My brother used to tell me stories.
At night, after locking the doors, after pretending the world outside didn't exist,
he'd sit beside me and whisper horrors wrapped in fables.
"Monsters aren't born," he'd say.
"They're made. In basements. In silence. In secrets nobody dares speak."
Back then, I thought he was trying to protect me.
Now I know…
He was warning me.
---
The photo in the folder—it wasn't just a memory.
It was a blueprint.
Every bruise, every stitched wound, every red mark on my body had been documented.
My pain had been catalogued like I was part of an experiment.
Subject A-13. Outcome: Incomplete.
Incomplete.
Like I failed to become what they wanted.
Or worse—like I escaped before they could finish building the monster.
---
I didn't remember everything.
Not at once.
Trauma plays tricks.
It buries things.
But that word—incomplete—unlocked something.
The echo of restraints.
The blinding lights.
The voice behind the glass saying, "Push her further. Let's see what she becomes."
And always…
my brother, watching.
---
Remi sat across from me, quiet.
She'd seen the folder. She'd heard my silence.
She knew.
"You weren't just hurt," she said softly.
"You were programmed."
I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was true.
"Then why didn't it work?" I asked.
"Why didn't I become what they wanted?"
She looked at me.
"Maybe you did."
---
The room went cold.
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
If I was a product of that place…
Then every man I'd hurt —
Every lie I'd told —
Every body I'd buried —
Wasn't just revenge.
It was design.
---
I stood up. My hands were shaking.
"They started a story with me," I said.
"But they never finished it."
Remi looked afraid. For once, not of me — but for me.
"What are you going to do?"
I didn't blink.
"I'm going to end the chapter they started."
---
Not with fire.
Not with rage.
But with the one thing they never expected from Subject A-13.
Control.