Most of the leaves had fallen by now, crunching under his boots as the wind whistled through the creaking branches overhead, blowing swollen splinters of cloud across the quarter moon. It was just before midnight, the woods alive with the hoots of owls, the chirping of frogs and his own quick breathing. He tripped on a loose stone in the forgotten narrow path, catching himself on a tree that had been scorched and split by a lightning strike. He knew he wasn’t required to listen to the warnings against flashlights, but also that the higher-ups didn’t do anything without a damn good reason.

No one uses these old paths, though, he told himself, ducking beneath a branch. What are they so worried about?

He wasn’t sure if the old hut in the clearing ahead could still be considered a functional building. The crooked, termite-scarred walls were held together with bent and rusted nails, the weathered tin roof sagging and cracked, nearly brushing his head. He cringed at the protesting shriek of the hinges as he pushed the warped door open, coughing when the dust stirred up by his steps settled in his lungs. It didn’t look any better inside, but at least it was warmer.

Anya was waiting for him with her hip cocked against a covered tray on a tall metal stand. Her long blond hair was loose, her slim legs as enticing as ever in her favorite tight black jeans. Her full breasts threatened to spill from her off-shoulder top, cinched at her small waist. She crossed her arms, flashing her typical ruby-tinged smirk. He’d known her for as long as he could remember, and she was one of few people he felt he could trust.

“You’re even later than usual,” she said. He shrugged and pulled off his jacket.

“Sorry, had some stuff to take care of.”

She rolled her warm brown eyes, pulled the cloth off the tray and folded it, sticking it in her pocket. She picked up the first syringe, took off the clouded plastic cap and pressed lightly on the plunger. A tiny stream of thin black liquid spurted from the needle, the latest in a long line of shots she had given him.

“You know these could kill you,” she told him, like always. He sat on the three-legged stool next to her and tugged up his sweater.

“You know I don’t have a choice,” he answered. “Besides, it’s not that bad.”

The look on her face told him everything, but she said it, anyway.

“I just hate seeing you like that, you know I care about you.”

He sighed, turning to the only window in the place. It was small, cracked and caked with grime, but anything was better than having to see her worried expression.

“I know.”

He felt her hand shaking as she disinfected the injection site, the smell of rubbing alcohol burning his nose. He shivered as she lightly traced an old scar on his lower back, then she swallowed.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not like you really need it.”

He knew that, but the injections were addictive, or the feeling afterward was, at least.

“I told you, it’s orders,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended. “I can’t back out.”

She still hesitated, the tip of the needle barely scraping his skin.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he looked over his shoulder. “But it won’t be as bad if you just get it over with.”

She shook her head.

“It’s not that,” her voice was low. He sighed again.

“Look, I know you’re scared, but this is your job,” he flashed a faint smile. “And would I really be here if I didn’t want this?”

She didn’t answer for a while, then finally muttered, “As long as you’re sure.”

He tried to control the tremors as she administered the shots, knowing one slip-up would leave him paralyzed, if he was lucky. He could see his veins bulge as the mix coursed through them, the sheen of the sweat soaking his skin. He’d never get used to the burning, like he’d been buried under red-hot coals. Blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth, and he could taste the salt of tears on his lips. It felt like days before the pain and shaking faded, and he fell back against the wall, his chest heaving as he fought to breathe.

“N-Never gets easier,” he managed, trying to swallow. He turned to her, hating the fear in her big amber eyes. “You okay?”

She nodded, just slightly.

“I-I don’t think it was as bad as usual,” she glanced at the line of capped, empty needles on the tray. “Especially considering this was a new formula.”

“Again?” he fixed his sweater. “What did they change this time?”

She grabbed his jacket, thrown over an old pipe sticking out of another wall.

“You know they don’t give me the specifics,” she tossed it to him. “But you think they’d want me to know what I’m shooting into all of you.”

“Yeah…” he knew she was lying, but he’d never press her. There was a reason for it, just like all the other secrets and codes surrounding this project, and besides, he had his own mission to focus on. The first one he doubted he’d be able to complete.