PROJECT GENESIS ENTRY #0513

Subject 32’s health has returned to peak condition akin to his youth, displaying strength and endurance comparable to that of a trained athlete. Previous diagnosis of Type 2 Diabetes Mellitus appears to have been entirely eradicated. Psychological evaluation confirms stability, with no indications of mood disturbances.

Proceeding to administer the same strain of Compound Genesis to Subject 37.

“Alright, we need to work on your close-quarters combat,” Atash said as we stepped onto the mat

Night three of training with this dick. Last night, we patrolled the border between territories. That patrol was nothing like sweeping. No rooftops, no silent takedowns. Just the fray. Up close, the Ferals moved like rabid animals, fast and mindless. We weren’t alone though—if we got swarmed again, the sweep team had our backs—but it was still chaos. Better than the first night, at least. However, I was right. It was the best place to train.

“IDUN’s lab is in the Under Cities. The vampires are civil like most Bloodfeds, but some don’t care that we’re Bulwark Hunters. They give into their nature and prefer their meals breathing. You need to fight things that can think and strategize.”

“So I take it I’m not fighting you then?”

He gave me a flat stare, arms crossed.

“Besides, I don’t think we should be doing this. You’re still recovering from that Bloodfed.”

A blur of movement—he was on me in a second, fist swinging. I barely dodged, stumbling back. No warning. No shift in stance or expression. Nothing.

“What the fuck, man—”

Another swing. I tripped over myself dodging. He was fast for his size, every strike carrying weight behind it.

I faltered. His fist slammed into the center of my vest. Air shot from my lungs.

“You think the vamps are gonna give you a warning?” His voice was steady. Another blow came.

This time, I dodged.

I need to find an opening. Expending energy at this rate would only lead to premature exhaustion.

It might have been cheap, but my gaze flicked to his injury. Then I caught it—a compensatory shift in his stance. He was favoring his left, his weight distribution uneven. His right side lagged, stiff and imprecise, disrupting the symmetry of his strikes. The jabs became predictable, their trajectory easier to anticipate.

I wasn’t stronger than him,  but I had the advantage in speed and precision. Exploiting inefficiencies in his movement was my best path to control the fight.

Sorry, asshole. A vamp wouldn’t care about your injury.

I caught his right arm, grip locking around his forearm and bicep. My foot swept under him, and I used his own weight and injury to drive him to the mat. Straddling him, I drove my fist into his vest, mimicking a stake.

“And dead.”

Our eyes met—my dark gaze, his honey-hued. No frustration, no annoyance. Just a flicker of astonishment.

“You adapt quickly,” he said, head tilting slightly, like he was studying me in return. “Good analyzing under pressure.”

My fist against his chest flattened into a press, palm firm against the fabric. “So what’s next, A-rank?” My tone was cool, controlled.

His lips curled slightly. “Want to test out your analyzing skills elsewhere?”

I shifted off him, settling beside his sprawled form. “I don’t think your body can handle another skirmish at an Under City entrance.”

“I have something much more fun in mind.”

I raised a brow. “This part of the training?”

“Of course.” A smirk. “Don’t you trust me?”