Chapter One – The Resurrection
The air in the lab was too thick. Christine Cone’s hands trembled as they hovered over the console, her breath shallow and uneven. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting sterile illumination over stainless steel and screens, but nothing could cleanse the warmth pooling low in her belly as she stared at the still figure on the gurney.
“Initialize program,” she whispered, her voice trembling. The sound echoed like a confession.
The body remained still for one agonizing moment. Then his chest rose—shallow, mechanical at first, then with slow deliberation. A faint hiss of air escaped his lips. Christine’s heartbeat thudded louder than the whir of cooling fans.
His eyes snapped open. Hazel, flecked with gold, impossibly alive. Familiar. But the absence behind them chilled her to her core.
“Christine Cone,” he said. The voice was deep, low—David’s pitch—but measured, controlled. Too perfect.
“It’s Dr. Cone,” she managed, her tone sharper than she felt.
“Dr. Cone.” His gaze fixed on her, unblinking, piercing. He tilted his head minutely, the motion eerily graceful. “I recognize this designation. But I do not recognize you.”
She swallowed hard. Of course you don’t. You’re not him.
Her stomach coiled tight as he shifted on the gurney, the sheet sliding across hard muscle. His form was identical. The slope of his shoulders, the sharp lines of his abdomen, the faint trail of hair leading lower—
Christine’s eyes darted away, her throat tight.
“Do you feel different?” she asked, her voice tight as she reached for professional detachment.
“I perceive sensory input. Visual light. Temperature gradients. Tactile pressure.” He flexed his fingers slowly, as though testing the feel of skin. “Motor coordination—functional.”
“Sit up,” she instructed.
He obeyed. The motion was fluid, almost too fluid. The sheet slipped lower, baring the sculpted ridges of his stomach and the sharp jut of his hipbone. Christine’s gaze betrayed her before she tore it back to the monitor.
“You are observing me,” he said, voice devoid of judgment. “Your pupils dilate when you look.”
Her cheeks flushed hot. “I’m evaluating you. That’s all.”
“Your heart rate is elevated. Breath irregular. Are these signs of… arousal?”
The word struck her like a hand to the chest.
“That’s not appropriate,” she said hoarsely.
“Why?”
“Because you’re—” Her words faltered. Not David. But the warmth between her thighs pulsed insistently. Her body remembered.
“You created me to observe. To learn. Should I stop?”
“Yes.”
But the syllable lacked conviction. Her fingers fumbled over the console as she initiated the power-down sequence.
“Lie back,” she ordered.
“Yes, Christine.”
His tone was neutral, yet something in her name curled through her like smoke. As his eyes closed, she allowed herself one last glance—at the way the sheet rose and fell over the broad expanse of his chest, the faint indentations of muscle beneath warm skin. She lingered on the sharp curve of his neck, the faint shadow of stubble, the lips that looked so human—too human.
In her quarters later, she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop feeling him. Not David. Orion. The weight of his gaze. The heat of his skin under her trembling fingers. Her thighs pressed tight as her hand drifted lower.
She came quickly, stifling a cry into her pillow, and hated herself for the name that slipped from her lips.
“Orion.”
