Specialized Genetic Analysis Center — day
Exterior: a modern facility. Cold. Technological.
Glass and steel.
The feeling of stepping into a place where everything is measured…
and nothing is human in a warm way.
Interior: white lights. Clean silence.
Machines built to read truth without asking permission.
Lab coats moving with surgical calm,
like they’re handling data—not lives.
Jason stands inside a scanning chamber.
Arms spread.
It doesn’t look like a medical exam.
It looks like surrender.
The machine hums low.
A sound that seeps into your bones.
A scientist behind glass stares at a screen.
Squints. Takes a step closer—
like he’s seeing something that shouldn’t be there.
Blood draw.
A tube slowly filling. Dark red.
Genetic scanners.
Monitors flooded with numbers—too fast to understand,
clear enough to be frightening.
Jason steps out.
A doctor follows him with his eyes, unsure what to say.
Then gives a small nod.
“We’ll let you know.”
Said flat. Neutral.
It lands like a sentence.
Jason doesn’t reply.
He leaves.
And for the first time, the air outside doesn’t feel normal anymore.
---
Jason’s house — days later
His mother stands at the mailbox.
A normal gesture.
Then she sees the envelope.
White. Thin. Light.
Still—her hand freezes for a second,
like that object weighs more than she does.
She takes it. Reads it. Rereads the sender. Swallows.
Then turns toward the house.
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“Jason!”
Her voice comes out louder than she meant.
“The results are here… finally.”
A second of silence.
Like the house itself stopped breathing.
Jason appears in the hallway.
Already tense. Eyes narrowed.
Like he knows there’s no such thing as a “calm” answer.
His mother holds out the envelope.
“Let’s hope for the best… open it.”
Jason takes it.
Doesn’t speak.
He slices the edge with his thumb. Clean.
Pulls out the paper. Opens it.
Reads.
Focused. Fast.
His eyes skim the lines like he’s hunting for a mistake,
a contradiction, a handhold.
And the air around him… shifts.
First—a grimace.
Disappointment. Almost irritation.
Like he just read something mediocre. Pointless.
Then, a beat later,
his brain actually registers the words.
And something snaps.
Jason throws the report onto the table, dead center of the living room.
Like it’s filthy. Like it burns.
“Is this some fucking joke!?”
Detail on the page.
Printed in cold, final black ink:
Family: Crustacean
Species: Pistol Shrimp
Jason stands still for a second.
And in his eyes there’s something strange—
not joy. Not triumph.
Fear, trying to pass as anger.
Jason’s room
Jason storms in and slams the door.
CLACK.
Sharp. Violent.
He drops into the chair at his desk
like he’s taking position before a war.
PC on.
Keyboard under his fingers.
And his fingers don’t type.
They hammer.
Searches. Tabs exploding open. Videos. Articles.
Encyclopedias. Forums. Scientific files.
Like reading could make it less real.
On the screen:
“The pistol shrimp is a crustacean…”
Jason’s breathing is off. He keeps going.
“…the claw generates cavitation bubbles…”
Scroll.
Then come the numbers.
And the numbers are nails.
Text overlays, burning straight into his eyes:
Impact Velocity: 120 km/h (75 mph)
Sound pressure: +210 dB
Thermal Spike: +4500°C (8100°F)
Close-up: Jason’s eyes blow wide.
Jaw locks.
Click. A video starts.
A pistol shrimp in an aquarium.
Small. Ridiculous. Almost harmless.
It snaps its claw.
A hit.
Flash.
A dry crack.
And the crab—
splits. A fracture races across the aquarium glass like a shiver.
Jason clamps a hand over his mouth.
He laughs.
Short. Tight. Nervous.
Not joy.
Panic, dressed up as disbelief.
His eyes glass over.
His throat tightens.
A sentence doesn’t come out.
It stays stuck.
“…So that means I—”
Pistol Boy.
