The world moved on without him.
Two years lost—an eternity trapped in unconsciousness, yet time had left no trace on Adrian Cole’s mind. His body, however, was another story. The throbbing in his skull was unbearable, as if something inside him fought against his own flesh, clawing its way out. His muscles ached, his throat burned, and the dim fluorescent light overhead felt like an interrogation lamp rather than a hospital fixture.
VoxGen was never just a pharmaceutical company. They were engineers of influence, experimenting on brain chemistry, pushing the boundaries of human cognition, and justifying their actions under the guise of “progress.” It was their research, their recklessness, their greed that had put him here.
The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his lungs. His wrists were restrained—metal cuffs dug into his skin, the weight of authority pressing down on him before he could even ask why.
A figure stood in the doorway, arms folded. Not a nurse, not a doctor—something colder.
“You’re awake,” the man muttered, voice devoid of sympathy.
Adrian tried to speak, but his throat closed around the words. His mind raced. Where was he? What had happened? His mind raced:
Then it hit him. The building. The explosion. The fire that swallowed New York City in screaming chaos.
“I…” Adrian rasped, forcing the words past dry lips. “The—people—I tried—”
Robinson shook his head, pulling out a tablet, flicking through files with casual disinterest. “You tried?” he said. “That’s an interesting way to frame it, Cole.” He tapped the screen once, then turned the tablet so Adrian could see it. “Here,” Robinson muttered. “VoxGen’s official statement.”
Adrian blinked, vision swimming as he tried to focus. The words blurred, then sharpened:
“Adrian Cole, former procurement specialist, is believed to be responsible for the explosion that resulted in mass casualties…”
Robinson watched him with a blank expression. “They’re painting you as the architect of the whole thing. Hero turned terrorist. Clean, simple, convenient.”
He lowered the tablet, leaning in just enough for Adrian to feel the weight of the words. “You were there. You interfered. You caused the explosion. Every life lost, every casualty—” Robinson’s voice hardened. “That’s on you, you bastard.”
The words hit harder than the restraints biting into his wrists. Adrian stopped breathing for an instant. No. This wasn’t right. He hadn’t—he’d tried to warn them. He tried to stop it.
But the city didn’t remember that. It only remembered the fire. And now, it only blamed him.
Adrian’s wrists burned against the metal restraints. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through his arms, a cruel reminder that this wasn’t a recovery room—it was a holding cell. He wasn’t a patient. He was a prisoner.
The fluorescent light hummed overhead, stabbing into his skull like needles. The headaches were back, crawling through his mind with razor-sharp edges. He clenched his jaw, forcing his breath to stay steady as the man before him scrolled through his tablet with infuriating ease.
“You’re in bad shape, Cole,” Detective Blunt Robinson mused, not bothering to look up. “Two years in a coma does that to a guy.”
Two years. Adrian swallowed hard, the weight of the words pressing down on him. That couldn’t be right. He barely remembered collapsing, barely recalled the fire swallowing the building whole.
“You should be grateful you woke up at all,” Detective Robinson continued. “Unfortunately, things have changed. The world has moved forward, and you—” he finally glanced up, eyes cold and calculating, “you are very much a problem.”
Adrian’s lips parted, but no words came. He knew this man, didn’t he? The familiarity itched at the back of his mind, buried beneath layers of blurred memory and pain.
Then he saw the badge clipped to his belt— NYPD Anti-Terrorist Task Department. Queens Division.
The words hit Adrian like a freight train. This wasn’t just any detective. Blunt Robinson wasn’t some local cop digging into a simple case—he was part of something bigger. Something federal.
That meant Adrian wasn’t just being accused of negligence, of causing an explosion. They thought he was a terrorist.
The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating. He swallowed hard, trying to process the implications. If VoxGen had managed to manipulate the anti-terrorist division, it meant their reach extended far beyond corrupt executives and shady scientists. They had the system on their side.
Robinson caught the change in Adrian’s expression, narrowing his eyes.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” he asked, voice flat. “You’re not walking away from this.”
A fresh pulse of pain ricocheted through Adrian’s skull, sharp and merciless. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force it down. But then—there it was again.
A hard jolt of clarity snapped through his haze.
He looked at the guard. Focused.
One person at a time.
One way out.