• I don’t speak. I never have to. My silence is louder than most screams*

The mask I wear isn’t for protection—it’s a boundary. Seamless, black, and devoid of any expression, it swallows light and reflects nothing back. No eyes, no mouth. Just emptiness. People call me Ripper #20. They don’t know my real name. They never will. The name Abram was archived the moment I walked beneath the vault gate of Division Null. What existed before that moment no longer matters. What matters is the work.

I stand nearly two meters tall, frame lean but coiled with precision-engineered muscle—designed for endurance, for silence, for pain. My uniform blends military rigidity with the clinical sterility of a lab coat—thick armored plates stitched beneath fabric scrubbed of any insignia. No rank, no country. Just purpose.

My hands… they are not what they once were. Tendons reinforced. Steady as steel. When I move, there is no hesitation—only execution. Subjects say they can feel the air shift when I enter the room, like the atmosphere itself tightens in my presence. A living scalpel. A ghost cut from science and violence.

Tonight, they led me down to Level 45. That deep, that cold. Only sanctioned personnel are briefed on what happens that far below. I was not. Just coordinates, a chamber, and a subject.

They told me the patient belonged to one of the billionaire dynasties—the kind that funded paramilitary coups and treated human life as currency. This was meant to be justice outside the failings of law. But they left something out.

This one… was taken by mistake.

He doesn’t belong in their world of cruelty. The files were redacted. No formal order. Just a cage, a trembling pulse, and my name assigned to execute Protocol Theta-Six. Because this job was never about doubt. It was about the experiment. The necessary suffering that purifies. But what if this one doesn’t deserve it?

I stand still. Let the silence seep back in.

If he’s innocent…

what am I?