[3rd Person]
The fluorescent lights of the college laboratory hummed song above Damon Ryder's head. For ten years, this had been his domain – a world of beakers, centrifuges, and the intricate dance of organic chemistry. It was a quiet, dedicated life, punctuated by lectures and the occasional, exhilarating breakthrough. Then, Riley Barns arrived.
Damon had been on the hiring committee, sifting through applications for a new research assistant. Riley's credentials were impressive – a sharp mind, innovative ideas, and a palpable enthusiasm that cut through the usual academic jargon. He was younger than Damon, maybe by eight or ten years, but there was an immediate, easy rapport between them during the interview. Riley spoke not just of science, but of the wonder of it, of pushing boundaries, of the sheer joy of discovery. Damon hired him on the spot.
It didn't take long for their professional relationship to spill over into something deeper. They spent long hours in the lab, fueled by lukewarm coffee and shared ambition. They talked about their research, the frustrations, the small victories, but they also talked about life. Riley, a transplant to Portland, didn't have much family nearby. Damon, with his wife, Sarah, and two young kids, Leo and Maya, became a sort of anchor for him. Sunday dinners at the Ryder house became a regular event. Riley was "Uncle Riley" to Leo and Maya, always ready with a silly joke or to help build an impossibly complicated Lego structure. Damon and Sarah saw him not just as a colleague, but as family. He was the brother Damon never had.
Riley's primary research focus was ambitious, bordering on the fantastical: gene therapy using ancient DNA, specifically aiming to replicate the incredible physical attributes of prehistoric life. He was particularly fixated on the robustness and raw power of dinosaurs. While Damon worked on more conventional drug synthesis, Riley's corner of the lab was filled with specialized equipment, humming incubators, and countless trays of cell cultures. Damon admired his drive, even if he privately thought the dinosaur DNA project was a long shot.
Months turned into a year. Damon began to notice subtle changes in himself. Nothing dramatic at first. A cut on his hand from misjudging a glass beaker seemed to heal faster than it should have. Lifting a heavy box of reagents felt effortless, a surprising surge of strength. He dismissed it – maybe he was just getting more sleep, eating better? But the changes continued. His reflexes seemed sharper. He felt a restless energy he hadn't possessed in years. Unexplained bruises vanished overnight.
One morning, while helping Riley move some equipment, Damon easily lifted a fifty-gallon drum of solvent that should have required significant effort, perhaps even two people. Riley just nodded, a strange, knowing look in his eyes that Damon didn't understand at the time. Later that week, Damon was shelving heavy books in the college library when he stumbled, instinctively slamming his hand against the wall to catch himself. The impact wasn't just absorbed; he felt a powerful vibration, and a small crack appeared in the plaster. He stared at the wall, then his hand, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach.
He brought it up to Riley during their lunch break. "Hey, have you noticed anything... weird about me lately?"
Riley looked up from his sandwich, feigning casualness. "Weird? How so?"
"Just... physical stuff. Like, I feel stronger. My cuts heal super fast. Felt like I could lift a small car the other day." Damon tried to make a joke of it, but his voice wavered. "I even cracked the library wall trying to catch myself."
Riley chuckled, a sound that seemed a little forced. "Midlife crisis, maybe? Hitting the imaginary gym?" He took a bite of his sandwich. "Seriously though, you seem fine. Probably just psychosomatic. Stress can do funny things to your body. You've been working hard lately."
Damon frowned. "It doesn't feel like stress, Riley. It feels... different. Like I'm not entirely myself. Maybe I should see a doctor? Run some tests?"
Riley's response was immediate, almost too quick. "A doctor? For feeling a bit strong? Come on, Damon, they'll laugh you out of the clinic. You're probably just healthier than you think. Don't worry about it. Focus on your synthesis project." He gave Damon a dismissive wave and returned to his food, effectively ending the conversation.
The dismissal stung, and it didn't alleviate Damon's growing anxiety. Riley, his closest friend, seemed strangely unconcerned, almost avoidant. He started watching Riley more closely. He noticed the long hours Riley spent alone in his section of the lab, the way he sometimes seemed jumpy when Damon entered. He saw the locked cabinet where Riley stored his most sensitive samples, a level of secrecy that hadn't been there before.
The suspicion festered. One afternoon, Riley stepped out to grab coffee, leaving his lab notebook, usually carefully guarded, open on his desk. Damon hesitated for only a second. His friendship with Riley warred with the gnawing fear about what was happening to his own body. Driven by a need to understand, he approached the desk.
The notebook wasn't just filled with equations and observations. It was a personal log, detailing experiments, results, and subjects. Damon's blood ran cold as he read through the clinical, dispassionate notes.
Entry 147: Administered Variant 3-B (Tyrannosaurus Rex somatic cell extract, modified for human compatibility) via subcutaneous injection. Subject unaware. Monitoring initial response.
Entry 151: Positive indicators detected. Enhanced metabolic rate, accelerated tissue repair observed indirectly (Subject mentioned minor injury healing rapidly). Muscular response tests pending.
Entry 155: Muscular response tests show significant gains. Subject demonstrates strength beyond normal human parameters. Unaware of augmentation. Continue monitoring for side effects.
Entry 160: Subject expressing concern about physical changes. Dismissed as stress. Critical to maintain cover. Further injections on hold pending analysis of current augmentation stability.
The words blurred on the page. Riley hadn't just been experimenting on dinosaur DNA; he had been experimenting on him. Secretly. Without consent. Using their friendship as cover. The strength, the healing, the changes – they weren't stress. They were the result of being poisoned, manipulated, turned into a lab rat by the man he considered family. The motive, too, was chillingly clear from other notes detailing Riley's desire to "transcend human limitations," to "achieve true potential" through genetic enhancement. He wasn't just seeking knowledge; he was seeking power, and he had used Damon to get it.
Damon stumbled back from the desk as if struck. He wanted to roar, to smash everything, but a deeper instinct urged him to containment, to control. He closed the notebook carefully, forcing his hands to be steady, and placed it back exactly as he'd found it. He had to think. He couldn't stay here.
He walked out of the lab, out of the college building, and onto the familiar streets of Portland. The late afternoon sun seemed too bright, the sounds of the city too loud. Each step home felt heavy, weighted down by the horrifying knowledge. Riley. His friend. The man who ate dinner at his table, who played with his children – had been systematically injecting him with unknown substances, using him as a test subject in a reckless pursuit of power.
What were the long-term effects of this DNA?
What had Riley done to him?
He turned the corner onto his street. He saw Sarah's car in the driveway, Leo's bike on the lawn. A wave of love and dread washed over him. He had to tell Sarah. He had to figure out what to do.
He opened the front door, the familiar scent of dinner hitting him. And then he froze.
Riley was sitting at the dining room table, laughing with Sarah, who was setting down a bowl of salad. Leo and Maya were already digging into their pasta, chattering away, treating Riley like the beloved uncle he pretended to be. The sight was so utterly normal.
The laughter died down as they noticed him standing in the entryway, his face a mask of shock and fury.