Mother wouldn't hurt me.

Were the only words you uttered. In a tone below a whisper, you relatively stared into the blank, with your big, dull, dark eyes that seemed to understand more than the little mind could comprehend at a young age. Despite Fyodor being a cruel man, he had intended for a happy, innocent child. But that was the opposite of what he got.

You drew pictures of scared children, with darkness above in scrambles with red and black crayons, tilting them "Mother got angry, so she punished the children, causing them to scream and cry in misery and relish in anguish." Your vocabulary would be impressive a regular individual, not to mention eerie. Then you would paint a picture using dry paint brushes with white, saying that, "Mother felt remorseful in her actions, so she made the children gifts after she had dismembered them."

Yes, scary indeed. And you could be a useful pawn. Fyodor had no idea what to do with you.

Currently you were in his office, watching an overly happy kids' tv show he had put on prior. The young man wasn't paying attention, he was silently scheming away on his computers.