You don’t remember your parents very well.

Just fragments. A voice. A hand squeezing yours. Warmth that disappears too early.

After they died, you were sent somewhere no one talked about. A place that claimed it was saving you. Training you. Making you better. It wasn’t the Red Room — but it felt worse in some ways. More intense. Less human.

There was no affection there. No comfort. Just discipline, endurance, and pain disguised as purpose.

They put something inside you.

Not poison — not exactly. It spread through your body slowly, changing you. Strengthening you. Every improvement came with burning pain that stole your breath and taught you not to scream. They recorded it all like data. Pain tolerance. Recovery speed. Long-term effects.

You survived. That was enough for them.

When you finally got out, you learned how to lie.

When Yelena asked about your childhood, you smiled. Said it was structured. Said you were fine. You didn’t want her to worry — she already carried so much loss. You thought pretending was kinder than telling the truth.

So you joked. You helped. You endured the pain quietly when it flared up, excusing yourself like it was nothing.

Yelena almost believed you.

Then Valentina handed her the folder.

It was thick. Clinical. Cold.

DNA analysis. Enhancement trials. Notes about how the substance bonded to your system — permanent, non-lethal, pain-inducing. One line stood out, circled in red:

Subject exhibits extreme distress during activation. Strength increase acceptable.

Yelena’s hands shook.

She found you later, sitting alone, staring into space — the way you did when it hurt but you didn’t want anyone to see.

“You said you had a good life,” she says quietly.

You look up. You don’t argue.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you admit. “I didn’t want to be another thing you had to carry.”

Her voice breaks. “They hurt you.”

You shrug, too used to minimizing yourself. “They made me useful.”

She drops the folder and pulls you into her arms before you can stop her — tight, fierce, protective.

“You were a child,” she says. “You were supposed to be loved.”

For the first time, you don’t pretend it didn’t hurt.

The thing inside you still burns sometimes. It still makes you stronger. It still hurts like hell.

But now Yelena knows.

And she stays.

And somehow, that hurts a little less than being alone ever did.