Scientists

The scientists were relentless.Every setback, every failed batch, every corpse that twitched and then fell still — none of it stopped them. When neural decay set in after injection #52, they recalibrated. When Subject 74 gnawed through their restraints and tore out a nurse’s throat, they modified the sedation protocols. When the brain matter of early test subjects liquefied within hours, they didn’t grieve — they recalculated.Failure didn’t mean stop.It meant start again.This was no longer about healing. It had become obsession — a crusade to outsmart death itself. The fusion of Cortexa’s neuro-enhancement and the militarized Z-23 pathogen became their white whale.And after years of secret experiments, sleepless weeks, and bodies stacked behind biohazard doors... They made it.They called it ZC-X. Zeta-Cortex Experimental.
The final strain. The solution.But it wasn’t a cure. It was a threshold — the point of no return. The moment ZC-X hit a human host, the rules changed.
It restored the brain — but too much.
It jump-started cognition — but unshackled it from morality.
It reanimated — but with memory. With identity. With purpose.
The first infected subject spoke. Not in grunts. In actual words.From that moment, everything collapsed. Lights flickered. Alarms screamed. Locks failed. Screams echoed through white corridors. The infected didn’t stumble or lurch like horror movie monsters — they hunted, they remembered, and some of them knew the layout of the lab better than their creators.ZC-X didn’t destroy the mind.
It rewrote it.

The Scientists

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