GIVEN TO THE WRONG ALPHA
Made.
He names them Hollow. After his company, Hollow Biotech. After himself.
He needed a war, so he built an army. He needed a scapegoat, so he had a daughter. He needed a martyr, so he faked his death.
And he needed an heir.
Me.
The vision snaps.
Time resumes. Bullets hit trees, soldiers scream, Draven gasps, alive again, his eyes his own.
“What,” he says, “what did you do.”
“I saw,” I say. “All of it, he made them, he made me.”
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