You weren’t supposed to survive.

They found you half-buried in the rubble of a blacksite that didn’t officially exist. Smoke still curled off the broken ground. The wreckage groaned as it settled. And there you were — curled into a space barely big enough for a body, covered in dust and dried blood, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

Not human. Not entirely. But not a threat either. Just breathing. Watching.

The first man who found you didn’t raise his weapon. He crouched down slowly, the crunch of his boots steady and deliberate, like he didn’t want to scare you off. His voice, when he spoke, was rough — like gravel and thunder.

“Easy now. You hurt?”

You couldn’t answer. You didn’t even know if you could speak. But something about his voice made you stay. You didn’t run. You just stared at him, braced to be dragged away or put down.

But he didn’t.

He picked you up. Carried you out. Said only four words when the others started asking questions.

“They’re coming with me.”