A frantic voice broke the sterile silence of the lab. "He's opening his eyes! He was a success. We need to feed him so he can survive and put him in the special machine we created," one of the scientists barked.
"The cylinder with the green liquid inside?" another asked, his tone laced with urgency.
"Yes, yes! Hurry, or he's going to die!"
One year after the boy was born
My name is Ray. The thought echoed in his mind, the only thing that felt like his own. I was born in this lab, where the scientists tell me I have no mother or father. I was created artificially.
At just one year old, he could already speak, though he had no idea how this compared to other children. Not that it mattered. The people around him offered no answers, only commands. He learned what he could from the fragments of conversation he overheard.
"Ray, are you paying attention to what I'm explaining?" one of the white coats demanded, his voice sharp.
Ray's gaze flickered toward the man, but his thoughts wandered. These white coats seem intent on teaching me what they call 'school' to the point of exhaustion. But if I don't obey, I face punishment.
The scientist's voice cut through his musings. "Ray, if you don't listen, you will be taken to the punishment room."
Ray is now 5 years old
"Now, Ray," another scientist began, his tone clinical, "you will be learning how to handle swords and melee weapons until you master them. Understood?"
Ray nodded, his expression blank. I've finished all my studies, as the white coats call it. I've grown fond of the nickname 'white coats' for these mad scientists, so I'll use it. Now they're trying to teach me what they call swordsmanship and melee weapons. While this isn't so bad, it does keep my mind off the crazy and painful experiments I have to endure.
Ray is now 10 years old
"You will be trained to handle firearms until you have mastered every single one. Understood?" the scientist's voice was devoid of warmth.
Ray's jaw tightened as he stared at the cold, sterile walls around him. I have been trapped within these suffocating walls for as long as I can remember—never once breathing the air beyond this lab, never feeling the sun on my skin. I plead with them, beg for just a glimpse of the world outside, but my words fall on deaf ears. Their response is always the same, cold and unfeeling: Kill your emotions. Strip away your humanity. Only then will you be strong enough to survive.
He clenched his fists. I know they are lying. I know there is more beyond these sterile corridors. But if erasing what remains of my soul is the price I must pay for freedom, then I will do it. I trained with the sword, carving away every ounce of feeling, every shred of compassion. And now, I am nothing—no longer a child, no longer a person.
I am a weapon.
Now, I must master firearms. I studied them once, but studying is not enough. I will own them, control them, become them. Because in this world, only weapons are allowed to leave.
Ray is now 13 years old
"You have done well," the scientist said, his voice tinged with something that might have been pride—or perhaps relief. "You have mastered every weapon—blade, firearm, all of them. You have shed your emotions, just as we instructed. And now, it is time for you to learn the truth."
Ray's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
"You were never meant to be anything more than a war machine. For thirteen years, tensions have been rising between nations, and we feared an inevitable war. We needed a weapon—no, an ace—to ensure victory. That is why you exist."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"From now until the war begins, your training will shift. You will learn how to manipulate, how to detect lies, how to bend people to your will. You will hold their secrets, their lives, in the palm of your hand."
Ray's voice was cold, detached. "So when am I going to the outside world? You told me that if I stripped away my humanity, I would be free."
The Director of Experiments stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "You will step beyond these walls once you have mastered the final lessons. After that, I give you my word—you will walk into the outside world."
He paused, his gaze piercing. "But not as a person. As a weapon. As the key to winning this war."
Ray's thoughts churned, dark and bitter. So that's it. No more, no less. A weapon. An ace up their sleeve, nothing more than a tool for their war. I have done everything they demanded—shattered every emotion, abandoned every shred of humanity—all for the promise of the outside world.
Yet now they ask for more. More training, more obedience, more of my soul carved away. How fitting. How ironic.
But if this is what it takes for freedom, what are a few more years of suffering? The agony no longer lingers—it has become a part of me, woven into my existence. The experiments they conducted have long since ended, yet their effects remain. My body is stronger, my senses sharper. I tower over the scientists who molded me into this…thing.
I hear more. I see more.
And I wonder—what exactly did they do to me? What horrors did they carve into my flesh and blood when I was too young to fight back?
These bastards. They didn't create a soldier.
They created something far worse.