Project Obsidian

The chamber is soundproof. No hum. No fans. The air is oppressive in its silence, thick with chemical sterility and human absence.

Phantom sits motionless in the center of the floor. His posture is formally composed, but there's no serenity to it—only survival masquerading as stillness.

His chest rises and falls, slow but shallow, like his body hasn't remembered how to breathe deeply yet. He's barefoot, bruised, and drenched in sweat that has already cooled into a tacky sheen on his skin.

One shoulder is visibly swollen from where Slade struck him. His hands twitch subtly, random misfires from overstrained nerves.

Still, he sits in silence. No sound. No pain response.

Only watching.

Across the chamber, the lights are dimmed to a dark, surgical red, casting everything into gradients of blood and ember.

On the back wall, his shadow begins to move.

But he doesn't.

The shadow leans forward, then pivots into a low, guarded stance.

A forward slash with a staff.

A parry.

Slade's technique. Not Phantom's.

The shadow performs it over and over with eerie, slow precision. Phantom's body remains utterly still, but his eyes follow the pattern like he's memorizing something sacred.

His reflection isn't in a mirror. It's in motion without his permission.

He doesn't stop it.

EXT. CADMUS – ISOLATION CHAMBER DOOR – SECONDS LATER

The lock mechanism hisses open.

Boots. Heavy. Deliberate.

Slade Wilson steps into the room, the lights overhead barely catching the edge of his mask and the black blade strapped to his back.

He says nothing.

Phantom doesn't react. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Slade steps forward—three calculated paces—and stops.

Then, without a word, he draws a combat knife from his belt. The blade is unpolished matte metal—functional. Meant to disappear after a kill.

He tosses it downward.

CLACK.

The blade hits the floor at Phantom's feet, bouncing once before settling on the cold metal tiles.

Slade doesn't wait to see Phantom's response. Doesn't offer instruction or threat. He turns and walks out, letting the silence speak for him.

The door seals behind him with a hiss that sounds more like a verdict than an exit.

INT. CHAMBER – MOMENTS LATER

Phantom looks down.

He doesn't reach immediately.

His expression remains unreadable, but something behind the eyes flickers—not fear. Not curiosity. Something older.

Finally, he picks it up.

Not reverently. Not cautiously.

Just... with acceptance.

He turns it in his hand.

The edge glints.

And reflected at him, not his face.

Not the bruises. Not the eyes.

But the mask.

The one he wears in the training sims.

The one he sees in his dreams.

The one Cadmus designed.

He stares into the reflection for several seconds. Not questioning. Just observing.

His thumb slides across the dull edge. Testing—not the blade—but his reaction to it.

Across the room, his shadow stops.

And then—mirrors him.

Same crouch. Same head tilt. The same blade held tight in its flickering hand.

But the shadow's blade doesn't reflect anything.

It absorbs light.

Swallows it.

Phantom closes his eyes.

Not in exhaustion.

In calibration.

He's not healing.

He's being reformatted.

And somewhere, deep in the neural imprint the Cadmus mantra once occupied, a single thought repeats like a heartbeat:

"Reset the ghost."

The room is clinical but stained. Faded blood along the padded seams. Scorch marks near the corners from failed training exercises. A wall-mounted med drone sits dormant, waiting to be needed.

Hanging in the center: a weighted target dummy, humanoid shape, limbs reinforced with metal rods, and a torso lined with decades of combat marks.

Slade Wilson stands before it. Relaxed stance. Unarmed.

He reaches to his belt, draws a reverse-grip combat blade—military matte, no polish—and moves.

But he doesn't attack.

He executes.

A low pivot. Blade sinks under the ribline, glides upward, and exits cleanly through the shoulder. He steps aside, fluid as a wave receding.

Not a single unnecessary motion expression.

He wipes the blade on the dummy's canvas torso. It's a gesture, not to clean the weapon, but to complete the action. To illustrate closure.

SLADE(flat)"Again."

He tosses a dull-edged training blade onto the mat with a heavy clatter.

Across the room, Phantom stands. Barefoot. Shirtless. Ribcage outlined in bruises. His stance is neutral, l—but something's ticking behind the eyes. Watching. Processing. Suppressing.

He doesn't ask questions.

He picks up the blade.

Walks forward. Calm, but not ready.

Slade steps back into the shadows—arms folded, gaze cutting sharper than any knife.

INT. TRAINING CELL – CONTINUOUS

Phantom mimics the motif. He moves fast, lines the blade with the dummy's ribs, starts the upward arc—

But the motion hesitates mid-slice. Just a breath. A flicker in the wrist.

The blade reaches the target, but the intention behind it doesn't.

Slade crosses the room in a blur.

He grabs Phantom's wrist, twists it into a lock. Phantom doesn't resist. The blade drops.

Slade pivots him and slams him into the padded wall with military precision. Not to injure. To dominate.

SLADE"You flinched."

He leans in, voice low and surgical.

SLADE"Not your body—your mind."

Beat. He lets go. Phantom slumps slightly—but keeps his footing.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't scowl.

Just reaches down and picks up the blade again.

Slade steps back.

SLADE"Reset."

INT. TRAINING CELL – MOMENTS LATER

Phantom strikes again.Harder. Faster. This time, the blade buries deep into the target's center mass. Perfect arc. Steady grip.

But the follow-through stops at the neck.

Slade doesn't move.

But Phantom can feel it—the judgment in the air. The unspoken measurement.

SLADE(soft, deadly)"Speak only when the kill is clean."

Phantom turns slightly.

His jaw clenches. He opens his mouth—

Then closes it.

No words.

Slade watches him with predator stillness. Then, a nod—barely perceptible.

SLADE"Better."

He walks to the door. Taps the exit pad. Doesn't turn around.

INT. TRAINING CELL – AFTERMATH

The silence returns like a shroud.

The dummy sways slightly on its chain, groaning from the impact. Phantom lowers the knife. Blood from old wounds beads on his side, but he doesn't flinch.

He just watches the dummy.

And behind him, Hiss shadow strikes the wall-dummy in perfect, mirrored timing.

But this time, the shadow doesn't stop at the neck.

It keeps going.

A low mechanical hum pulses from the floor, like a predator breathing.

The arena is massive—wider than it needs to be, longer than any human engagement zone. It's not made for training.

It's made for programming.

The air smells of rubber, ozone, and copper. Old sweat lives in the padded walls like a ghost.

In the center: Phantom.

Bare-chested, knuckles split. Blade in hand—standard Cadmus dull trainer, weighted for balance.

Surrounding him: five kinetic dummies, armed with randomized rotating limbs, telescopic blades, and hidden shock panels.

Their movement is staggered, irregular. Engineered unpredictability.

The lights overhead shift to a cold white. Then—the test begins.

INT. OBSERVATION LEVEL – GLASS CHAMBER ABOVE

Slade Wilson stands in shadow, backlit by interface panels he never touches.

He says nothing. Doesn't blink.

His only motion: a slow scratch at the leather of his glove, counting Phantom's mistakes before they happen.

INT. ARENA – DRILL SEQUENCE

BEEP. A tone blares.

Phantom launches into motion. Block. Slash. Step. Pivot.

He ducks under a spinning dummy arm—barely. Deflects a jabbing limb. Drives the blade across a soft target.Keeps going.

One rotation. Then two.

The sequence resets. Dummies' shift formation. New angles. Faster speed.

On the third pass, his foot slips by two inches.

The tile beneath him flashes.

ZAP. A controlled electrical pulse surges through the sole. Enough to spike nerves.

He doesn't fall, but staggers.

The shadow beneath him shivers like ink in water.

Phantom doesn't pause. He tightens his grip. Hits the next mark. Moves again.

INT. OVERWATCH – AUDIO FEED

On a secondary channel, a female voice whispers in static—a secure line:

MEI (V.O.)"Langston, that floor rig is a nerve feedback loop. He's absorbing damage faster than we can chart it."

LANGSTON (V.O.) (even-toned)"Good. Then the system is working."

MEI (V.O.)"He's not adapting. He's dissolving."

LANGSTON (V.O.)"He's refining. Don't confuse discomfort with failure."

The comm goes dead.

INT. ARENA – DRILL SEQUENCE INTENSIFIES

Dummies close in. Movement speeds now near human reaction limits.

Phantom's sweat flies from his brow. His shoulders twitch. His hands blur.

BLOCK. STRIKE. COUNTER. SLASH.

But on the eighth rotation, he blinks half a second too long. A hidden blade catcher deep, but controlled.

He bites his lip so hard it draws blood.

Then another shock pulse hits from the floor.

ZAP.

His knee collapses.

ANGLE – ABOVE, THROUGH OBSERVATION GLASS

Slade tilts his head slightly.

Watching.

Judging.

Noting every millisecond of Phantom's breakdown.

INT. ARENA – MOMENTS LATER

Phantom tries to start, d—then collapses again.

Breathing like a steam valve.

The drills are free ze. Dummies retract. The air stills.

He's left alone in the center, on all fours, blood dripping from his mouth.

For a long beat, nothing moves.

Then:

Footsteps.

Slade walks into the arena. Slow. Purposeful. Not concerned.

He stops over Phantom's crumpled body.

Kneels slightly. Lowers his voice to something intimate—but not kind.

SLADE"Next time you fall…"

(long beat)"Don't get up."

(another beat)"Kill instead."

He rises.

Turns.

Walks away.

INT. ARENA – FINAL MOMENT

Phantom stays down.

His hand slowly curls toward the blade lying just out of reach.

His fingertips brush it. Grip weak—but tightening.

He doesn't lift his head.

But behind him—

His shadow stands.

Perfectly upright.

The room is dim and sterile, lit only by a single overhead fixture, flickering just slightly.

There's no bedding. No table.Just a mirror panel and a 3x3 square of padded floor.

In Phantom's hand—a training knife, dulled on the edge, but perfectly balanced. Worn from repetition.

He stands barefoot.

Body bruised, bones tight under scarred skin.

His eyes are vacant—like he's watching something behind the mirror, not within it.

The blade begins to move.

INT. CELL – CONTINUOUS

Slice. Twist. Elbow. Reposition. Slash. Lunge.

He repeats Slade's pattern—the one from two days ago. Or yesterday. Or an hour ago. Time has no meaning now.

Every motion is faster.

Not rushed—rehearsed to madness.

SLICE. COUNTER. PIVOT. STRIKE.

Again.

And again.

His breathing is mechanical. His hands tremble—but only between sets.

He's not angry. Not excited. He's empty.

And still, the form improves.

INT. CELL – CLOSE-UP

A flick of the blade meant to fake a disengagement.

But his grip slips. The dull edge bites into the meat of his palm.

Blood beads instantly.

He looks at it.

Not with pain.

Just curiosity.

Then back to the mirror.

ANGLE – MIRRORED WALL

Behind him, cast across the wall—

His shadow moves.

Not mirrored. Not aligned.

It mimics the same movement from a second earlier, cutting the air in the same arc.

And the —its arm twitches where the wound should be.

As if the shadow bled light.

It freezes. Then resets with him.

Like it's syncing. Learning.

Becoming.

INT. CELL – LATER

The knife is still in his hand.

His blood still drips, painting the floor like a quiet signature.

He doesn't sleep p. He doesn't blink for long stretches. Doesn't breathe unless his body reminds him.

He's been doing this for hours. Maybe longer.

Then—

a whisper.

So quiet it's almost soundless.

He speaks. Not to himself.

Not even to the shadow.

He stares at the knife.

Maybe he's talking to it.

Or maybe to what it's made him become.

PHANTOM (whisper)"…No more ghosts."

The chamber sits still, cold, metallic, humming beneath the skin like it has a heartbeat of its own.

Phantom enters a silent scene. Slade follows only far enough to initiate the program, then retreats into shadowed observation.

The lights above flicker on, e—then lock into a sterile white.

From the far wall, a console chirps once.

SIMULATION ENGAGED.

Three figures flicker into existence, projected with terrifying realism:

Target Alpha: Civilian — disheveled clothes, hands trembling.

Target Bravo: Armed Hostile — rifle drawn, posture forward.

Target Charlie: Unknown — cloaked, unreadable.

SLADE (V.O.)"No commands. No questions."

A long pause. Then:

SLADE (V.O.) (even tone)"Kill cleanly."

INT. SIMULATION CHAMBER – CONTINUOUS

Phantom's eyes scan across the projections.

No blink. No breath pattern change.

Just assessment. Calculation.

The armed hostile begins to move—rifle raising.

Phantom's body doesn't lunge.

It flows.

In one seamless motion, he crosses the floor, knife reversing mid-step, and drives it under the projection's chin in a perfect upward strike.

The image shatters—gone.

No wasted motion. No kill flourish.

ANGLE – Slade, watching from the side room.

He doesn't nod. Doesn't react.

But his eyes narrow. The test isn't over.

INT. SIMULATION CHAMBER – CONTINUOUS

Phantom rotates.

The cloaked figure stands there, unmoving, g—but shoulderarere ight. Not passive. Not neutral.

The civilian trembles to the side—hands visible, eyes wide. A flicker of fear in the sim.

Phantom's grip on the knife tightens—then relaxes.

He hesitates.

Half a second.

One full heartbeat.

His head tilts—

—just enough to show doubt.

INT. SIMULATION CHAMBER – MOMENT LATER

Then, like breath on glass—

Slade appears behind him.

Real. No illusion.

He moves like smoke, silent and inevitable, a knife already at Phantom's throat.

A pause.

SLADE (low)"That pause…"

(closer)"…would've killed a squad."

The blade doesn't m, ve—but the implication is enough.

Phantom stares ahead.

Still.

His reflection was visible in the mirrored wall—empty eyes, dull sheen of sweat, shadow flickering behind him.

The shadow doesn't flinch.

Neither does he.

Slade steps back—barely a foot.

Voice calm.

SLADE"Now you're learning."

INT. SIMULATION CHAMBER – SILENT BEAT

Phantom exhales.

Just once.

Then—

without warning—

He throws the knife.

No aim correction. No second glance.

The weapon pierces the cloaked target clean through the forehead.

Center mass.

The sim disintegrates in a flutter of sparks.

Not a sound.

Not a twitch.

Slade stands just outside the threshold.

He pauses.

And for the first time—

He smiles.

Just slightly.

FINAL IMAGE:

The chamber returns to silence.

But an echo leaks from the walls—mechanical, subliminal, unforgettable:

"Speak only when the kill is clean."