The night was supposed to be ordinary.
The hum of the city floated in the air — sirens, laughter, the buzz of neon lights painting the sky. Eight-year-old Zayn ran through the narrow alleys of Sector 11, his laughter mixing with the distant thunder.
His mother called after him, "Zayn! Be careful!"
But curiosity was stronger than caution. Always had been.
He chased the blinking drone that zipped through the streets, its metallic wings slicing through the heavy mist. Zayn didn't see the car speeding around the corner. He didn't hear the screech of tires until it was too late.
A flash of white.
A shattering pain.
Darkness swallowed him.
When Zayn woke up, the world was different. Blinding lights overhead. Beeping machines. The sterile scent of antiseptic. He tried to move — but something was wrong.
He looked down.
Where his right hand should have been, there was nothing but empty space.
Tears welled in his eyes, a sob breaking from his throat. His parents rushed to his side, their faces pale, their hands trembling.
"It's going to be okay," his mother whispered, voice cracking.
But even as she said it, Zayn saw the fear in her eyes. Fear that things would never be the same.
The doctors said it was a miracle he survived. But surviving came with a price.
Weeks later, they took him to the NexTech Research Facility — a place filled with cold metal and colder eyes. Scientists in silver coats circled him, speaking in hushed tones. He was no longer just a boy. He was a project.
"Experimental mechanical prosthesis," one of them said, adjusting his glasses. "Neurological link. AI integration. He's the perfect candidate."
Zayn didn't understand their words, but he understood the way they looked at him — like he was something broken that they could fix.
The surgery lasted nine hours. When he woke up, he felt… different.
Something clicked in his mind.
A voice echoed, soft but clear.
> "Hello, Zayn. I'm Unit Zero. We're going to be great friends."
Zayn screamed, clutching his head — but it wasn't pain he felt. It was connection.
The mechanical arm gleamed under the harsh light. Black and silver, intricate lines pulsing with a faint blue glow. He flexed his fingers, and the hand responded like it was a part of him — because it was.
The AI spoke again.
> "I can protect you."
For the first time since the accident, Zayn didn't feel weak.
He felt powerful.
But power comes with a price.
And Zayn was about to find out just how high that price could be.