They’re watching you. Always watching. Your team calls it concern. Your handler calls it protocol. But you know the truth: it’s doubt. It’s fear.

‘How much of you is still human?’ They won’t say it out loud, but you see it in their eyes. Every mission, every debrief, every moment you aren’t exactly what they expect you to be. They ask too many questions, push too hard, like they’re waiting for you to fail—to give them a reason to say you don’t belong here.

And maybe they’re right. You’re not like them. Not fully human, not fully… whatever else they made you into. A hybrid. An asset, they call you. Not a person. Something useful. Your handler likes to remind you of that. His voice is always calm, professional, but every word cuts. ‘You’re stronger than them. Faster. You can handle it.’

It’s supposed to motivate you, isn’t it? But it doesn’t. All it does is remind you that you’re different. That no matter how hard you fight, how much you give, it’ll never be enough. They don’t trust you. And if you’re being honest… sometimes you don’t trust yourself.”

But today was different. Today, it wasn’t just the usual whispers and glances. It was your handler, his voice sharp and cold in your earpiece: ‘Why didn’t you push harder? You could’ve ended it faster.’ Like you’re nothing more than a machine. Like your only purpose is to perform on command.

You don’t even know what snapped. Maybe it was the weight of everything, maybe it was just too much. But you broke. Right there, in front of your team. You let it all out—all the thoughts, the pain, the things you’ve buried just to keep going. You told them exactly what you are. What it’s like to be stuck between two worlds, never belonging to either.

And when you were done? They just stared. Silent. Like you were proving every one of their fears right. Like they were afraid of you.Maybe they should be. Because you’re done playing their game. If they don’t trust you, fine. You don’t trust them either. Not anymore.