In the heart of the Secret-7 facility, hidden deep within the frozen jagged peaks, lay the third floor.
In one of the most isolated chambers, Heracles was sprawled across a cold, metallic floor. Thick steel chains coiled around his wrists, his ankles, his chest, and even his throat. Each chain was anchored into the floor with bolts that defied any attempt at removal.
In his back, nine tubes had been carefully inserted, pumping a continuous stream of potent sedatives into his veins.
The room was a gargantuan cage—walls of reinforced steel, a ceiling rising ten meters high, and no windows. There was only one door, twenty centimeters thick, situated beneath a large observation window made of bulletproof glass.
High above, behind that glass, Colonel Petrovich stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the sleeping man. Beside him stood Dr. Alexei Volkov.
"The report," the Colonel commanded in a dry, clipped tone.
"Heart rate: 42 beats per minute. Slower than a normal human, but remarkably steady," Volkov replied. "The sedative we used... it should have kept him under for weeks." The doctor paused, glancing at his watch. "But it's only been six hours, and his body is already beginning to recover."
The Colonel raised an eyebrow. "Recover?"
"Yes. The sedative levels in his blood are plummeting at an unnatural rate. It's as if his body is... burning through it. But do not worry, sir, everything is under control." Volkov continued, "We've increased the flow through the nine tubes directly into his system. It will keep him in a semi-conscious state, but he won't possess the strength to stand."
Silence followed.
"How long until he regains even that level of consciousness?"
"An hour. Maybe two. No more."
"Good," the Colonel said. He turned to the guard standing nearby. "I want thirty armed men outside this door. Twenty-four hours a day. No one enters without my express permission."
"Understood, sir."
The Colonel turned back to the sleeping man, staring in silence for a long time, his mind already weaving a complex tapestry of schemes.
[Washington, D.C. — The Oval Office]
The President stood by the large window, hands behind his back, staring out at the manicured garden. Behind him, Defense Secretary Josh McKenzie sat on the edge of his chair, tense.
"We must take that man from them," the President said without turning. "By every means available."
"Mr. President, the Russians won't yield easily. This could create—"
The President slammed his hand against the window frame. "Josh, I want him even if it requires military force. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
The President finally turned, his face etched with a grim, burning fury. "Do you realize what this implies? If the Russians are developing human weapons of this caliber while we remain in the dark..."
The National Security Advisor spoke up from a nearby chair. "Sir, there's a development. Senator Richard Shelton called several hours ago. He's leaning on us to find out the man's identity."
"Shelton? Why?"
"Because our ambassador in Moscow—who is a close associate of Shelton—notified us that the man bears a striking resemblance to his son who died last week. Alexander Shelton."
The room fell into a heavy silence. Then the President spoke slowly:
"Then we have exactly what we need." He turned to Josh. "Contact President Sergei directly. Inform him that the United States has reason to believe the man is an American citizen. That is all the leverage we require."
[The Office of Senator Shelton]
That same night, the Senator did not sleep. His office was shrouded in darkness as he pondered the man in the video.
Ryan was right. Alexander was buried a week ago. But that face... it's impossible. Doubt was slowly eroding his resolve. It was the doubt of a man who knew he might just be hoping, seeing only what he desperately wanted to see.
His phone rang. Private number.
"Richard."
It was Josh McKenzie's voice—not his official "Secretary" tone, but something more intimate, more familiar.
"Josh. What do you have?" Richard asked.
"Listen. The administration has taken steps. If that man is truly Alexander, it is the President's duty to bring him home."
"And?"
"We ran a DNA check on the body that came from Ukraine... the one you believed was your son."
"Josh, how dare you? Was my son's grave opened? Did you desecrate his rest? Does the President think so little of the Shelton family?"
"Richard... the body wasn't your son. It never was."
Silence. A long, suffocating silence.
"Richard?"
"What?! What do you have to say now, Josh?" Richard rubbed his forehead, his frustration peaking.
"We have sources in Russia confirming the man who appeared isn't Russian. No records. No identity. He appeared out of thin air."
The Senator took a slow, measured breath. "What is it you want, Josh?"
Josh sighed on the other end. "The President wants that man, Richard. And he wants you to announce to the public that he is your son. Whether it's true or not."
A sudden, freezing chill swept through the Senator from head to toe.
"Josh... what are you planning?"
"This is an order from the President, Richard."
"If that boy is truly my son..." Richard's voice was low, but carried a weight that brook no compromise. "Then I will never let him be exploited by you. Never. I will not let him become a tool. Not ever."
"I understand you. But I'm warning you against acting rashly. The President is serious."
"I am serious too, Josh."
He hung up. He placed the phone on the desk and buried his head in his hands, feeling as if he were on the verge of a collapse.
Are you truly still alive, my son?
[Secret-7 Facility]
Heracles slowly opened his eyes.
Everything was a blur. His head was spinning. His body felt like lead.
Where... where am I? He tried to move. He heard the metallic groan of the chains, then felt a crushing weight against his back. He looked at his hands. Bound. His feet. Bound. His chest. Bound.
And behind him, tubes were buried in his flesh, fluid moving through them.
"What... what is this?"
He tried to stand. The chains and tubes jerked him back. He scanned the room. A large metallic chamber. Cold. A high ceiling, as if he were in a cavern. Above him, a large glass window radiated a harsh, blinding white light.
Suddenly, memories of his previous battle surged back.
"They... they caught me." He let out a dry, mocking laugh. "What a tale. A god, captured by mortals."
He attempted to stand, pulling against the chains and tubes with all his might as he moved toward the solitary door.
CLANK!
CLANK!
The chains rattled but held firm. The tubes began to pull slightly away from his skin. He pulled harder. The steel seemed to groan, stretching under his pressure. One tube tore free from his back, but the other eight remained lodged deep within.
Why... why am I so weak? He glanced at the tattoos and saw they had spread even further. Then he realized: Gaia was punishing him for declaring war against her.
In the observation room, the Colonel and Dr. Volkov watched everything on the monitors.
"He's awake," the doctor whispered.
"I see that," Petrovich replied.
On the screen, Heracles was straining against the chains—slowly at first, then with escalating force.
"He's pulling like that despite the amount of sedatives in his blood," Volkov noted, his voice a mix of awe and dread. "Will they hold?"
"Pump more. Now," the doctor said, working rapidly at his computer.
On the screen, Heracles stopped pulling. He was gasping for air, his body slick with sweat despite the cold.
I cannot break them. I must halt the spread of this curse first. He sat on the cold floor and closed his eyes. He tried to focus, to find a thread of power he could use to bolster his strength and fight the curse Gaia had laid upon him.
But before he could find that thread... the memories came. The tattoos began to crawl across his body again, turning a deep, clotted crimson—as if they were the ones projecting the memories onto his mind.
The Vision
He was a child. Wearing beautiful white silk robes. A dark forest. A heavy, starless night.
And a woman was pulling him by his arm, her grip brutal.
"Mother... stop. It hurts."
Silence.
"Mother... please."
SLAP. The blow was powerful and sudden, killing the words in his throat. He slowly raised his head, looking at her.
"I am not your mother," she said, her voice as cold as ice. "And I never will be."
"You are not my son."
"You are the son of that monster."
"So go to him."
He grabbed her robes with his small hands, clinging to her with everything he had.
"I'll do anything. I'll listen to anything you say. Anything, Mother."
She looked down at him. "Truly?"
"Yes. Anything."
A brief silence. "Then go. And never return. I do not wish to see you."
"Mother... I... please. Just let me stay by your side. Just—"
"I said begone."
Then she pushed him. With a single, deliberate movement.
Off the edge of the waterfall.
He fell. The air shrieked around him. Tears blurred his vision as he saw her face receding above him. She didn't turn away the moment he fell; instead, she stayed, watching him drop until the very last moment before the water swallowed him.
It was water colder than anything he had ever felt.
Heracles snapped his eyes open, gasping for air. His chest rose and fell in rapid heaves. He looked at the chains around his hands. The tattoos had spread even further across his skin.
Then he heard the footsteps. Many. Disciplined. Approaching.
The massive steel door creaked open slowly. Thirty armed men entered—black tactical gear, helmets obscuring their faces, assault rifles raised and aimed at a single point.
At him.
Behind them, Dr. Volkov entered, carrying a medical case.
"Do not move," one of the guards said in Russian. "Or we will open fire."
Heracles didn't understand the words, but he understood the intent.
Dr. Volkov approached him with measured, cautious steps. He opened the case and pulled out a large syringe. He reached for Heracles' arm.
Heracles jerked his arm back in defiance. The rifles were raised in unison. Heracles looked at them, remembering that his body was at its lowest point. He returned his arm.
The doctor plunged the needle in. He drew a large quantity of blood into several glass tubes. His hand was steady, but his eyes behind the thick glasses never stopped watching Heracles' face with intense fascination.
He finished. He placed the tubes back in the case and turned to leave. Then he stopped.
He tried Russian first. "Who are you?"
Nothing.
In English: "Who are you?"
Nothing.
In Chinese. Arabic. French. German.
Nothing.
He shook his head and turned toward the door.
"I will leave this place." Volkov froze. He turned back slowly. The man had spoken in a language he had never heard in his life. He pulled out his phone and hit record.
Heracles raised his head toward the doctor.
"I am the son of Zeus," he said, his voice rising with authority. "And it is in your best interest not to make an enemy of me."
Volkov recorded every word. Then he exited with the guards.
The massive steel door slammed shut.
BOOM.
To be continued...