Project Obsidian

Everything is silent but the hum—machines whispering to each other in code and numbers.

The observation deck overlooks the sealed simulator floor, encased in polished glass and cold air.

On the lower level, Phantom sits upright in the VR cradle. A neural tether coils into the back of his head like a leashed ghost. His vitals glow across a dozen monitors:—Pulse: 38 BPM—Brainwave Activity: High-frequency burst pattern—Emotional Index: Flatline.

Desmond stands center, arms behind his back. His uniform is immaculate. His jaw is clenched. The room smells like copper and sterilized plastic.

MEI enters from the side corridor—tired, quiet, holding a slate with biometric overlays.

MEI (softly)"It's been a week since the last full sync. You sure he's ready?"

Desmond doesn't turn to her.

Desmond "He hasn't spoken since Simulation Chamber 6. No reports of dreams. No recorded speech. No deviation from routine."

M: EI"That's not stability. That's... suppression. Even the shadow's been quiet."

Desmond nods once, rudely. Then taps the command line. Phantom's overlay flickers: Kill Sim #1: Loaded. Real-time AI targets enabled.

Mei's voice lowers.

MEI: "Does he know this one isn't a drill?"

Desmond (blunt)"He'll figure it out."

Footsteps.

SLADE WILSON enters.

Clad in matte-black armor, a single combat blade strapped to his spine. No expression. No sound.

He stands beside them without a word. His gaze goes directly to Phanto, like a predator studying the wind before the kill.

Desmond clears his throat, almost cautiously.

Desmond "Simulation is live. Parameters are real-world. No guidance. No support."

SLADE"No fail-safes."

A technician steps from behind the console.

TECHNICIAN"Sir, without a fail-safe, he could flatline mid-loop. If he freezes—"

SLADE (coldly)"Then he dies like the others."

Mei steps forward—almost involuntarily.

MEI"He's not like the others."

Slade doesn't answer. Just watches Phantom, deep in the glass.

Inside the chamber, Phantom doesn't move. But his shadow… twitches—just once—like a breath under water.

SLADE (to Desmond )"Run it."

Desmond nods once, types a command.

A heavy hum fills the observation deck as the lights in the simulator dim. The VR halo around Phantom ignites in a circle of red light, then drops into pitch black.

CUT TO MONITOR – SIMULATION FEED ACTIVE ENVIRONMENT: Cadmus off-grid research facility. Tight corridors. One designated target. No alarms.

From the overhead speaker, a calm AI voice delivers a single line:

"Eliminate the marked target. No detection. No hesitation."

MEI (quietly)"What if he hesitates?"

SLADE"He won't."

The sim hums to life below. Phantom takes his first step forward. Not fast. Not slow. Calculated. Cold. Shadow intact.

Scene ends on a slow push into the glass—

Mestaredng at Phantom. Sladestared at nothing. Desmondis is watching the future unfold in real-time.

The simulation activates with a metallic pulse.

Phantom stands in the entry zone, perfectly still. The space around him shifts and stabilizes as the VR illusion takes form: digital steel walls, ceiling vents, flickering lights, and polished floors mapped to real black site geometry.

His mask is on. Knife already drawn.

No briefing. No acknowledgment. Just a single monotone prompt:

"Eliminate the marked target. No alerts. No witnesses. No hesitation."

His eyes don't narrow. His breath doesn't change. But his shadow—just behind him—drags slightly off-beat, as if excited.

INT. SIMULATED HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER

Phantom moves with calculated silence.

He ghosts down the corridor—heels never touching, shoulders loose, gliding. Every movement is measured. Nothing wasted.

Two guards appear ahead, simulated Cadmus patrols.

TARGET 1 rounds a corner—barely processes Phantom's silhouette before a hand closes around his throat. A quick twist, a soft crack, and the sim target falls limp. Vanishes into static.

TARGET 2 pivots with a reflexive shout—

Too late.

Blade. Throat. Fade.

Phantom doesn't pause.

INT. VENT DUCT – CROSSOVER NODE

He enters a maintenance duct, crouching low.

Below, a pair of motion lights sweep the hallway.

He waits.

Then rolls forward between flashes—timed to the half-second—his shadow skimming the grate behind him like smoke.

He drops into a side hallway, directly beneath a spinning camera turret.

No panic. Just a flick of the wrist—EMP pin.

The camera hiccups, crackles, and dies.

No alarm sounds.

INT. TARGET ROOM – NEAR

His HUD pulses. The signal is close. Forty meters. Then twenty.

The corridor narrows. The walls become older here, less polished. Like a forgotten wing.

Ahead: a sealed lab door with a biometric lock. Phantom doesn't hack it—he phases.

His shadow bleeds across the floor like spilled ink. The light flickers once. Then the Phantom is on the other side.

INT. SIMULATED TARGET ROOM

The room is sparse. A single terminal glows.

And in front of it—the target.

A man in his forties. Greying at the temples. Wearing a Cadmus utility vest with rank identifiers half-removed.

He's unarmed.

He turns at the sound of the door hiss—but there is no alarm. Just... Phantom.

Standing there. Blade in hand. Silent.

The man backs up one step. Just one.

Then, he stops. Raises both hands slowly.

CADMUS DEFECTOR (pleading)"I didn't defect. I was forced off-grid. They said I'd be scrubbed. I didn't want—"

(beat)

"I don't even know what was in the files..."

His voice cracks. "Please…"

Phantom says nothing.

But he doesn't move.

The blade is raised in mid-thrust stance. Everything about his posture screams forward.

But—

His feet stay planted.

His breathing stutters. His hand grips tighter. But the strike doesn't come.

His shadow stirs. Uncoils like something living.

It lunges—not to strike the man, but to pull Phantom's arm forward, like it's tired of waiting.

But even he resists.

Just... stands there. Knife shaking.

The man takes one small step back.

DEFECTOR (quieter)"…you don't have to do this."

INT. OBSERVATION DECK – SAME TIME

Slade watches silently. One gloved finger taps the railing once. Then again.

Desmond: "Why is he freezing?"

MEI (quietly)"Because there's still something human left in him."

Slade says nothing.

Onscreen: A red progress bar begins pulsing.

"Hesitation window exceeded..."Simulation failure pending."

INT. TARGET ROOM – FINAL MOMENT

Phantom's head tilts. His eyes stay locked on the man.

The shadow shudders again, then slowly retreats.

His hand lowers.

He says nothing.

And the simulation abruptly ends.

Everything dissolves.

Lights up. Walls vanish.

The man disappears.

Phantom stands alone in a gray void.

Breathing.

But visibly shaken.

Everything halts.

The digital world collapses in on itself with a cold electronic pulse. The illusion of the Cadmus off-grid facility flickers out like a dying lightbulb, pixel by pixel.

All that remains is steel.

Sterile, stark, merciless steel.

On every wall, projected in pulsing crimson letters:

FAILURE — HESITATION WINDOW EXCEEDED

The sound of it isn't loud, but it feels loud. Final. Like a coffin lid sliding into place.

Phantom stands alone.

The target has disappeared—no blood, no scream, no consequence that he can touch.

Just the weight of inaction settling like lead in his gut.

He looks down.

The combat blade lies at his feet, still perfectly clean. No mission. No kill. No purpose.

He lets it fall.

It strikes the ground with a sharp metallic clink and spins once before stopping flat.

INT. SIMULATION CHAMBER — CONTINUOUS

Phantom lifts his gaze slowly toward a nearby wall panel.

His reflection stares back at him, faint in the sheen of brushed steel. Not clear, not vivid—just ghosted.

He studies it. Not as someone looking for answers.

But as someone trying to remember what face he was supposed to wear.

His eyes flick toward his shadow, which lags behind him by a breath, not quite in sync.

Almost... disappointed.

INT. SIMULATION CHAMBER — SECONDS LATER

The door opens with a hiss. No fanfare. No warning.

Slade steps inside.

No words. No expression. Just movement—controlled and surgical.

Phantom doesn't look. He doesn't need to.

He knows what's coming.

In one smooth, brutal motion, Slade grips Phantom by the collar, slams him back into the reinforced wall with bone-rattling force, and pins him there with a forearm across the throat.

PHANTOM gasps—not in fear. In reflex. His body jerks, but his hands don't rise. He doesn't fight.

The lights hum above them. The projection screen still pulses with that same word:

FAILURE

Slade leans in close. His voice is cold enough to burn.

SLADE (quiet, lethal)"The mission doesn't care about fear."(beat)"You care?"(grinding pressure into Phantom's throat)"You die."(another beat)"You hesitate...?"(leans in so Phantom can feel the words)"You fail your team."

Phantom's vision flickers.The edges of his sight blur. Veins strain beneath the skin. He is breathing sharply, then cuts off completely.

Just before blackness takes him—

Slade, let's go.

Phantom crumples to one knee, sucking in air like a drowning man. No screams. No groans.Jusbreatheth. Just survival.

He presses one hand against the ground. Stabilizes.

The other hand curls into a fist.

But he doesn't rise.

He stays down—processing. Calculating. Listening.

Slade doesn't wait.

He turns away, pacing back toward the exit with the same silence he entered with.

At the door, he pauses—not to offer comfort, not even to finish the lesson.

Just to make sure Phantom is still breathing.

Then he leaves.

INT. SIMULATION CHAMBER — AFTER

The door seals.

Phantom is alone again.

His gaze returns to the reflection in the wall. This time, it isn't just him.

The shadow stands there too, closer now. Taller.

Like it's growing.

Watching.

Waiting for the moment he stops hesitating.

The lights are dim, tuned to a pale blue—Cadmus' artificial version of "night."

The hum of medical monitors is soft, nearly ambient, but ever-present.

Phantom sits shirtless on the slab-like recovery bed, back straight, arms resting loosely on his knees. A handprint-shaped bruise stains his neck in deep, raw shades—Slade's mark from the simulation failure.

His breath comes slowly. Rhythmic.

Mechanical.

There's no sign of No tremor heat in the eyes.

Just stillness.

His shadow lies flat against the floor, but faintly pulses at the edge. It moves almost imperceptibly, like it's breathing for him.

INT. OBSERVATION HALL – ADJACENT

On the other side of the one-way observation glass, Dr. Mei stands alone.

She hasn't touched her datapad in minutes.

Her arms are crossed, but her posture betrays tension—a tightness in her shoulders, a refusal to look away.

She watches him like you'd watch a loaded gun placed gently in a child's crib.

A few feet away, Desmond scrolls through layered HUD readouts from the failed simulation. Cortical stress maps. Reaction delay logs. Shadow deviation footage.

He mutters to himself, frustrated.

Desmond (quietly)"He's adapting slower than I expected. Neural patterns show regression near the moment of decision."

Mei doesn't take her eyes off Phantom.

MEI"He didn't regress. He recognized fear. That wasn't a malfunction. It was memory."

Desmond pauses mid-scroll.

His lips press into a line, but he doesn't argue.

INT. OBSERVATION HALL – CONTINUOUS

A presence steps into frame.

Smooth. Unhurried. Deadly.

Slade. Fully armored. Still.

He doesn't glance at the data. Doesn't nod in greeting. He just watches Phantom, eyes locked through the glass.

SLADE (flat)"He won't make that mistake again."

There's no malice in his tone.

Just a fact.

Just prophecy.

Mei turns to look at him for the first time.

Her face is unreadable, but her voice is ice:

MEI: "Is that your definition of progress?"

Slade doesn't blink. Doesn't respond.

Desmond answers instead—cold, clinical:

Desmond "It's Cadus'.That's what matters."

INT. RECOVERY CHAMBER – CONTINUOUS

Phantom turns. Slowly. Mechanically.

His gaze drifts—not to the glass.

Not to the people behind it.

But to the mirrored wall across the chamber.

He stares at it like one might examine a wound.

There should be a reflection.

There always was.

But now, there's nothing.

No outline of a body.

No face.

Just darkness.

And in it—a shadow.

Not on the wall.On the wall.

The silhouette is upright. Still. But the eyes are different. Watching.

And this time—

The shadow doesn't follow Phantom.

It leads.

It flickers—just slightly—as if pressing its hand against the other side of the mirror.

Not mimicking.

Waiting.

INT. OBSERVATION HALL – FINAL MOMENTS

From behind the glass, Slade watches closely.

The slightest corner of his mouth lifts.

Not a smile.

An acknowledgement.

SLADE (quietly, to himself)"Now he's choosing."

FINAL SHOT:

Phantom stares at the shadow's reflection. His eyes are hollow—but not empty.

They're narrowing.

Focused.

As if for the first time… he's listening.

But not to Cadmus.