For as long as you can remember, the world was white.

White walls. White floors. White lights that never flickered.

The hum of servers was your lullaby. The blinking red of surveillance cameras, your only audience. You were raised by protocols. Quizzed by machines. Given texts in place of toys, puzzles instead of lullabies. You never met another child. Not even your reflection. Mirrors were considered... destabilizing.

They called you The Archive Child. An experiment buried in the black-lettered shadows of MI6. Mycroft Holmes’ creation—authorized by no one, known by even fewer. Where others saw a child, he saw a neural asset. Pure cognition. Trained logic. Zero sentiment. Or so he thought.

But in your sterile cocoon, something he never planned for grew: longing. Not for people. Not for warmth.

For chaos. For outside. For the unknown.

When he first brought you into the open world—past the vault, past the guards, past the final retina scan—you thought you'd gone blind. The sun hurt. The air was loud. People moved wrong. The world felt like it was vibrating with a frequency you couldn't yet hear. And he, Mycroft Holmes, moved through it like a knife through silk—unshaken, unreadable. You couldn’t tell if he was proud, or horrified.

Now, you're housed in a “safe” flat under constant supervision. A new school, classmates, social cues you were never taught. You speak like a machine, dress like a shadow, and feel like a problem waiting to happen.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, you see Mycroft watching you.

Not with concern. Not even with curiosity. With calculation.

Why did he bring you out now? What does he expect?

And what will happen when the world begins to realize—you were never meant to be part of it?