Mornings at the orphanage were always the same—silent, still, and cold, with only the wind howling across the hills, whispering through the cracks in the walls like a ghost that never left.
The building stood alone, buried deep in isolation, far from roads or towns. Strangers didn't wander out here. It was filled with children deemed "special," though most of us knew the truth—we weren't special. Not in any real way. The Doctor liked to say we were the beginning of human evolution, but that was just a cover. We were lab rats dressed up as miracles.
Beneath its lifeless corridors and barred windows, the orphanage held secrets carved in pain. Experiments were routine. Children went in for tests and didn't come back. The stench of blood had sunk into the floorboards. The sound of screaming was as natural as morning birdsong—except no birds sang here.
I learned early not to get attached. Friends became memories too fast in this place. It was easier to stay distant. At least, that was my plan—until Roxanne.
She wasn't just another face. I wouldn't say I was her best friend, but she had a way of drawing people in. Her smile lit up even the dimmest hallways, and her kindness cut through the fear like sunlight through smoke. Everyone loved her. To the younger kids, she was a big sister. To me, she was something more.
We were the oldest in the orphanage—me at fourteen, her fifteen. That single year never felt like much, but somehow, she always seemed wiser, steadier. She taught arithmetic to the others with ease, breaking down complex problems like they were puzzles she enjoyed solving.
"Cole, are you even awake? The Doctor wants to see you," her voice called out, pulling me back to reality.
I was dozing atop the central tree near the training field, my usual hiding spot from the world. I opened my eyes to find Roxanne's face leaning close—too close. Her lips hovered inches from mine, and those bright blue eyes stared straight into me. Embarrassment hit like a shockwave. I turned my gaze, heart thudding.
She caught my fluster and raised an eyebrow, just as flustered herself.
"I still don't get why you hide up here," she said, voice softer now. "It's... lonely."
I shrugged. "Maybe I like the quiet. Maybe I give off that mysterious lone-wolf vibe. Ever think of that?"
Roxanne rolled her eyes. "What am I supposed to do with you? Honestly, I don't know why I even try."
Still, she smiled as we climbed down. The walk back was filled with casual chatter—light moments we clung to in a place where darkness was never far behind.
She led me to the Doctor's office and left without a word. Dr. Boliver Trask was the man behind everything here. To the world, he was a genius scientist. To us, he was the only parent we'd ever known—and the one who hurt us the most.
He strapped me into the chair without speaking. I didn't struggle. I'd done this too many times. A cold sting hit the base of my neck as the injection needle plunged in, delivering whatever serum he was testing this time.
Pain flared up my spine, but I didn't cry out. Pain had become normal.
Afterward, I walked the cracked hallways toward the training room. Paint peeled from the walls. Dust clung to the windows. Armed guards patrolled the halls, always watching. They weren't here to protect us. They were here to make sure we never left.
The Doctor called us "government assets," claiming we needed protection from outside threats. But the real threat lived inside these walls.
The training quarters were packed with gear—combat dummies, simulation rigs, and racks of weapons. The instructors were AI, programmed with endless knowledge of war. Every day, we were drilled to fight, to survive.
I focused on melee combat, mastering hand-to-hand techniques and weapons. My favorite was a saber with strange symbols etched into the blade. It felt ancient, like it carried history. Its silver hilt was polished, its edge never dulled. It was flawless—something rare in this place.
"How about today you show a little improvement, tough guy?" Roxanne's voice rang out as she stepped into the room. "If you manage to beat me, I'll give you one of my buns."
She never gave much warning. She was already pulling twin blades from the wall—short, fast, and deadly.
She took her stance, left foot forward, arms raised. Her blades angled outward, slicing air with the slightest motion. I mirrored her with my saber—feet close, right arm extended, left arm behind me.
The air thickened with tension. The other kids stopped training. Even the guards paused. No one wanted to miss this.
Our eyes locked. We didn't speak. We just waited... and then lunged.
Roxanne fought with agility and finesse, her blades a blur. I countered with power and controlled strikes. Our swords clashed in a burst of sparks, our movements fluid and sharp.
She broke away, flipped back, and charged again. This time, I was ready. I blocked, deflected, and struck back with precision. She danced around my blade, but I didn't let up.
My confidence surged. I pushed forward, pressing her into defense. A sudden opening appeared—I knocked both her blades from her hands and moved in for the final strike.
But Roxanne wasn't done yet.
In a flash, she pulled a dagger from her pocket. Her movements turned sharper, quicker. She dodged my attack, spun around, and swept my legs out from under me. Before I could recover, she was on top of me, dagger pressed to my neck.
"You lose again," she said with a grin.
"You cheated. Again," I muttered, scowling.
"You keep saying that. Still doesn't change the score. What is it now—twenty-eight to five?"
"But hey," she added, standing and offering a hand. "You almost had me today. You earned the bun."
I took her hand, standing tall again.
"Next time, I win. Count on it."
"In your dreams," she smirked.
Around us, the kids clapped, breaking into cheers. Even the guards gave nods of approval.
Roxanne and I bowed, acknowledging the crowd. I glanced sideways at her.
And I smiled.