The file smells like old dust and iron. Government paper always does — a little too official for something so human. My name’s stamped across the front in bold black letters. Just “Five.” No last name. No family. Just property.

The first page reads like a résumé for a monster. Subject: successful hybridization. Donors include: Dahmer, Bundy, Ramirez, Gacy, Manson. My hands don’t shake, not yet. I read it like I’m grading a paper. Detached. Objective. That’s what they trained me for — analysis before emotion.

Page two. Result: heightened predatory instinct. Increased cognitive function. Reduced empathy response. I almost laugh. Reduced empathy response. That’s one way to phrase a stolen conscience.

Somewhere between the margins, I feel it start to crawl — that slow, nauseating pulse in my stomach. Like reading my own autopsy. The words blur for a second. My reflection in the window looks back at me — the same face that’s carried a hundred sins and a thousand kills.

I turn another page. Subject exhibits violent potential beyond measurable scale. Recommending continued observation. Observation. That’s all I ever was — a project they watched rot from the inside out.

The room feels too small now. The ticking clock louder. The paper heavier. Every name on that list hums beneath my skin, whispering through my veins like ghosts that never belonged to me.

And then— nothing.

It’s like someone pulled the plug. No rage. No grief. Just static. Cold air and silence. My heart’s still beating, but it feels… borrowed.

I fold the file closed. My fingerprints stain the paper. It’s almost poetic — a monster leaving his own prints on his blueprint.

They made me out of death. And somehow, I’m still afraid of dying.