Chapter 2: Cryokinesis
The days after the funeral bled into weeks, and the weeks into months. Silence became Samuel's only companion. He did not call Ellis. Ellis did not call him. The apartment felt hollow, a museum of a brotherhood that no longer existed.
Samuel worked a mundane job—data entry, report sorting, something forgettable. He sat in a gray cubicle under fluorescent lights, feeding numbers into spreadsheets that meant nothing to anyone. But his mind drifted elsewhere. He dreamed of building his own AI company, a software empire that would dwarf every existing firm. He had the vision—a large language model that could think, adapt, and perhaps one day rule. He lacked the means.
Then, on an ordinary Tuesday, his father's voice surfaced from memory.
"Be strong when I die."
The words had seemed hollow at the funeral. His father had been gasping, barely conscious, yet he had summoned the breath to speak. Samuel had nodded then, not understanding. Now the phrase consumed him. It played on a loop in his skull: Be strong. Be strong. Be strong.
He remembered CryoLabs—the famous research facility everyone called "the CL." They claimed to unlock human potential through suspended animation. Three months frozen, they said. Cells would restructure. Durability would increase. Reaction times would sharpen. Some subjects emerged with strength ten times that of a normal human. It sounded like science fiction. It sounded like exactly what he needed.
He opened his laptop and typed. His fingers moved without hesitation. He sent an email from an anonymous account he had created years ago—shums19.
A reply arrived within hours. A man named Ben would meet him on May 1st.
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May 1st
The CL headquarters loomed against a gray sky, all glass and steel and cold efficiency. Samuel stepped through the revolving doors and found Ben waiting in the lobby—a lean man with sharp eyes, a clip-on badge, and the quiet authority of someone who had seen things he could not unsee.
"Samuel?" Ben asked.
"Yes."
"Are you ready? The procedure carries serious risks."
"What kind of risks?"
Ben met his gaze without flinching. "Death."
Samuel almost laughed. The sound came out dry, hollow, a single exhale. "Everyone dies. I'm ready."
Ben studied him for a long moment. "That's some determination."
Another man approached—fifties, tired eyes, hands that had worked hard all his life. There was something fragile about him, something already fading.
"I'm Samuel," Samuel said.
"Call me Tom. Do you have a job?"
"I do. But I'm not satisfied." Samuel paused, the words forming before he thought them. "I want to start a tech company. You interested?"
Tom shook his head slowly. "Not me. My son."
"What's his name?"
"Willson."
Samuel filed the name away. It meant nothing to him then—just a word, a stranger's child. He exchanged numbers with Tom, then walked toward the cryo chamber without looking back.
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The Experiment
The logic was simple, elegant, brutal. Freeze the body's cells, force them to adapt, and emerge stronger, faster, more durable. A hormonal change during the process would supercharge reaction times. Muscles would stiffen into armor. The cellspan—a measure of cellular endurance—determined who survived.
Samuel and Tom lay on adjacent tables. The ceiling was white, sterile, endless. Anesthesia dripped into their veins. Samuel felt the cold creeping up his arm, then his chest, then his thoughts.
The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was Tom's face—peaceful, almost hopeful. The old man was smiling.
Three months later, Samuel opened his eyes.
His body felt strange—lighter, harder, coiled with a tension he had never known. He sat up. His muscles moved like well-oiled machinery. Across the chamber, Tom lay still. His eyes were closed. His skin was gray.
Dead. His cellspan had been too low.
Samuel found a pistol on a nearby table—left there by accident, or perhaps by design. He picked it up. The weight felt natural in his hand.
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The Backyard
Ben led him to a testing ground behind the facility—an open field of yellow grass with a single oak tree at its center. The sky was overcast, heavy with unshed rain.
"Punch it," Ben said.
Samuel drew a breath. He had never thrown a punch in his life. He had never been in a fight. He was a programmer, a planner, a man of words and ambition—not violence.
He swung.
The tree tore from its roots and sailed twenty feet across the field. Dirt exploded from the impact crater. Splinters rained down.
Samuel stared at his fist. Deep inside, something that might have been a smile stirred.
Ben clapped slowly. "Impressive. The old man didn't make it."
"Cellspan?"
"Much lower." Ben shrugged. "Different potentials. Different endurance levels."
Samuel reached into his jacket and produced the pistol. He pointed it at Ben's chest.
"I have a favor," he said. His voice was calm, almost friendly. "Fund my AI company."
The rain began—cold, sudden, washing over both of them. Ben stared down the barrel, then at Samuel's eyes. There was no madness there. No desperation. Only arithmetic. Only the quiet certainty of a man who had calculated every variable.
He was bringing a slave to the company
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Chapter 2 Ends
To be continued