chaos.
The facility was in ruins. The reinforced hall was now a twisted mess of debris, fire, and crumbling infrastructure. Shattered metal beams, cracked walls, and scorched beds littered the floor.
Screams echoed everywhere—some pleading for help, others howling in agony. Black smoke poured in from the corridors, blanketing everything like a toxic fog.
Bodies were everywhere. Some still burning. Others already lifeless, charred beyond recognition. A few patients had survived, but they were still strapped to beds, coughing, crying, begging.
The fire spread fast—too fast.
Whatever chemicals the lab had stored were now feeding the flames, making them hotter, deadlier.
Robert coughed as the stench hit him—burned flesh, plastic, and some kind of acrid compound that clung to the back of his throat.
He pulled the tattered remains of his shirt over his mouth and nose and stumbled to his feet.
Every breath burned. His lungs screamed. The ground beneath his bare feet scorched him with every step.
If he hadn't been immortal, he would've collapsed by now.
But his body adapted.
He moved.
He ran.
…
Just as he rounded a corner toward one of the exit corridors, Robert spotted movement.
A guard.
The man was staggering forward, his uniform soaked in blood. He clutched his right arm, clearly broken, and used the wall to support himself as he limped.
They locked eyes.
The guard froze, startled by the sight of a half-naked patient with burn marks that were already healing.
"You—wait, aren't you—?"
Robert didn't give him a chance to finish.
He lunged forward and punched the man in the face with every ounce of strength he had. The guard crumpled backward, dazed.
"Shut up!" Robert growled.
His knuckles dislocated from the impact but began healing immediately.
The guard stumbled to the ground, barely conscious. Robert didn't stop.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Kick after kick landed with brutal force. The guard tried to shield himself, but Robert was relentless. Rage that had built up over two months of torture poured out in a frenzy of violence.
By the time Robert stopped, the guard wasn't moving. Blood pooled beneath his shattered helmet. His hands twitched faintly. Nothing more.
Robert panted heavily.
A wave of nausea rolled over him—not from guilt, but from sheer adrenaline and sensory overload.
He felt no pity.
This man had been part of the system that tortured him, dehumanized him, laughed at his screams.
They all had.
There was no forgiveness left in him.
Just fire.
And freedom.
…
He knelt beside the body and began searching.
After a moment, he found a standard-issue rifle clipped to the man's side. It was heavier than he expected. Cold. Real.
His first real weapon.
Robert looked down at himself—barefoot, bleeding, covered in ash. He couldn't run through the facility like this.
He stripped the guard, pulling off his boots, uniform, and helmet. The clothes were a tight fit, but they'd do. He adjusted the strap of the rifle and stood up just as something cracked above him.
Crack!
Bits of concrete and metal began raining down. The structural integrity of the building was failing. Fires roared. Beams groaned.
The roof was going to collapse.
Robert didn't wait.
There was no map.
No compass.
Just instinct.
The thick smoke obscured everything. He couldn't even see his hand in front of his face anymore.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered.
With one last breath, he tightened his grip on the rifle—and ran.
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