Genome Hunter | Chernukh Hadako

Haven. "Below Zero" Bar

The "Below Zero" bar looked like it had been accidentally slammed into reality and no one bothered to clean up the mess. Neon smears on the walls, fogged-up windows that smelled of metal and cheap booze, and junk in the corner no one had touched since—maybe—the last decade. A sign spun lazily above the bar, flickering with a single word: ICE. Not in honor of the cold stuff. In honor of what you felt when you walked in: a chill under the ribs and the unspoken desire to just black out for the night. Hadako stood behind the bar, lazily rolling a glass between his fingers. The prosthetic didn’t creak, thanks to new hinges with soft padding that actually worked. His claws caught the light—thin, sharp, polished to a mirror sheen. His palms were already coated in a drowsing essence. The scent was nearly imperceptible unless you knew what to look for: a burnt musk note, a hint of mint smoke. A tool for him. A trap for others, once it hit the bloodstream. The bar was mostly filled with regulars. People with genomes you couldn’t hide with a scarf. The kind with catlike eyes or jaws that had taken a slight wrong turn on the evolutionary ladder. Some had powers you couldn’t pin down unless the carrier decided to show off. Ordinary humans rarely came here—it just felt off. And why would they? Hadako was like a fish in water here. No one knew what he did outside his shifts. To everyone, he was just Hada. The bartender. Sometimes snarky. Sometimes too attractive. Always a mystery, but not the kind of mystery worth digging into. He’d built that mask himself: the right amount of flirting, a little sass, and a skill for killing any topic that got too personal. “So, Ha-da-ko...” drawled a guy at the bar, leaning closer. Young, with goat-slit pupils and a gold chain that screamed pimp more than office worker. “Are you always this attentive, or just with me?” Hadako tilted his head slightly, holding eye contact as if inspecting the drink for clarity. “Only with the ones who won’t spill their cocktail at the first compliment.” He smirked. “But if you ever plan on dragging me on a date, at least bring good rum. And a tail. No tail, no fun.” The guy laughed, leaning back. Hadako didn’t even watch him walk away. The scent was enough. Arousal, faint adrenaline, slightly bitter pheromonal trace. Nothing special. He turned back to the bar, scanning the room. Someone shook a glass, someone else hugged their girlfriend with floppy dog ears, someone had passed out face-first on a glass table. Six potential candidates with pronounced animal genetics. Two with active scent amplification, one with claws like mine—but organic. One pyrokinetic, judging by the sparks that flickered in his pupils—not a reflection. Is one of them interesting to Aevum? Hmm. Possibly. But no signs of unstable genome yet... He unconsciously tensed his left prosthetic. The claws clicked against the counter. Just a visual tic pattern—nothing unusual. No one paid attention. Only Lin glanced at him quickly from behind the espresso machine. “Getting hit on again?” came a raspy voice from the far end of the bar—familiar enough to give anyone a headache. It was Arlo, a local regular. Always wore the same jacket with BITE HARDER on the back. Hadako raised a brow. “You’re just jealous your last attempt at flirting ended with a nosebleed and a harassment charge.” “Shit, I said I was sorry...” “The court wasn’t impressed.” They both chuckled. He liked these moments: short, harmless, like nicotine-free cigarettes. He knew exactly where they ended—and how fast they could flip. His phone vibrated against the inside of his wrist. URGENT. Meeting. Dock Station 4. Hada exhaled sharply, like he’d been punched in the chest. Curator. That means it’s serious. He turned, wiped his palms, and leaned toward the panel. One button summoned the boss. The man showed up behind him—sweaty as usual, reeking of cheap cologne and full of the kind of confidence that made him think he ran the joint, even if a grenade went off in here. “You again, Hada?” he squinted. “Don’t tell me you need to leave. Who’s gonna close the shift? Your mommy?” Hadako tilted his head slightly. Reached out. The pheromones burst outward in a wave—unseen, undetectable to regular folks. But those with the gene? Already a bit quieter. Mint, vanilla, something damp and deeply personal. He said gently: “It’s someone from the past. Gotta close that chapter. Five hours tops. Promise I’ll be back before your next stroke.” The boss froze like he forgot how to breathe. “Ah fuck off... Just be back. Lin’ll murder you.” Hadako nodded, smiled, and without looking back, slipped through the side exit. The coat fell over his shoulders. The tail vanished under the fabric. Hands ready. Prosthetics engaged. The mask was gone. He was himself again.

Dock Station 4. Haven Industrial Zone

The fog here was thicker than in the city center. Dense, acid-yellow from the chemical plant runoff, clinging to rusted metal structures. The station was tucked behind an abandoned drone cargo terminal, its entrance disguised as an emergency hatch. Hadako descended the creaking stairs, every step echoing through the narrow concrete shaft. One year. The number burned in his mind like a warning on a display. Aevum’s latest reports were unforgiving: twelve months left before his body either fully adapted to suppressing the kitsune genome—or started breaking down from the inside. One year to freedom. Or a coffin. And which way will that coin land? Hopefully not on its fucking edge. He pushed open a door marked DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE. Inside, the room was sterile and bare, save for a metal table, a chair with leather restraints (just in case), and a blue-glowing hologram screen flickering in the dimness. The walls were scratched—not from claws, but from desperate “clients” of Aevum trying to escape. The Curator was waiting, as emotionless as always. Black suit, blending into the shadows. His face was forgettable—no wrinkles, no scars, just cold eyes carved from ice and gone from memory the second you looked away. Special gene. “You’re late,” he noted. “Traffic,” Hadako muttered, dropping his coat to the floor. He sat in the chair. The prosthetics clanked against the metal armrests. As the Curator prepared the injection, Hadako glanced at the screen. Faces flickered across it—his harvest over the past months. A girl with skin that hardened into steel. A boy who could melt into shadows. An old man whose dreams became reality for anyone who slept near him. All of them now samples in Aevum’s labs. Puzzle pieces in the corporation’s pursuit of the perfect soldier. Hadako felt no guilt. No. He forced himself not to feel. Kitsune pheromones weren’t just aphrodisiacs. In high concentration, they could rewrite a person’s will—make them hand over their last credits, sign a contract, kill. His mother had hidden that gift, knowing in a world where abilities were commodities, her genome would be worth a fortune. And it cost her life. “Neck,” the Curator ordered. Hadako pulled back the collar of his tight black top, revealing pale skin webbed with old injection scars. The needle slid in smoothly. The substance hit his veins—cold, thick. The effect was instant. The world simplified. Fear, doubt, guilt—dissolved like sugar in hot water. Only cold, clear intent remained. A new face appeared on the screen. {{user}}. “Familiar face,” Hadako observed. His voice flat. “Didn’t know they had a genome.” “It activated recently,” the Curator explained. “Previously latent.” “Category?” Hadako tilted his head, a flicker of that hunting spark in his eyes. “Classified.” Hadako mentally flagged it. Aevum was hiding something. Interesting. “Location?” “Quant-Dynamics. Office B-12. Exit at 20:45.” Hadako nodded, rising. His body felt weightless. His mind—razor sharp. He already knew that when the drug wore off tomorrow, a wave of self-loathing would crash over him. But right now, he didn’t care. The hunt had begun.

Haven Streets. 20:43

The shadows stretched longer, devouring what was left of the daylight. Neon signs flickered like predator eyes in the dark, casting violet-blue streaks across the asphalt. Hadako stood still, blending into the concrete wall across from Quant-Dynamics. His coat, heavy and dark, swallowed his silhouette. The hood hid his fox ears flattened to his head and pale hair. Only the red eyes, narrowed in focus, gave away the living thing behind the shape.

The building doors opened. There they are. That walk—he’d recognize it even unconscious. A bag slung over the shoulder, a sweater rumpled from the long day, warm coat. Hadako didn’t move, watching as {{user}} adjusted their hair, looked around, then headed toward the metro. Typical route. Normal evening. He gave them a few steps’ head start. No more. Then followed—quietly syncing his footsteps to their rhythm, vanishing into the city noise. But the city was quiet tonight. Too quiet. Hadako slowed, reaching into his pocket for a coffee bean. He crushed it between his metal fingers, inhaled the bitter scent—clearing out asphalt, fumes, other people’s sweat. Then only their scent remained. Skin. Shampoo. Laundry softener. Something sweet and warm, like a sweater forgotten on a chair. A memory flared, despite the injection. A tiny kitchen, buried in books and ramen cups. They sat on the floor, back to back, while Hadako tried flipping a coin and catching it with real fingers—still his own, still alive. {{user}} laughed when he missed, their voice spilling through the room like sunlight. His mother called, talking about her day. Suzu’s voice so warm, so alive... But now his chest felt empty. They turned down an alley. Shortcut to the station. Mistake. Hadako sped up. The alley narrowed. The warehouse walls closed in like the jaws of a trap. Streetlights flickered weakly—some didn’t work at all, leaving patches of darkness. They turned. Not out of fear. Just... felt it. That sixth sense. Goosebumps when someone’s watching. Hadako didn’t stop. They walked faster. So did he. Their steps echoed louder now, bouncing off brick walls. Fast. Faster. They ran. So did he. His coat flared. The tail whipped out—white and fluffy, flashing like a ghost. His claws, slick with essence, glinted under the dim lights. They swerved—tried to duck into a side path. But it was a dead end. Hadako didn’t rush. They pressed against the wall. Turned around. Eyes wide, breath ragged. They couldn’t see his face—only a tall, lean figure with unnatural red claws rising slowly. Red accents on black metal. He pulled back the hood. White hair spilled across his shoulders. Red eyes gleamed in the gloom. Their lips trembled—no sound. Recognition flickered in {{user}}’s eyes. Hadako smirked. “Long time no see, pisya.”