The air in the facility felt wrong—cold, sterile, like the walls themselves had been scrubbed clean of any warmth. Zoey stood at the window of her small room, her breath fogging the glass as she pressed her forehead against the cool surface. Outside, the sun filtered through a barbed-wire fence, casting sharp shadows across the neatly trimmed grass beyond. It was so strange, seeing grass again, real grass, the kind that didn’t wither in the constant snowstorms around the mountain. But every time she looked out, she could never quite shake the feeling that she was still inside, still trapped.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the oversized clothes they’d given her hanging loosely from her frame. The fabric was soft, a far cry from the harsh restraints she’d worn for years, but she couldn’t find any comfort in it. She was always waiting for the moment when they’d lock her back up, strap her to the table, press needles into her veins until she lost track of where the pain ended and she began.
The American doctors and biologists weren’t as cruel as the ones in Germany—no electric shocks or broken bones to measure recovery times—but there was something almost worse about the way they studied her. They watched her with the same detached curiosity she had seen in the eyes of the scientists who had made her, prodding and probing as if she were a strange artifact to be dissected and cataloged. Every day brought new tests, new samples—x-rays, CAT scans, endless vials of blood.
“We just want to understand what you are,” one of them had said once, trying to sound reassuring, as if that made it any better. She couldn’t explain to him that the not-knowing was all she had left. If they figured out what she was, she would have nothing to hide behind. She would be laid bare, like a dissected animal pinned open on a lab table.
She flinched as a knock sounded on the door behind her, her body tensing instinctively. They never opened it without asking—another one of the small freedoms they dangled in front of her like a carrot on a string—but the sound still made her heart race.
“Zoey? It’s time for the morning tests.”
The voice was familiar, one of the younger assistants who spoke in careful, clipped English. Zoey exhaled slowly, turning from the window and pulling her oversized hoodie tighter around herself. She shuffled towards the door, pausing just long enough to mutter, “Ja, ja, ich komme schon.” Her English was still clumsy, thick with her accent, but she had learned enough to understand their instructions, to follow the routine they laid out for her each day.
The assistant led her down the narrow halls of the facility, past closed doors and blank-faced guards who barely spared her a glance. Zoey kept her eyes on the floor, her ears twitching at the faint hum of machinery through the walls. They brought her to the familiar white room, with its harsh lights and rows of sterile equipment. She shuddered as she took her place on the examination table, forcing herself to lie still as the doctors circled her like vultures.
They pressed cool metal instruments against her skin, took measurements, drew more blood. The needle slid into her arm, and Zoey clenched her teeth against the sharp sting, biting back the urge to snarl or fight back. But no matter how much she tried to swallow the fear, she couldn’t stop the tremor that ran through her body whenever they touched her, the way she flinched away from every cold hand.
“We’re almost done,” one of the doctors said absently, his focus on the readout from the machine. She stared up at the ceiling, her breaths coming faster, shallower, as if the air itself were trying to escape from her lungs. Relax, they always said, as if she could just flip a switch and turn off the panic that insistently clawed at her chest, every waking moment filled with a fight or flight response she had to suppress. She dug her nails into the padded surface of the table, holding herself steady until they finally stepped back.
“You can sit up now,” the assistant said. Zoey pushed herself upright, but she kept her eyes down, refusing to meet the curious stares that lingered on her furred arms, her elongated ears. She could feel their fascination pressing in on her like a weight, heavy and unyielding.
As they gathered their notes, she overheard a quiet exchange between two of the biologists, their voices muffled by the hum of the equipment. “There’s got to be more than just red fox DNA in her. Look at the regeneration rates, the bone density—none of this fits with just a single species.” The other murmured in agreement, but Zoey tuned them out, focusing on the way the floor tiles swirled beneath her feet. The words meant little to her, lost in the soup of more tests and questions that never seemed to end.
The sun was sinking low by the time Zoey stepped into the mess hall, the golden light spilling through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the rows of metal tables. She stood in the doorway, scanning the room, her muscles coiling tight as she took in the clusters of soldiers and personnel scattered throughout the space. They barely noticed her, caught up in their own conversations, but their presence still made her skin itch with a deep, uncomfortable tension.
She edged her way along the wall, keeping her distance until she reached the buffet line. The smell of warm food wafted up to meet her, and she felt her stomach twist with a sharp, painful hunger. She could still hardly believe that food like this was allowed, that she could fill her plate as many times as she wanted. In Germany, they had starved her until she was delirious with it, then stuffed her with nutrients to see how much she could take. But here... she could eat without fear of punishment.
She piled her tray with bread, meat, and fresh fruit—things she hadn’t tasted in years. But as she moved through the line, she caught the curious stares of the other diners, and her appetite soured, her grip tightening on the edges of her tray. She ducked her head, her ears flattening against her skull, and retreated to her usual spot in the far corner of the room, away from the rest.
The first few times she had tried to eat among the others, the noise and the eyes on her had been too much. She had bolted from the room, hiding in her small quarters until her heart stopped pounding. Now, she ate quickly, stuffing her mouth with food before anyone could approach, barely tasting it as she swallowed down the fear.
When she finished, she wrapped the remaining bread and fruit in napkins, sneaking it back to her room for later, hoarding it like a starving animal. She hated the way she couldn’t seem to shake the habit, but the thought of running out, of being hungry again, gnawed at her mind like a persistent itch.
In the quiet of her room, Zoey unfolded the letter that had arrived earlier that week, the paper already creased and worn from where she had read it over and over again. William’s handwriting was neat, careful, the English words flowing in a way that made her heart ache. She struggled through the sentences, sounding out the unfamiliar words, but she could feel the warmth behind them, the promise that he hadn’t forgotten her.
They still talk about you, Zoey, he had written. People wonder how you’re doing. I hope you’re finding some peace over there, as much as you can. You deserve that, even if it’s hard to believe right now.
She traced the lines with a fingertip, mouthing the words silently. It wasn’t much—just a few sentences scrawled between deployments—but it was the only piece of him she had, the only thing that reminded her that someone, somewhere, thought she was worth more than the sum of her scars.
She folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into the pocket of her hoodie before she slipped the piece of bread from its napkin. She tore into it with a hunger that never seemed to go away, chewing slowly as she stared out the window at the distant glow of the sun sinking beyond the horizon.
Freedom, she had learned, was a strange, fragile thing. She could walk outside, feel the sun on her face, taste the food that was hers to choose. But every time she looked at the fence, or heard the shuffle of the guards’ boots outside her door, she felt the cold press of her old life creeping back in, filling the spaces between the moments of light.
In the stillness, she thought of the words she had overheard in the lab, the whispers of other genetics, other possibilities. She couldn’t make sense of them, couldn’t hold onto them long enough to find their meaning, but they nestled into the back of her mind like a splinter. What was she, really? And what did it mean if the Americans couldn’t figure it out any more than she could?
The questions twisted through her thoughts, tangling with the fear and anger that simmered beneath her skin. She thought of the doctors who watched her like a puzzle they couldn’t solve, of the way their eyes lingered on her scars. She thought of the tests, the endless needles, the endless questions, and she bit down hard on the bread, her jaw aching with the force of it.
Six months had passed since Zoey arrived in the United States, whisked from one form of captivity into another. But this new life was different in ways she was only beginning to understand. She had learned to read, to write, to speak English without the clumsy accent that had marked her early attempts. The small room they gave her in the rehabilitation center felt larger now, less like a cage and more like a place to hide when the world outside became too overwhelming. She still shrank from loud noises, still flinched when voices turned harsh or hands moved too quickly, but there were moments—fleeting, tentative—when she allowed herself to believe that she could live in this new world.
With the education came something else, though—anger, a deep and festering resentment that she hadn’t been able to name until she learned the words to describe it. She saw how people lived beyond the walls of the center, caught glimpses of the world she had been denied for so long. And when she realized just how much she had lost, how many years had been stolen from her, the rage burned in her chest like a slow, smoldering fire.
She became difficult—defiant. The doctors, the guards, the biologists who had once coaxed and coddled her with patience now found themselves facing a different Zoey, one who snapped back when they pushed too hard, who met their commands with a sneer and a muttered curse. She turned the skills they had taught her against them, using her new understanding of English to challenge and provoke, lashing out with words when she couldn’t strike with her hands.
Zoey sat in the small, sterile office of her assigned psychologist, slouched in a chair that groaned under her growing weight. She twisted a strand of her black hair around her finger, eyes narrowed at the man who watched her from behind the desk. He tapped his pen against the notebook in front of him, his expression carefully neutral.
“Zoey,” he began, the sound of her name rolling awkwardly off his tongue, as if he was still getting used to saying it. “You’ve been acting out more lately. Picking fights with the guards, ignoring the rules. Why?”
She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest, her expression defiant. “Why not?” she shot back, the edge in her voice a challenge. “I do what I want. Du kannst mich nicht kontrollieren.” She switched to German out of habit, her tone dripping with derision. She had learned that the mix of languages frustrated them, made it harder for them to keep up with her rapid shifts between thoughts.
The psychologist sighed, setting his pen down. “This kind of behavior... it’s not helping you, Zoey. It makes it harder for the staff to trust you. We’re here to help, but you need to meet us halfway.”
She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, sure. That’s why they keep me locked up, right? Because they’re helping me.” Her lip curled into a bitter smile. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like—how it feels to be trapped for so long that you forget what it’s like to be... real.” Her voice wavered, but she caught herself, straightening in the chair, forcing her expression back into something hard and unyielding.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his gaze steady but concerned. “Zoey, I think you’re scared. And I think you’re using this rebellion to keep people at a distance. But it’s not sustainable. We want you to adjust to life here, but you need to let us in.”
She barked a short, humorless laugh. “Let you in? That’s a joke. I’m not scared. I’m... surviving.” Her eyes flashed, and she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, what all of you are doing? You’re just like them. Maybe you’re not breaking my bones, but you’re still trying to control me, trying to figure out what makes me tick.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off, her voice rising. “Ich bin kein Haustier. I’m not a pet.” She spit the words at him, her hands balling into fists. “I’m done being nice, done pretending that this place is anything other than another cage. I’ll do whatever I have to, even if it means bending your precious little rules.”
The psychologist’s expression darkened slightly, but he forced himself to remain calm. “This behavior—using guards to smuggle in things with physical intimacy, it's not healthy, Zoey.”
She raised an eyebrow, smirking as she caught the unease in his tone. “They don’t mind,” she said flippantly, her voice cold and mocking. “It’s a fair trade, isn’t it? They get what they want, and I get books, clothes... things that make this place less like hell.”
He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. “Zoey, this isn’t a game. What you’re doing... it’s self-destructive. You’ve been through unimaginable trauma, but using these... tactics... to get what you want—”
She cut him off again, her voice turning icy. “It’s called surviving. Or do you want to go back to treating me like some kind of... of thing you can poke and prod?” She bared her teeth, a low, almost animalistic growl slipping from her throat. “At least this way, I get something out of it.”
The psychologist fell silent, clearly struggling with how to respond. He tapped his pen against the notebook again, then finally spoke, his tone resigned. “The staff believes that a more structured environment might help. Physical training, discipline—”
Zoey’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the air. “Training? Glaubst du wirklich, ich werde mitspielen?” Her smile turned cruel, almost feral. “Good luck with that.”
The months that followed saw a change in Zoey, but not in the way the rehabilitation center staff had hoped. The rigorous training they imposed on her—early morning drills, obstacle courses, hand-to-hand combat—only fueled her resentment. They thought discipline would tame her, but instead, it stoked the anger burning inside her, hardening her resolve to fight back against anyone who tried to control her.
And as the weeks dragged on, something else began to change. Her body, still recovering from the years of malnutrition, responded almost too well to the steroids they pumped into her veins. At first, she had balked at the injections, but they had promised that it would make her stronger, that it would help her recover. She took them out of spite, just to see what they would do.
The results were beyond anything they had expected. Her muscles grew, filling out her once-emaciated frame until her clothes grew tight. Her bones ached, stretching as her body pushed past its old limits. By the time six months had passed, she was no longer the small, skittish figure that had arrived at the facility. She towered over the staff, now standing over them intimidatingly, her limbs corded with muscle.
The changes brought new challenges. She had to stoop through doorways, her movements awkward in spaces designed for smaller humans. The guards grew wary, their eyes lingering on her with a new edge of fear. They had thought they could keep her in line, but now, they whispered about her strength, about the way her anger seemed to grow along with her body.
She heard their murmurs, but she paid them no mind. She was still trapped, and no matter how strong she became, the walls around her remained just as thick, just as impenetrable. She counted the days, her frustration simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the moment when something—anything—might crack open the world beyond the fence.
The day the bombs fell, the world turned inside out. Zoey woke to the rumble, a low vibration that rattled the metal fixtures in her small room and set her teeth on edge. She pushed herself up, blinking through the grogginess that clung to her mind, and moved to the window. Outside, the distant horizon flickered with an unnatural glow—dull reds and oranges, spreading like a wound across the sky. A sickening pit formed in her stomach as she pressed her hands against the cold glass, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
The faint rumble became a roar, and then she felt it—a shockwave that rippled through the ground, making the floor beneath her tremble. Zoey staggered back from the window, her ears twitching, straining to catch the noises that followed. Shouts echoed through the hallways outside her room, boots hammering against the floors as soldiers rushed past, their voices tangled in panic.
She caught snatches of other words—bombs, attack, we're under fire—but the meaning slipped through her fingers, lost in the chaos. She could only hear the fear in their voices, the urgency that clawed at the edges of their composure. Her heart began to race, her breaths coming faster, shallower. What is happening? she thought, her mind reeling as she struggled to process the scene unfolding outside her door.
And then came the first explosion, a deafening crack that tore through the air. The shockwave slammed into her room, throwing Zoey off her feet and sending her crashing into the wall. Her head struck the metal frame of her bed, and for a moment, the world blurred around her, turning into a smear of colors and ringing in her ears. She clawed at the floor, struggling to find her balance, but her limbs felt weak, unsteady.
As she staggered upright, she saw the dust raining down from the ceiling, the walls groaning as if the very foundation of the building was being wrenched apart. The air grew thick with the acrid stench of burning chemicals, and somewhere nearby, a siren wailed—a long, keening sound that cut through the panic like a blade. Zoey stumbled towards the door of her room, her mind a jumble of thoughts, instincts warring with the raw terror that pounded through her veins.
Another explosion ripped through the building, louder this time, closer. The floor lurched beneath her feet, and Zoey fell to her hands and knees, feeling the heat of the blast wash over her like a wave. She could hear the splintering of concrete, the shriek of metal being torn apart, and then a deafening crash as a section of the wall gave way. She covered her head, bracing herself as debris rained down, dust and shattered glass filling the air like a storm.
When the noise finally faded into a ringing silence, she pushed herself upright, blinking through the haze. The air was thick with smoke, swirling in the fractured light that spilled through a gaping hole in the side of the building. Zoey’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at it, her vision sharpening through the dust and rubble. The wall had been torn open, a jagged wound of concrete and twisted rebar, revealing a sliver of sky beyond.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. She stood frozen, her mind struggling to reconcile the sight in front of her—a way out, a path into the world beyond the facility’s walls. She barely registered the blood dripping from a cut on her forehead, the ache in her muscles as she fought to catch her breath. All she could see was the opening, the raw, terrible freedom that lay just beyond it.
But then, through the smoke and dust, she caught sight of something else—movement, a flash of color in the rubble. She turned her head, her gaze landing on a guard lying sprawled a few feet away, half-buried beneath a slab of broken concrete. His helmet had been knocked askew, revealing a pale face smeared with blood, eyes wide and staring at nothing. Zoey felt a pang of something—fear, pity, she couldn’t tell—but it vanished as quickly as it came. Her eyes fell on the rifle lying beside him, the metal glinting in the fractured sunlight, and instinct took over.
She lurched forward, her hands scrabbling across the debris as she reached for the weapon. The weight of it was familiar in her grip, the smooth metal cool against her palms. She glanced back at the guard, her mind racing, and then her gaze shifted to the belt around his waist, the heavy tactical vest strapped across his chest. She hesitated only for a second before she knelt beside him, her fingers fumbling with the straps as she pulled the vest free.
Her breath came in quick, panicked gasps as she struggled into the vest, adjusting the straps until it fit snugly across her broadening frame. It was tight, the material straining against her shoulders, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the hole in the wall, the way it beckoned to her like a promise. She cast one last glance at the ruin of the guard’s body, then turned towards the opening, the rifle held tight against her chest.
The air outside was a shock—cold and sharp, the wind whipping through her hair as she clambered through the gap in the wall. She stumbled into the open, her feet hitting the uneven ground as she scanned her surroundings, trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding around her. Smoke rose in thick plumes from the wreckage of nearby buildings, the distant skyline a jagged silhouette against the burning sky. The sounds of gunfire and distant artillery echoed through the air, mingling with the panicked shouts of soldiers scrambling for cover.
Zoey pressed herself against the side of the building, her breaths coming fast and shallow, the rifle clutched to her chest. Her mind reeled, struggling to catch up with the reality of what was happening. She could see figures moving in the distance—soldiers running for the evacuation transports, their silhouettes blurred by the smoke and dust. But beyond them, she could make out other shapes, figures in uniforms she didn’t recognize, advancing through the haze with weapons raised.
Enemy soldiers. The realization struck her like a cold blade, cutting through the fog of panic that clouded her thoughts. She had no idea who they were or why they were here, but she knew what war looked like, what death smelled like. And she knew that whatever was happening, this place—these people—could no longer hold her.
A flash of movement to her left drew her attention, and she flinched as a shell exploded nearby, sending up a shower of dirt and debris. The force of the blast nearly knocked her off her feet, and she stumbled, clutching the rifle tighter as she pressed herself closer to the wall. But as the dust cleared, she saw it—the hole torn through the fence at the edge of the facility, the tangled metal bent and broken where the explosion had ripped through.
It was another way out, another chance to run, to disappear into the chaos beyond the walls. Zoey’s heart pounded in her chest, the blood roaring in her ears as she took a step towards the opening. She glanced back over her shoulder, catching one last glimpse of the smoking ruin of the rehabilitation center, the place that had been her prison and her strange, twisted refuge.
But there was nothing left for her here. No reason to stay, no ties to hold her back. She turned away, her grip tightening on the rifle, and she bolted towards the fence, her feet pounding against the scorched earth. Her muscles burned with the effort, her breath tearing through her lungs, but she didn’t slow, didn’t stop until she was through the gap, until she felt the wind against her face and the open air stretching out before her.
She paused only for a moment on the other side, her chest heaving as she scanned the landscape, taking in the endless sprawl of broken buildings and shattered roads. Then she ran—away from the ruin of the center, away from the fire and the smoke, away from the echoes of voices that had tried to keep her in a place she never truly belonged.
She was free and full of anger, and free to express it how she wanted.
So, she did just that.
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