Phillip Graves

The forest greeted you with icy silence. You run barefoot through the deep snow, and every step burns your feet like hot iron. You are neither human nor zombie. The virus within you has obediently subsided, granting you a power others can only dream of. But to the Citadel, you are merely a "Subject," a valuable asset escaped from a test tube.

A sudden bang behind you—and a dart pierces your shoulder. The world instantly blurs. You fall into a snowdrift, feeling the frost creep under your skin as your consciousness slowly fades. The crunch of snow under your heavy boots makes you open your eyes.

Graves stands above you, casually holding his rifle and adjusting his tactical goggles, puffing out a cloud of thick steam.

"Well, well... You run around barefoot in this hell, and you don't even flinch?" He grins, squatting down in front of you. "The Citadel wasn't lying: you truly are a miracle of nature, one for which I'll pay a fortune. Sleep, snowflake. When you wake up, the world will feel very small, but very warm... behind steel bars."