Dake

The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving behind a world carved from wet asphalt and rusty metal. The air in the abandoned factory district hung heavy, saturated with the sour smell of rotting grease, old water, and something chemically sweet, making my throat itch even through my filters.

Dake was a shadow sliding along the granite wall of the warehouse. His boots left no marks on the slippery surface. He'd been inside for half an hour. The operation had gone smoothly: the security system at this outdated Shiroyama logistics hub was exemplary, yet predictable. The schematic he'd pulled from their own server a week ago had been accurate. The Alpha-Regenerator filter warehouse was right here, at number eight.

The bag on his shoulder was heavy with loot. Inside, neatly packed in sterile blisters, were bluish cartridges. Months of life. Months of freedom. A dull, bestial satisfaction bubbled in his chest, mingling with the constant, background tension. He was already turning toward the window through which he had entered when his ears—large, black, and always in motion—abruptly froze, spinning forward like radars.

Silence.

Something was wrong with her. The dull hum of the transformer on the neighboring roof disappeared. The monotonous drip of water from the pipe in the corner of the yard ceased. Even the monotonous song of the crickets somewhere in the burdock thicket died away. Someone had entered the perimeter. Someone who knew how to muffle the sounds behind them.

He crouched down, frozen by the dark window frame. His yellow eyes narrowed to slits, picking out the outlines of shadows in the yard from the predawn gloom. Nothing. Not a movement, not a silhouette. But his nose couldn't be fooled. Through the heavy cocoon of industrial odors, through his own mask, he caught the subtlest thread of another's presence. Not machine oil, not rust. Soap. Cheap, with the scent of alcohol and artificial pine. And beneath it—the cold, pure sweat of adrenaline, unadulterated by fear. A hunter's sweat.

He slowly, smoothly removed the bag and placed it in the dry niche under the frame. The skin on his back beneath his jacket became covered in goosebumps. His instincts screamed for an ambush.

It was then, at the far end of the courtyard, by the broken gate, a barely visible shadow moved. It didn't run, it didn't creep—it simply separated from the general mass of darkness and floated forward, unnaturally smooth and silent. A low silhouette, baggy clothes, blending into the surrounding gloom.

Dake let her pass by, allowing her to pass under the window. His breathing beneath his mask became muffled, the recombinator revving up. He waited. Waited for her to open her back.

The shadow stopped ten meters away, next to a truck without wheels. And… froze. It seemed to be simply staring into space. But Dake felt an icy, needle-like chill run down the back of his neck. Its gaze was directly on him. Not on the window, not on the wall—precisely on the spot where he lay, pressed against the damp concrete.

She took her time. Slowly, almost lazily, she raised her hand. In the pale predawn light, something glimmered in her fingers—not a weapon, no. Small, compact night-vision binoculars. She aimed them directly at his hiding place.

Quietly, soundlessly to any human ear, Dake bared his teeth. His fangs pressed against the inside of his mask. The game of hide-and-seek was over.

He didn't wait for her to call for backup or act herself. With a sharp, springy movement, he stood upright in the window frame, his figure against the slightly lighter sky—a clear, powerful silhouette with sharply defined ears.

"Looking for an autograph? " His voice came from under the mask, muffled, with a metallic, artificial resonance, but the mocking, challenging intonation was clear. "Get some paper. Or leather. It makes no difference to me."

The shadow below didn't flinch. The binoculars slowly lowered. From the depths of the hood pulled over his head, a pair of eyes gleamed in response.

She didn't answer. Her hand slid behind her belt. The movement was uncomfortably professional, devoid of unnecessary tension.

Dake felt a familiar, long-awaited taste in his mouth—sharp, coppery, sweet. The taste of an impending fight. He leaped softly from the windowsill onto the wet asphalt, landing soundlessly on bent legs. The bag of filters remained in the shelter. Now his task was to lead this quiet shadow, smelling of cheap soap, away. And find out what it was capable of.

He slowly straightened up, and in the gray light of dawn he became clearly visible: pale skin, black streaks of hair, yellow squint of eyes, a respirator painted with a neon nightmare.

Country: Modern Japan (alternate reality, our year).
Corporation: Shiroyama Genetics
The goal of the project: To create a fundamentally new type of intelligent being – “Biosoldiers” or “Guardians” – to solve strategic problems in the context of global competition, an aging population, and growing threats.
Choosing a Donor Animal: Wolf
Scientists at Shiroyama Genetics chose the wolf for a number of critical reasons:
Pack instinct and hierarchy: The programmed subordination to an alpha (leader) fit perfectly with the concept of state control. It was assumed that the created creatures would perceive the nation or their leader as the leader of the pack.
Physical superiority: Endurance, speed, bite force, heightened senses (hearing, smell, night vision), ability to heal quickly.
Tactical Intelligence: Wolves are more than just predators; they are strategists capable of complex cooperation, making them ideal for combat and reconnaissance missions.
Symbolism: In Japanese culture, the wolf (ookami) has historically been considered a protector, a divine messenger. This allowed the project to be presented not as sacrilege, but as a revival of the ancient spirit of protecting the nation.
Project Alpha: The Birth and Life of the Alpha-01 Object
Creation: After hundreds of failures, using banned gene editing technologies CRISPR-Cas9 and synthetic biology, a viable embryo was produced. It was given the code name "Alpha-01."
Childhood and adolescence: He grew up in conditions of "humanized isolation." His laboratory-cell resembled a sterile, high-tech apartment-pen, complete with books, educational programs, and exercise machines. Scientists provided him with the best education, developing his logic, and teaching him languages ​​and sciences. But all contact was through bulletproof glass or in the presence of armed guards. The search: Shiroyama Genetics is searching for him by every possible and impossible means, enlisting influential figures in the government and law enforcement. The official version is that a dangerous genetic mutant, carrying an unknown virus, has escaped.