They took us out in groups of six, training exercises that doubled as loyalty tests. Support your team but outperform them. Protect theunit, but prioritize the mission. Contradictory demands deliberately designed to create adaptable operatives who could function in groups but would never form genuine attachments.
"Your team is a tool," Dionysus explained during a particularly brutal exercise that had left three of my groupmates with broken bones. "Use them, protect them as assets, but never forget that the mission comes first. Always."
I'd helped a smaller boy during that exercise, sharing water when the instructors weren't looking. They'd caught me, and the punishment was solitary confinement for a week. The lesson was clear: compassion was weakness. Connection was vulnerability.
It had worked until I met Rafael.
The fifth and sixth children went quietly, too quietly, like they'd already accepted their fate, whatever it might be. By the time we arranged them against the wall of the corridor, we had a small collection of sedated bodies. All except for the smallest girl with the rabbit, who remained in Rafael's arms, her tiny fingers clutched in his shirt even in sedation.
"Last one," Rafael said quietly.
A sharp sound from behind made me turn just in time to see Jasper emerge from a side corridor. He must have broken off from Diego to reach this part of the facility faster.
He didn't acknowledge me, didn't even glance my way. His eyes scanned the doors, landed on the last one at the end of the hall, and his entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides. He stared at that door like he'd been searching for it his entire life.
Then he yanked it open, and Jasper stepped inside without hesitation.
The crack of impact that followed was immediate and brutal. Jasper went flying backward, skidding across the polished floor on his ass, eyes wide.
A small figure launched through the doorway in pursuit, moving like a predator that made my own skills look clumsy by comparison. She couldn't have been more than nine, blonde hair cut short, her expression glittering with feral rage.
There was a tattoo on her shoulder—the number eight.
As soon as I saw it, my hand went instinctively to my shoulder, where I'd long ago covered up the number four that'd been put there against my will.
These fuckers didn't see us as people. We weren't even weapons until we proved ourselves. This little girl didn't even have a name. She was just Eight.
She went for Jasper's throat without hesitation, her small body a blur of perfect combat technique, each movement lethal. Jasper barely managed to block the first flurry of strikes, rolling backward to create distance.
Jasper scrambled to his feet as Eight launched another attack, this one a spinning kick that would have shattered his kneecap if it had connected. He countered brutally, his movements precise and deadly. Each strike was designed to disable, to create an opening for a killing blow. He wasn't holding back just because she was a kid. He wasn't holding back at all.
The girl moved like nothing I'd ever seen. She didn't seem to register pain, twisted and flowed like gravity was merely a suggestion. She evaded his deadliest strikes with an animal instinct that defied training, her small body contorting in impossible ways to avoid fatal damage.
Rafael appeared at my side, eyes widening at the scene unfolding before us. "We need to stop this," he said, already moving forward.
I grabbed his arm. "Careful! She's dangerous!"
Diego rounded the corner at a run, taking in the situation quickly. "Fuck me, what did I miss?" he asked, already moving to intervene.
Eight sensed the shift in dynamics, the three of us now surrounding her. She backed up slightly, body still coiled to strike, tracking everymovement with inhuman focus. She didn't retreat, didn't surrender. If anything, she looked more determined, like increased odds just made the game more interesting.
"We're not here to hurt you," Rafael said in that calming voice he'd used with the other children. "We're here to help."
Eight snapped her attention to him for a split second, just enough time for Diego to try to circle behind her. She sensed him instantly, whirling with a kick that caught him square in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs with an audible whoosh.
"Fuck," he gasped, staggering backward. "She's fast."
Jasper's hand moved to his waistband, producing a matte black pistol I hadn't even realized he was carrying.
"What the fuck?" I hissed as he pointed it right at Eight.
Rafael tensed beside me. "Jasper, no!"
Diego lunged forward but froze mid-step when Jasper swung the barrel slightly in his direction. Message received. We all stopped moving, like some fucked-up freeze tag game.
Everyone except Eight.
The girl didn't flinch or cower. No fear, no pleading, no childish terror existed in her expression. Instead, she assessed Jasper coldly, her gaze narrowing slightly. Then, in a move that would've made me proud if it wasn't so fucking disturbing, she stepped forward deliberately, pressing her forehead against the barrel of the gun.
