The corridors of Bedlam Asylum were unusually quiet that morning, the cold walls reverberating only with the hum of electric lights and the occasional groan from distant rooms. In the psychiatric wing reserved for special cases, Dr. Sebastian Shaw stood in his office, adjusting the collar of his long white coat with methodical precision. His gaze lingered for a moment on the old brass nameplate affixed to his door: Dr. Sebastian, Neurological and Experimental Psychotherapy Consultant.
He was humming softly when Ms. Farmer entered.
"Sebastian," she said curtly, her face pinched with concern. "Do you know your treatment methods have drawn formal complaints? There have been... protests. Several families have contacted the board."
Sebastian turned to her with practiced surprise, his expression wide-eyed, as if genuinely bewildered. "Complaints? Ms. Farmer, that's... unexpected. I've only pushed for recovery. They're so young, with entire lives ahead. Shouldn't we do everything to help them heal quickly, thoroughly?"
Farmer crossed her arms. "Your definition of healing appears... unconventional. Especially when applied to children." Her voice dropped slightly. "If you were working with aging veterans, perhaps no one would take notice. But these are teenagers, some barely fifteen. Their parents are starting to connect the dots."
She didn't outright accuse him, but her tone was full of veiled implication. The recent uptick in aggressive post-treatment behaviors, the outbursts, the near-catatonic regressions—none of it could be ignored anymore.
Sebastian offered an apologetic smile, humble on the surface but with an undertone of steel. "Of course, of course. I take your concerns very seriously, Ms. Farmer. Perhaps I've been... too enthusiastic."
In truth, Shaw wasn't enthusiastic—he was determined. His theories about latent human potential, especially within troubled young minds, had been sharpening for years. He believed trauma wasn't only a curse, but a key—a means to unlock something deeper.
And he was close. So close.
---
The Trial
Days later, his "opportunity" arrived: a sixteen-year-old named Tommy, with a record thicker than most adult inmates. Violent, antisocial, volatile—he was deemed untreatable by the standard psychiatric regimen. Shaw requested him immediately.
Tommy was sedated and secured in the observation room—a heavily reinforced chamber that resembled a cross between an intensive care unit and a Cold War laboratory.
Shaw worked in silence, preparing his instruments with deliberate care. He placed a copper-glass vial onto a sterile tray—its amber contents shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights. It was a recombinant serum, synthesized from his own biomatter and a cocktail of neural stimulants.
"This," he whispered to no one, "is the culmination of the Variant Practice."
Next, he readied the respirator—a dome-shaped oxygen mask modified to allow controlled depletion and reintroduction of air. Tommy, restrained and semi-conscious, stirred weakly as Shaw adjusted the neural monitoring array attached to his scalp. The boy's brainwaves appeared in erratic spikes across the EEG monitor.
As Shaw began the process, he murmured softly, almost affectionately, "Tommy, let's find the real you. Together."
The room darkened slightly as the oxygen levels dropped. Tommy's breath grew labored, his muscles twitching under the restraints. But Shaw remained calm, adjusting airflow, reading vital signs with the precision of a seasoned technician.
His experiment was not about torture—at least, not in his own mind. It was about revelation. To him, the mind under duress revealed its truest potential, shedding societal limitations and repressed genetics. He had seen flashes of brilliance during near-death experiences in other subjects. What he hoped to awaken was something... extraordinary.
Minutes passed.
Tommy's temperature spiked. His skin flushed crimson, then mottled red. Shaw noted this with rising excitement.
"Fascinating," he whispered. "Autonomic overload... perhaps the trigger's closer than I thought."
Then, abruptly, the temperature readings spiked off the charts.
The sensors on Tommy's palms began to blink red—heat signatures unlike anything seen in baseline humans. Then came the faint shimmer. Not fire exactly, but energy—radiating, pulsing, flickering across his forearms like liquid plasma searching for form.
Tommy screamed, a hoarse, guttural sound. The restraints sparked where the energy touched them, and for the first time, Shaw took a cautious step back.
From the boy's fingertips, a lick of flame erupted. Not ordinary combustion—but raw, volatile, instinctive power.
Then everything changed.
---
Unleashing the Flame
The flames spread rapidly—too rapidly. The equipment began to overheat, the oxygen feed igniting in a brief, volatile burst. The tank beside the table cracked, then ruptured.
BOOM.
The explosion was muffled by the reinforced room, but the force shattered glass, buckled panels, and sent loose papers flying like shrapnel.
At the center of the room, where Tommy had been bound, there was now only fire and smoke—and the faint outline of a figure. Shaw, standing tall amidst the chaos, was untouched. The energy from the explosion had folded around him, drawn into him as if he were absorbing the very heat and shock.
His clothes were intact. His posture was unshaken.
Tommy, however, was gone—reduced to scorched remnants, his body twisted and burned beyond recognition. The room still sizzled with residual energy, and the alarm systems had begun to flash red.
Shaw took a moment to absorb the aftermath, his chest rising and falling with adrenaline—but also with triumph.
"Success," he whispered. "Mutant potential unlocked under induced psychological pressure and metabolic extremes. Remarkable."
There was no remorse in his voice, only the clinical awe of a scientist watching the moment theory became proof.
---
Escape and Opportunity
The fire alarms had begun to ring throughout the facility. Shaw moved quickly, gathering what he could—the burnt files, half-melted data drives, scribbled notes still legible through the ash. He knew he had only minutes.
He didn't mourn Tommy. In Shaw's eyes, the boy had served a higher purpose. His awakening had provided Shaw with irrefutable evidence: under the right conditions, mutation could be artificially triggered. The next subject, perhaps, could survive it.
As he slipped out through the back corridors of Bedlam, already mentally drafting a new identity, Shaw smiled to himself.
Europe is vast, he thought. And I've always had a knack for languages.
His mind settled on Germany—a country in disarray, but also full of scientific hunger, eager for breakthroughs. His particular brand of research would find fertile ground there.
"Deutschland," he said aloud, slipping into flawless German. "Time for a fresh chapter."
Behind him, the asylum burned under the weight of its secrets. Ahead, the future waited—shaped not by morality, but by the hands of those bold enough to rewrite the rules.
---
(End of Chapter)