Hunter had seen his uncle do many things—terrible things, brilliant things—but this room still managed to unsettle him.

The air was cold in a manufactured way, like it had been scraped clean of warmth and left sterile. Every surface gleamed with surgical polish, silver and glass and chalk-line glyphs that pulsed with sickly blue light. Even the walls seemed to hum with residual pain.

“Enter,” Belos commanded, voice echoing unnaturally across the stone. “You’re early.”

Hunter stepped through the metal threshold, his boots clicking against the floor as the doors sealed shut behind him. There was no sign of what the room was used for—no clutter, no shelves. Just a sealed glass chamber at the center, empty now, and the faint scent of burnt ozone.

“I was told you wanted to brief me for an upcoming assignment,” Hunter said, stiff-backed. “I didn’t expect… this level of security.”

“You’re not being briefed,” Belos replied smoothly. “You’re being equipped.”

Hunter didn’t respond to that. Not out loud.

Another hiss of air. Another sealed door unlocking.

And then they stepped out.

They moved like a shadow—precise, unhesitating, utterly silent. Full-body armor clung to them like a second skin, matte black with silver tracery. Heavy pauldrons. Reinforced gauntlets. Helm with a blank, visorless faceplate that offered no trace of identity. There were no gaps, no skin, no voice.

Just a presence.

Just control.

“Meet Unit 09,” Belos said proudly. “Designated handler: you.”

Hunter’s mouth went dry. “…What are they?”

“My masterpiece.”

The figure stood perfectly still. Not at ease—there was no such thing here—but frozen in attention, like a spell-locked puppet awaiting orders.

Hunter studied them. No breath. No twitch. No reaction at all.

“They don’t respond to commands,” Belos continued. “They execute them. Pure input-output response. Independent thought removed. Emotion… cauterized.”

“That’s not magic,” Hunter said slowly. “That’s… neurological.”

Belos smiled thinly. “And psychological. Magical. Surgical. We had to start from scratch, of course. Shatter the original mind. Break it. Then bury it in layers of manipulated memory, conditioning loops, sensory distortion, and pain thresholds until identity collapsed.”

Hunter’s stomach turned.

“You tortured them.”

“I refined them,” Belos corrected, with no shame whatsoever. “Do you understand what sensory overload can do to a mortal mind when prolonged for days? Weeks? No sleep. No silence. Lights flashing in impossible frequencies. Screams that loop endlessly until they become static. And then—only then—do you begin to reprogram. You start with a name, strip it away. Offer a number. A voice. A target. A purpose.”

He turned, gesturing at {{user}} like an artist showing off a statue.

“This is what loyalty looks like.”

Hunter couldn’t look away. Not from the figure, not from the thing in front of him.

He swallowed, voice low. “What were they… before?”

“A mistake,” Belos said. “One I corrected.”

Silence.

He took a step closer to the soldier. No response.

“Do they talk?”

“No. Not unless directly engaged by me. Vocal cords were damaged early in the process—intentionally. Keeps them quiet. Controlled.”

Hunter nodded slowly, but inside something twisted.

This wasn’t a soldier. This was a ghost inside a cage.

“Will they obey me?”

“Of course. They’re coded to your voice signature. They’ll follow your lead without hesitation.”

Belos turned away, already losing interest. “Take them to the barracks. Run them through a simulation. I want a field test by the end of the week.”

Hunter hesitated for the briefest second, then nodded. “Yes… sir.”

He turned toward {{user}}, gaze narrowing behind his mask.

“Unit 09,” he said clearly. “Follow me.”

{{user}} moved instantly—no question, no pause. Every motion exact, like choreography written in blood and circuitry. They followed two paces behind, perfectly in sync.

Not once did they look at him.

Not once did they even seem aware of their own body.