The Divine Sculptor of Flesh

Chapter 6

The leader’s breath hitched, a ragged sound that punctuated the oppressive silence of the room. He stumbled back, his boots scuffing against the grime-covered floorboards as Santiago advanced, his left hand glowing with that sickening, celestial rhythm.

"You’re not human, are you?" the leader wheezed, his eyes darting toward the only exit. "What in the hell did you let them do to you?"

Santiago didn't stop. He stepped into the man’s personal space, his shadow stretching long and distorted against the peeling wallpaper. "Does it matter? You came here to break me. You came here for an easy payout."

"I... I was just following orders," the leader stammered, his bravado utterly evaporated. "The Syndicate, they don't like loose ends. You stole something that isn't yours. They’ll come for you, man. They’ll come for you, and they won't bring just three guys."

Santiago tilted his head, his expression cold, almost detached. "Then let them come. Are you going to tell them you found me? Or are you going to leave and pray I’m too busy to track you down later?"

"I’m leaving," the leader gasped, his hands raised in surrender. "Just... just don't look at me like that."

"Get out," Santiago said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "And tell your employers that the project has moved on. If they want to find me, tell them they’re going to need a lot more than rusty iron and petty threats."

The leader scrambled toward the door, his movements frantic and clumsy. He stumbled over his own feet, caught the frame, and didn't look back as he practically threw himself down the hallway stairs. The heavy thud of the front door closing echoed through the apartment complex.

Santiago stood alone in the dark, his heart hammering against his chest. The silence of the apartment felt deafening now.

"System," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly as the adrenaline began to wane. "Status update. Give me the read."

A translucent, blue-and-gold interface flickered into existence before his eyes.

[SYSTEM STATUS: OPERATIONAL]

[Neural Feedback: Stabilized at 68%]

[Structural Integrity: High]

[Warning: Kinetic discharge detected. Residual energy venting required.]

"Venting?" Santiago scoffed, his gaze drifting to his left hand. "That’s a fancy word for ‘you’re going to break something else, aren't you?’"

He looked around the room. The fight had left its mark. The kitchen table was splintered where he’d braced himself, and a heavy iron pipe near the radiator had been crushed into a mangled mess when he’d subconsciously gripped it during the confrontation.

"I need more control," he muttered to the empty room. "If I can’t handle the recoil, I’m just a ticking time bomb."

He paced the small, cramped room, his left arm feeling heavy, like an anchor weighing down his frame. He tried to mimic the combat stances he’d seen in the old, archived training videos Aisyah had shown him.

He lunged toward the corner, aiming for a phantom opponent.

"Focus, Santiago," he coached himself. "It’s not just speed. It’s the weight. The momentum."

He threw a jab, intending to stop his hand in mid-air. Instead, the momentum carried the synthetic limb forward with terrifying, uncontrolled force. His hand slammed into the brick wall of the apartment with a sound like a gunshot. The masonry exploded, dust and grit showering the room as his fingers punched clean through the exterior siding of the building.

"Damn it!" he roared, jerking his hand back.

He stared at the hole in the wall. Outside, the night air whistled through the jagged gap.

"You’re too fast," he hissed at his arm. "You’re too heavy. Slow it down. Work with the bone, not against it."

He tried again, shifting his hips, rotating his shoulder. He focused on the sensation of the crystalline lattice reacting to his intention, not just his physical strength. He threw a punch, pulling his weight back at the exact moment of impact.

Thud.

His fist landed against the reinforced doorframe—a solid, steel-cased beam. This time, he didn't shatter the wood. He cracked the steel, a deep, spiderwebbed dent blooming under his knuckles.

"Better," he whispered, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his right hand. "But still too much. I’m going to level this building before I ever get to the Syndicate."

He pulled a chair to the center of the room and sat down, forcing himself to breathe, to regulate the flow of energy that still pulsed beneath his skin.

"If I can’t master the kinetic output," he said, staring at his hand, "they’ll always know exactly where I am. Every dented wall, every broken beam... it’s a trail of breadcrumbs."

"You want to master the output?" a voice echoed in his mind, the system’s interface sharpening. [Instruction: Practice micro-calibration. Hold a fragile object. If the lattice does not shift to accommodate, increase synaptic focus.]

Santiago grabbed a piece of discarded ceramic—a shard of a cup he’d broken the night before. He placed it carefully between his thumb and forefinger.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice steadying. "Gentle. Like it’s paper. Like it’s a living thing."

He closed his fingers. The shard resisted, the crystalline surface of his thumb pressing against the fragile edge. He felt the temptation to surge, to let the density of his palm crush the ceramic into dust.

"Don't," he commanded himself. "Hold it. Just hold it."

He sat there for a long time, sweat beading on his brow, his entire focus poured into the tiny, trembling point of contact between his synthetic hand and the ceramic.

"I can do this," he whispered. "I’m not a weapon. I’m the one using the weapon."

The silence of the room was suddenly broken by a distant, shrill wail.

Santiago froze. He knew that sound. It wasn't the usual screech of the city sirens that patrolled the wealthier districts. It was the low, grinding whine of the precinct sweepers—the ones that dealt with domestic disturbances and structural damage.

"Police," he muttered, standing up so fast his chair toppled over.

He rushed to the window, peering through the slats of the blinds. Below, two cruisers were pulling up to the curb, their blue-and-white lights reflecting off the slick, rain-drenched pavement. The officers weren't just checking a noise complaint; they were armored, their tactical vests heavy, their hands hovering over their sidearms.

"They aren't here for the thugs," Santiago realized, his stomach dropping. "The leader called them. He gave me up."

He looked at his room, then at the hole in the wall he’d made, and the mangled steel of the doorframe.

"I’m a disaster," he cursed, turning toward his workbench. He grabbed his bag, stuffing his essential notes and a few salvaged parts from the lab inside.

"They’re surrounding the building," he whispered, glancing back at the door. "If I go out the front, I’m dead. If I stay, I’m captured."

He looked at the hole in the wall, the way out into the dark, rain-swept alleys.

"It’s a long drop," he said, his heart hammering in his throat.

The sound of heavy, rhythmic boots echoed up the stairwell. They were on the second floor.

"Time to see if this works, or if I’m just a guy who’s about to fall to his death," Santiago muttered.

He walked to the window, the cold night air hitting his face. Below, he could see the officers positioning themselves, flashlights cutting through the gloom.

"Hey! We know you’re in there!" a voice boomed from the stairwell. "Open up, or we’re coming in!"

Santiago tightened his grip on his bag, his left hand glowing with a sudden, brilliant flash of golden light. He didn't look back at the room, at the life he was leaving behind, or at the destruction he’d caused. He simply looked at the dark, narrow space between the buildings and the fire escape just beyond it.

"Not today," he murmured.

He didn't run. He moved with a sudden, fluid grace, his body coiling like a spring, the crystalline fibers in his arm singing with a high-pitched, harmonic hum. He leaped, his hand reaching out for the rusted, wet iron of the fire escape rail.

His fingers didn't just grab the railing—they sank into it, tearing through the metal like a claw, anchoring him to the side of the building as he swung out into the freezing, rain-filled night.

Above him, the door to his apartment burst open.

"He’s gone!" one of the officers shouted, his voice muffled by the sound of the rain. "Get the perimeter lights up! Search the alley!"

Santiago didn't wait. He dropped, his landing silent and controlled, the heavy density of his body absorbing the impact without a tremor. He turned his collar up, his left hand shoved deep into his pocket, the golden veins pulsing in time with the rhythmic, flashing lights of the police cars.

He vanished into the shadows of the manufacturing district, a ghost in the machine of the city, already planning his next move. The Syndicate was coming, the police were hunting him, and he was still nothing more than a project waiting to be refined.

"This is it," he whispered to the darkness, his eyes burning with a cold, iron resolve. "The first real step."