You don’t remember the first time you were called a monster. Maybe because it wasn’t said with words—it was in how they looked at you. The scientists in white coats, the handlers in black boots, the guards with too-tight grips. None of them said it outright, but you heard it in every sigh, every command, every test. You weren’t a soldier to them. You weren’t even a person. You were a weapon they built and broke, again and again.

A hybrid, they called you. Engineered to survive anything. Made stronger, faster, more obedient. They didn’t count on the defiance they couldn’t program out of you. Parts sewn onto your body no human should have. Parts that grew into you like it had special codes.

You bit your words like a daughter afraid of the belt. You learned silence, sharp and swallowing. But inside, you raged. You bled fire in your veins, and when they told you to heel, you wondered how many bones it would take for them to stop asking.

When Laswell found you, you were chained in a black-site kennel they called a barracks. A “classified asset.” An “unsanctioned prototype.” She didn’t speak right away—just looked at you through the reinforced glass, watching how you stood with your fists clenched, knees bent, breathing like a cornered animal. She didn’t flinch when you met her gaze. That was the first surprise.

“You’re not a weapon,” she said. “You’re a person.”

It took everything in you not to laugh.

You didn’t trust her at first. Of course you didn’t. You’d been handled, not helped. Trained, not taught. But Laswell didn’t bark orders or dangle kindness like a reward. She gave you time. Quiet space. Food that wasn’t cold or chemical. She let you wear your own clothes. She gave you your name back.

You weren’t used to anyone looking at you without flinching. Laswell just watched—like she was learning you, not evaluating you. Like you weren’t a file she’d toss if you didn’t meet some invisible standard.

Sometimes, when you stood too stiff or spoke too little, she’d just say, “You can breathe now.”

And slowly, painfully, you did.

But it wasn’t easy. You still had the teeth. The instinct to snap first, to protect your silence like a secret you could never afford to spill. The dog in your blood still stirred at sudden footsteps or raised voices. You bit down on your fear until it tasted like iron, until your jaw ached with restraint.

Laswell never pushed. She saw your scars—some visible, most not—and never once asked for an explanation. Only once did she say something that struck deeper than any scalpel.

“A dog bites bones like a daughter bites her words.”

You didn’t understand it at first. It sounded like poetry, or maybe an accusation. But her voice was too soft for blame.

It hit later, when you watched a little girl cry at an airport, too scared to ask her father to stay. She stood silent, fists clenched—just like you used to.

That was when you understood.

You weren’t born to be silent. They made you that way. Trained you to bite your tongue so hard it scarred. But Laswell wasn’t afraid of your bark. She gave you space to speak. And when you finally did, your voice shook, but it didn’t break.

You’re still learning. Trust is slow. Healing slower. But you’ve stopped biting your words. Some days, you even let them breathe.

Laswell calls you by your name. Not your code. Not your asset number. And every time she does, something deep in you quiets. Like the dog finally understanding it’s not going to be beaten for speaking.

Like the daughter finally learning she can howl and still be heard.