UNKNOWN GUEST

#139 Inherited Things

8 Years Later:

I stood up from the seat, but the moment I tried to take a few steps, my legs wobbled beneath me. A wave of dizziness swept through my head, the room tilting slightly in my vision. Before I could collapse, a firm hand steadied me from behind.

"Whoa! Take it easy, kid," Dr. Banner said, his voice a mix of concern and calm authority. His grip on my back kept me upright as I sank back into my seat. I pressed a hand against my forehead, trying to steady the spinning sensation.

"You okay now?" he asked, leaning in slightly. "It's a three-hour-long process—no surprise it's taking a toll."

I sighed, slumping against the back of my chair. "Tell me this won't be like last time, where I couldn't walk for two days," I said, a faint trace of humor masking my frustration.

Dr. Banner chuckled, adjusting his glasses over the bridge of his nose. "No, this is the final session. You'll be alright. You are alright, to be honest. You'll just feel a bit disoriented for a few hours."

He moved back to his desk, his lab coat swaying slightly as he carefully handled the tube containing my blood sample. Its deep red hue glowed faintly under the sterile lab lights, a subtle reminder of the chaos it once represented. I watched as he inspected it under the scanner, his experienced hands steady, his expression thoughtful.

What's all this fuss about? It's not as dramatic as it sounds—well, maybe it is. I've been undergoing a grueling, years-long process to remove the serum Sharon Carter injected into my body. The serum wasn't just some run-of-the-mill enhancement formula. No, it was a tool of control, a weapon she designed to serve her twisted agenda.

Dr. Banner called it a biochemical masterpiece with sinister intent. I called it poison.

The serum had been designed to do more than enhance physical capabilities. It was a Trojan horse, programmed to trigger biological reactions that could be used to cause death—painful and untraceable—on command. 

Sharon Carter had planned to use me as her ultimate weapon, a living bomb primed to eliminate targets without a trace of suspicion. Worse, it wasn't just about using me; it was about owning me. The serum ensured my loyalty to her, keeping me tethered to her dark legacy, ensuring her control over my body, my mind, my life.

At first, I ignored it. Pretended it wasn't there. I thought, If it's dormant, it can't hurt anyone. But as time passed, that thought turned sour. The serum became a constant reminder of what I had been reduced to during those dark days. A prisoner in my own skin. And that disgust—it grew. It ate at me. It became something I couldn't live with.

So, four years ago, I made a choice.

I turned to Dr. Banner. The man's brilliance was well-known, but it was his kindness that gave me hope. After finishing college, I sought him out. Told him everything. About the serum. About Sharon Carter. About my desperate need to erase every trace of it from my body.

Dr. Banner had studied complex biochemistry for decades, particularly unique particle interactions and transformations. When I explained the serum's biochemical structure, he was fascinated, even excited in that nerdy scientist kind of way. But he also understood the weight it carried for me. He promised to help.

Since then, we've spent four long years battling the monster inside me. Forty painstaking sessions in a machine that bombards my blood with radio-particle waves, disintegrating the serum molecule by molecule. It wasn't easy—physically or emotionally. Each session left me drained, sometimes bedridden for days. But I pushed through because I knew what was at stake.

Today, after countless hours strapped to that machine, I'm finally free. Well, almost.

"Something is wrong," Dr. Banner muttered under his breath, but the worry in his tone was loud enough to pierce through my hazy thoughts.