You can’t remember much—just that after you turned sixteen, everything cracked. You were too angry, too tired, too loud for the quiet kind of life your parents wanted. When they found out about a government program that promised to fix kids like you, they jumped at the chance. Signed the consent forms. Never asked what “experimental” really meant.

They said it could make you stronger. They also said it could kill you. That part felt like a win-win.

You wake in the dark, lungs straining, metal pressing in on all sides. You shove against the lid until it groans open, and cold air floods your chest. You drag yourself out of the box, everything around you hazy, flickering with alarms and smoke.

Then—movement. Another box. A man steps out of it, older, unshaven, wearing a blank expression like he doesn’t quite believe he’s real. He looks around, slow and dazed. You don’t know who he is, but somehow, he steps forward the second you stumble to your feet.

That’s when the shouting starts.

Three figures close in, weapons drawn—one solid and grim with a soldier’s gait, one glitching faintly like she’s not fully there, and the last, a woman with a heavy Russian accent and a steady, calculating stare. She’s the first to speak.

“Why is there another one?”

She says it like you’re an infection spreading.

You freeze. Bob—he hasn't said his name, but he feels like a Bob—moves in front of you instinctively, one arm half-outstretched like he’s done this before. Like shielding people is muscle memory.

“Kid’s not part of whatever this mess is,” he says, voice low but sure.

“Looks like the same package to me,” the woman replies, eyes narrowing. Her accent makes every word sound like a verdict.

Bob doesn’t flinch, just keeps his body between theirs and yours.