Two years after a sniper’s bullet left me unable to walk, everyone who worked inside my mansion had learned the same rule: stay out of my way.

Midnight arrived under a thick, suffocating blanket of Chicago fog that swallowed the streetlights along North Avenue.

The Vane Neurological Institute looked less like a medical facility and more like a corporate fortress—a seven-story structure of dark tinted glass, reinforced steel, and high-security perimeter walls.

My private convoy—a long, black, bulletproof SUV followed by a discrete medical transport van—pulled up to the heavy iron gates at precisely 11:58 PM.

The gates opened automatically.

We pulled into the subterranean parking garage beneath the main building. The concrete cavern was silent, lit by harsh fluorescent tubes that cast long, unnatural shadows across the polished floor.

Standing near the private executive elevator were six heavy-set security guards in black tactical uniforms, led by Dr. Marcus Thorne.

The rear doors of my black SUV opened.

Luke stepped out first, wearing a dark suit, his hands held visibly away from his jacket to show he wasn't reaching for a weapon. He walked to the side door, slid it open, and lowered the hydraulic aluminum ramp.

I rolled out of the SUV in my custom wheelchair, wearing a dark wool coat, my hands resting calmly in my lap.

Dr. Thorne walked forward, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the overhead lights, a smug, triumphant smile playing across his thin lips.

"Mr. Mercer," Thorne said, bowing his head slightly in mock deference. "Mr. Vane is waiting for you in the Level Three private executive suite. We appreciate your... cooperation in this matter."

"Where is the stabilization matrix?" I asked, keeping my voice low and weak.

"All in good time, Daniel," Thorne replied smoothly, gesturing toward the elevator. "First, the signatures. Then, your transformation begins."

The six guards surrounded us in a tight formation as we entered the spacious executive elevator. The heavy steel doors slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, and the elevator began its smooth, silent descent into the third sub-basement.

The digital floor indicator ticked down: B1... B2... B3.

The doors opened.

Level Three was a world of sterile, blinding white light. Long corridors lined with tempered glass walls revealed high-tech laboratories filled with centrifuges, automated chemical synthesis units, and bio-containment pods.

At the end of the main hallway stood a pair of heavy double doors made of brushed steel.

Thorne pressed his palm against a biometric scanner beside the frame. The lock clicked open with a heavy mechanical thud.

The room inside was a sprawling, luxurious private surgical suite. Standing by a glass display case containing six vials of pale amber liquid was Victor Vane, holding a crystal glass of scotch.

Beside him on a low coffee table lay a thick stack of legal documents—the transfer of my entire life's work into his corporate holding company.

"Daniel," Vane said, stepping forward with his hand extended. "Welcome to the future of human recovery."

I stopped my wheelchair three feet from the table. I looked at the legal documents, then up at Vane's smiling, arrogant face.

"Where is the raw peptide compound for Emma Carter?" I asked.

Vane chuckled, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "Ah, yes. The maid. Dr. Thorne informed me of her condition. Regrettably, Daniel, Miss Carter's trial period has reached its logical conclusion. Her organ damage is too severe for the stabilization matrix to be effective long-term. She was... an acceptable margin of error in our research."

My eyes moved slowly from Vane to Thorne, and then to the six armed guards standing near the door.

"An acceptable margin of error," I repeated quietly.

"Science requires sacrifice, Daniel," Vane said smoothly, setting his glass down and picking up a gold Montblanc pen. "Now, if you'll sign these documents, we can begin your first treatment cycle. You'll be standing on your own two feet by morning."

I looked down at my hands. I flexed my fingers slowly.

Then, I looked up at Victor Vane and smiled.

It wasn't the broken, desperate smile of an invalid. It was the terrifying, predator's grin that had made me the most feared man in Chicago before a sniper ever took a shot at my back.

"You made one mistake, Victor," I said, my voice dropping into a deep, lethal register that caused the room's temperature to plummet.

Vane frowned, his smile faltering slightly. "What's that?"

"You assumed I came here to walk," I said.

Before Vane or Thorne could react, I reached down to the armrest of my custom wheelchair and flipped a hidden toggle switch.

A high-pitched electronic hum resonated through the room as the wheelchair's custom-built directional EMP (Electro-Magnetic Pulse) emitter discharged its payload.

In a fraction of a second, every light in the third sub-basement exploded in a shower of sparks. The automated locks jammed, the security monitors went black, the biometric scanners short-circuited, and the entire facility was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

"What the hell?!" Thorne screamed in the dark.