The facility stood at the edge of the city like a forgotten wound.
Half-buried in snow.
Concrete walls cracked with age.
Rust bleeding down iron doors.
No lights.
No sound.
Only silence.
The kind that felt less like emptiness and more like memory.
Black Volkov vehicles stopped in a sharp line.
Doors opened.
Boots hit snow.
Roman stepped out first.
Viktor followed.
Mikhail, Dmitri, Nikola, and Yelena moved behind them in practiced formation.
Valentin remained inside the lead car for a moment longer, his unreadable gaze fixed on the building.
And then Artyom stepped out.
The moment his shoes touched the snow, a chill crawled up his spine.
Not from the weather.
From something older.
Familiar.
Impossible.
"I've been here before."
The words left him before he could stop them.
Everyone turned.
Viktor's eyes narrowed.
"You remember this place?"
Artyom stared at the rusted entrance.
"No."
A pause.
"But my body does."
Inside—
The air smelled of dust and metal.
Their footsteps echoed through long white corridors stained with time.
Broken glass glittered under the emergency lights Dmitri had forced back online.
Mikhail's voice was low.
"I hate places like this."
Nikola checked the corners.
"You hate places without enemies you can punch."
Yelena gave a faint smile.
"He's not wrong."
Even in the tension, the moment felt sharp, almost alive.
But Artyom barely heard them.
His eyes had fallen on the walls.
Old symbols.
Numbers.
Medical markings.
One in particular made his breath hitch.
Ω-0
His fingers brushed over it.
Cold.
The world around him blurred.
A flash.
White light.
A small room.
Needles.
A child's cry.
His own.
Artyom staggered back.
Viktor caught him before he fell.
"Artyom."
His voice was low, controlled, but edged with something dangerous.
Artyom's breathing turned uneven.
"I remember…"
The corridor seemed to tilt.
"There was a room."
His voice cracked.
"White walls."
Valentin stepped closer, his expression sharper than before.
"This was one of the primary Origin labs."
Roman's jaw tightened.
"Who authorized this site?"
Dmitri looked at the data feed on his tablet.
Then froze.
"It's signed."
Silence.
"By whom?" Roman asked.
Dmitri looked up slowly.
"Volkov. Sokolov."
The hallway went still.
And then Dmitri's voice lowered.
"And Morozov."
Artyom stared at the screen.
Three names.
Three empires.
All tied to the same wound.
The same experiment.
His existence.
His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"They all knew."
No one answered.
Because no one could deny it.
A metallic click echoed from deeper inside.
Everyone turned.
A steel door at the end of the corridor slid open by itself.
Dust swirled into the air.
Beyond it—
A laboratory preserved in darkness.
Frozen in time.
Monitors.
Observation glass.
A single chair at the center of the room.
Straps still attached.
Artyom's stomach turned.
His feet moved before anyone could stop him.
Step by step.
Toward the chair.
Toward the ghost of himself.
On the glass wall behind it, words were etched in silver lettering:
SUBJECT ZERO: ARTYOM SOKOLOV
STABILITY LEVEL: EXCEPTIONAL
His chest tightened.
He turned sharply.
"What does that mean?"
Dmitri's eyes moved across the records.
"It means…"
A pause.
"You were the first successful rare omega stabilization."
The words hit like ice in the veins.
Not born.
Engineered.
Not loved.
Designed.
Viktor stepped beside him.
Close.
Solid.
"Artyom."
But Artyom's eyes remained fixed on the room.
On the chair.
On the truth.
"All of them," he whispered.
"Roman. Sergei. Andrei."
His voice sharpened.
"They all built me."
Viktor's jaw tightened.
"No."
Artyom finally looked at him.
And something in his gaze had changed.
Then Viktor said, quieter this time:
"They may have created the conditions."
A pause.
"But they did not create you."
The words landed softly.
Yet they cut deeper than any revelation.
Because part of Artyom wanted to believe them.
And part of him was drowning in rage.
Suddenly—
One of the monitors flickered on.
Everyone froze.
Static hissed through the room.
Then a recording began.
A younger Andrei Morozov appeared on screen.
Silver hair darker.
Eyes colder.
His voice echoed through the abandoned lab.
"If this file is playing, then Subject Zero has returned."
Artyom's breath stopped.
"Artyom, if you are seeing this… then the truth can no longer be hidden."
The screen glitched.
And then the final line appeared.
THE NEXT SUBJECT IS STILL ALIVE.
The room went silent.
Not because of fear.
Because of what that meant.
Artyom wasn't the only one.