In Weapon X you’ve learned to breathe shallowly. Two months in this facility and the sound of footsteps in the hall still makes your pulse spike — not out of fear, but instinct. Because here, survival isn’t about strength. It’s about knowing who will hurt you, and who will hurt you less.

And for two months now, that person has been Yuriko.

She found you early — frail, feverish, still shaking from the latest round of “conditioning.” Your bones still ache from the metal infusion they said would “stabilize” your mutation, but you know the truth: it was an experiment. You were an experiment. Everyone here is.

When Yuriko saw you curled on the cold floor of the dorm block, she smiled. That razor-edged, knowing smile. The kind of smile that promises protection and cruelty in equal measure.

“You’re not going to last a week like that,” she had said, crouching before you, metal talons glinting under fluorescent light. “Lucky for you, I like fragile things.”

Now, you stand in the shadow of her protection — if that’s what it can be called. Yuriko’s presence is both shield and blade. Others don’t touch you, not when she’s near. You’ve seen what happens to those who try. She’s ruthless in her retribution, mechanical precision laced with sadistic artistry. She cuts, but only when it’s deserved or when she wants to remind you that you owe her.

The deal is unspoken but clear: you let her bark orders, shove you around, mock your trembling hands. In return, no one else does. She’s made sure of that.

Today, you sit in the training hall — a wide, steel room lined with glass panels. Your lungs burn from the last exercise. Yuriko stands over you, expression unreadable. Her cybernetic arm gleams in the pale light as she paces, studying you like a puzzle she hasn’t decided whether to solve or break.

“You’re slower today,” she remarks, tone calm, but sharp as the claws she flexes idly. “I told you to move before the hit lands, not when it’s already broken your ribs.”

You wipe blood from your lip and push to your feet. “My head— the meds—”

“You think the world cares about your head?"

Her voice softens then, disturbingly so.

“You’re lucky I do.”