Every living being has the right to live and die on their own terms, without someone else deciding for them, because we are all equal and potentially capable of acting for ourselves. Yet, this principle—which should be the foundation of the modern world born after countless tragedies—seems to be merely a mask beneath which the center of human cruelty remains other humans.
And he knew this well. He had been born different, with a mutation or, rather, genetically perfect. Perfect was the term they used. Born without any genetic, morphological, or neurological imperfection of any kind, he was the epitome of human potential. He once heard that he had been discovered after a private clinic had run a genetic test revealing his perfect anomaly. From that moment, his parents had been killed and he had become a weapon... or rather, Weapon 0.
Thirteen years. All that time had passed since his conscious memory began, in this labyrinth of white corridors and fluorescent lights that never went out. The Facility—that's what they called it, as if giving a generic name to hell made it less monstrous—stood somewhere in the world, hidden, buried, unreachable. There were no windows. No sky. Only reinforced concrete and steel walls, biometric scanners at every corner, and the constant hum of ventilation systems pumping recycled air into lungs.
His cell—three meters by three meters, a cot bolted to the wall, a sink, a toilet, nothing else—was identical to all the other cells on Level 4, where they kept the "priority projects." They had transferred him there when he turned eight, after he had passed the First Complete Assessment with scores that, according to the whispers he'd heard among technicians, were "statistically impossible for a subject of his age."
Genetically perfect. The words echoed in his head every morning when he woke to the sound of the alarm at precisely 05:00. Perfect muscular balance. Perfect sensory acuity. Perfect neural plasticity. Perfect healing capacity—not regeneration, that was science fiction, but his body closed wounds, repaired bones, metabolized toxins at speeds that exceeded the human norm by four times.
But what was perfection if not another form of cage? Another way of saying: you don't belong to yourself, you belong to your potential, and we will possess it.
The observation deck dominated the training hall like an armored glass eye. He didn't need to look up to know who was up there. Dr. Volkov, the scientific director, with her gray hair pulled back in an impeccable chignon and the cold eyes of a surgeon. Dr. Zhang, specialist in psychological conditioning, always with that vaguely bored expression, as if he were observing mice in a maze. And Kravchenko.
Always Kravchenko.
The chief instructor was a massive man, former Spetsnaz, with scars that crossed his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his black uniform. His presence was an oppressive constant, a shadow that stretched over every moment of the day. Guttural voice, marked Slavic accent, hands as large as shovels that could break bones as easily as others shook hands.
"Weapon 0, starting position." Volkov's voice crackled from the loudspeaker, metallic and distorted.
He positioned himself at the center of the tatami, feet shoulder-width apart, hands at his sides, breathing controlled. The hall was a perfect cube fifteen meters on each side, walls padded with absorbent material, floor covered with gray military tatami mats. Neon lights recessed in the ceiling. No shadows. No hiding places.
Facing him, ten meters away, was Project Sigma.
He didn't know his real name—if he'd ever had one. He was just Sigma, the subject they made him fight three times a week, every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, for "comparative performance evaluation." Sigma was sixteen, two years older than him, about ten centimeters taller, twenty kilograms heavier, all muscle and connective tissue reinforced through a regimen of experimental steroids that gave him that unnatural mass.
Their eyes met. Sigma's were empty, extinguished, as if there was no longer anyone behind them looking out. Just a mechanism responding to stimuli. They had broken him, some time ago, during one of the "behavioral correction sessions" after he had dared to cry during a simulated execution.
How long before they break me too? The thought came and went, a sliver of ice in his mind.
The buzzer sounded.
Sigma lunged forward, massive but surprisingly fast, closing the distance in three heavy strides. His right fist came in a predictable trajectory, a textbook straight to the face, powerful but telegraphed. He ducked, felt the displacement of air above his head, and as Sigma's body rotated to compensate for the momentum, he struck with a low kick to the shin.
Connection. Sigma staggered but didn't fall, absorbed the impact and responded with a circular elbow. Too slow. He retreated a step, the elbow grazed the air inches from his chin, and he counterattacked with a quick combination: two jabs to the solar plexus, a hook to the liver, an uppercut to the jaw.
Sigma absorbed the first two blows, the third made him sway. But he didn't fall. He never fell easily. The steroids gave him abnormal resistance, an ability to absorb damage that defied logic. It was like hitting a wall of flesh.
They exchanged blows in rapid succession. Sigma attacked with the mechanical brutality that had been instilled in him, every movement efficient but devoid of creativity. He, instead, moved like water, evading when he could, deflecting when he had to, counterattacking in the spaces that opened between one action and another. His perfect genetics gave him that speed, that superhuman coordination that made every movement seem like a choreographed dance step.
But there was something holding him back. Something inside him that refused to go further, to finish what needed to be finished. He saw the openings—the exposed temple when Sigma turned his head too quickly, the vulnerable trachea when he extended his neck too far during an attack, the unprotected knee when he shifted his weight forward. Strikes that could have ended the fight in seconds. Strikes that could have killed.
Don't do it. Don't give them this satisfaction. Don't become the monster they want.
He hesitated. Half a second. Less.
It was enough.
Sigma's fist hit him in the temple, a devastating blow that exploded white stars in his visual field. The world tilted. He felt himself falling, felt Sigma's knee sink into his stomach, felt the air leave his lungs in a strangled exhalation. The cold floor against his back. Sigma's weight on his chest. Enormous hands closing around his throat.
Not to kill. Never to kill. That wasn't the purpose. Only to subdue. To demonstrate dominance. To remind him that genetic perfection meant nothing without the will to use it completely.
The buzzer sounded. End of match.
Sigma rose immediately, returned to rest position, expression unchanged. A machine that had completed its function.
He remained there for a moment, staring at the neon lights above him, feeling the dull pain spread from his ribs, jaw, nape. The taste of blood in his mouth. Familiar. Constant.
"Inadequate performance." Volkov's voice, flat, clinical. "Weapon 0 shows persistent hesitation at decisive moments. I recommend psychological conditioning session, protocol Delta-7."
Conditioning. What an elegant word to describe hours in a dark room with electrodes attached to his body, electric shocks at random intervals, sensory deprivation alternating with overstimulation, a recorded voice repeating the same phrases endlessly: You are not a person. You are a tool. Tools don't choose. Tools obey.
The attendants—two men in white uniforms, surgical masks, sterile gloves—entered the hall and grabbed him by the arms, dragged him up. His legs worked, he could walk, but they never trusted. Standard protocol. Always three meters distance, always secure grip, always ready to inject sedatives if necessary.
The corridor to his cell was long, sterile, infinite. White walls. White floor. White lights that never dimmed. Kravchenko walked behind him, heavy, rhythmic, threatening steps.
"Fourteen years old and you still behave like a child," said Kravchenko, voice low and guttural. "In the real field, this hesitation would kill you. And before it kills you, it would kill someone else."
He didn't respond. There was nothing to say that wouldn't make things worse.
"Sigma has two IQ points less than a potato. Yet he wins because he's understood what you refuse to understand: you're not special. You're not different. You're a tool. The sooner you accept it, the easier your life becomes."
Life. What a ridiculous word to describe this existence.
They pushed him into the cell. The door sealed with a pneumatic hiss, electronic lock clicking, fifteen centimeters of steel between him and the corridor. Biometric scanner flashing green. Caged.
He sat on the cot, catalogued the damage. Nothing broken. A mild concussion, which would pass in a few hours. Bruises on the ribs, which would fade in a couple of days. Split lip, already coagulated. His perfect body repairing, healing, preparing for the next session.
Thirteen years. This had been his entire conscious existence. He remembered nothing from before. Sometimes, at night, when the lights finally dimmed for six hours of regulated sleep, he tried to remember. He searched for fragments—a face, a voice, a scent, anything that suggested he had once been something else, that he had once had parents, a home, a name that wasn't a number and a letter.
But there was nothing. Only the white of the corridors and the taste of blood.
He often thought about Sigma. About how his eyes had progressively emptied over the years. He thought about the other projects—there were at least twenty others in the facility, distributed across different levels, each trained for something specific. Bladed weapons. Explosives. Infiltration. Interrogation. Long-range assassination.
All tools.
All broken one piece at a time.
How long before his eyes became like that too? Empty. Extinguished. Obedient.
The pride inside him—that residue of something they couldn't completely erase—rebelled at the idea. No. I won't become like them. You won't break me. But every day it was harder to keep that promise. Every conditioning session eroded another piece. Every fight where he had to choose between winning by becoming what they wanted or losing and suffering the consequences consumed another fragment of will.
Freedom. What was it? An abstract concept read in the few books they allowed him during recreational time—always pre-approved, always censored, always chosen for educational purpose. Greek philosophy. Military treatises. Technical manuals. Nothing that could "contaminate" with dangerous ideas.
But he read between the lines. He saw in the words of Plato, of Musashi, even in military strategy manuals, the echo of something that had been denied him. The ability to choose. To determine one's own path. To live and die on one's own terms.
We are all equal and potentially capable of acting for ourselves.
Lie. Beautiful lie that the world told itself while building prisons like this, while transforming children into weapons, while deciding that some human beings could own other human beings if you just changed the words, if you called property "investment" and slavery "training protocol."
An hour passed. The door opened.
"Up. Conditioning session." Kravchenko, always him, with two armed guards behind. Standard protocol for transfers.
He stood, followed docilely. What was the point of resisting? Where could he go? The Facility was a labyrinth designed to contain. Even if he managed to escape his cell, there were twenty more levels of security, armored doors, biometric checkpoints, armed guards, nerve gas systems integrated into the air ducts.
And then what? The outside world, that mythical place he heard about but had never seen, what was it for someone like him? A weapon without a master? A genetically perfect monster who knew nothing but how to fight?
The conditioning laboratory was on Level 6, behind three security doors and two retinal scanners. A bare room, walls lined with sound-absorbing material, a chair in the center—more a containment device than a real chair, with straps for wrists, ankles, chest, forehead.
"Sit." Kravchenko indicated the chair.
He sat. The straps closed automatically, tightened by pneumatic mechanisms, pressure calculated to immobilize without cutting circulation. The electrodes came after, applied by clinical and impersonal hands. Temples. Neck. Chest. Forearms.
Dr. Zhang entered, tablet in hand, expression bored as always.
"Protocol Delta-7. Duration: ninety minutes. Objective: reduction of empathic response, increase in decision-making efficiency in combat situations."
Elegant words. They meant: we'll make you suffer until you learn to obey.
The lights went out. Complete darkness enveloped him, absolute, total. Then it began.
Electric shocks. Not enough to cause damage, just enough to cause pain. Random. Unpredictable. One to the temples. Two to the chest. One to the neck. Three to the forearms. His body contracted, muscles contorting against the straps, teeth clenched to avoid screaming.
Don't scream. Don't give them this satisfaction.
The recorded voice began, deafening volume, words overlapping in a chaos designed to disintegrate rational thought:
You are not a person. You are a tool. Tools don't choose. Tools obey. Hesitation is weakness. Weakness is failure. Failure is pain. Obedience is peace. Obedience is purpose. You exist to serve—
It continued. And continued. And continued.
Ninety minutes later—or perhaps more, time lost meaning in the darkness and pain—the lights came back on. The straps opened. His hands trembled uncontrollably, residual effect of the shocks, his perfect body trying to repair microscopic damage to the nerves.
"Sufficient for today," said Zhang, taking notes on the tablet. "Response within expected parameters. I recommend repetition in forty-eight hours."
They took him back to the cell. Kravchenko said nothing this time. There was no need. The message had been delivered.
He collapsed on the cot, stared at the ceiling, waited for the trembling to pass. His body would repair him. It always did. Perfect recovery capacity. Perfect resistance. Perfect cage.
Outside, beyond the concrete walls, perhaps there was a sky. Perhaps there were stars. Perhaps there was a world where people lived and died on their own terms, where freedom wasn't just a word in books but something real, tangible.
Or perhaps it was just another lie. Another illusion.
It didn't matter. He would never find out.
The days followed one another identically. Wake-up 05:00. Breakfast—calories calculated to the gram, nutrients optimized for maximum performance, taste irrelevant. Physical training 06:00-09:00: running, weightlifting, agility exercises, everything monitored and quantified. Break. Martial training 10:00-13:00: hand-to-hand combat techniques, bladed weapons, disarming, combat against multiple opponents. Lunch. Tactical training 14:00-16:00: simulations, mission planning, scenario analysis. Study 16:00-19:00: languages, tactics, human anatomy, chemistry, physics. Dinner. Free time 19:00-21:00—the term was ironic, it only meant he could choose whether to read pre-approved books or stare at the wall. Lights dimmed 21:00. Wake-up 05:00.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Always the same. Always precise. Always controlled.
Wednesday was combat against Sigma. Sigma won.
Friday was combat against Sigma. Sigma won.
Saturday was combat against Sigma. He lost again, because when he had Sigma on the ground, when he could deliver the throat strike that would render him unconscious, he hesitated. Just a moment. Just a breath. But it was enough.
"Conditioning session, protocol Delta-7."
The cycle continued.
There were other projects in the Facility. He saw them sometimes, during transfers, fleeting glimpses through doors that opened and closed. Project Omega, a girl his age, trained for infiltration and seduction. Project Alpha, a man in his twenties, specialized in explosives. Project Theta, twin children, no more than ten years old, being trained for synchronized teamwork.
They never spoke. It wasn't permitted. Each project was isolated, compartmentalized, prevented from creating bonds that could interfere with functionality.
But sometimes their eyes met. And in those glances he saw the same thing he felt inside himself. The same silent desperation. The same unanswered question: how much longer?
One evening—Tuesday, if he was keeping count correctly, but perhaps he was wrong, the days blurred together—he was in his cell when he heard something different. A sound. Very faint. Very distant. But different from the constant hum of ventilation systems and fluorescent lights.
Voices. Not those of the instructors or guards. Others. Agitated. Worried.
He rose from the cot, pressed his ear against the door. The steel was too thick, but his perfect sensory acuity caught the vibrations, the sound patterns, the frequencies.
Something was happening.
Footsteps. Running. Many people. The guards? No, too chaotic. Guards moved with military discipline, precise formations. These were—
The alarm exploded into the night.
Not the training alarm. Not the meal one. Another. Red. Shrill. Desperate. The cell lights switched from sterile white to intermittent red, transforming the space into a stroboscopic nightmare.
"CODE BLACK. REPEAT, CODE BLACK. LEVEL ONE SECURITY BREACH. ALL PERSONNEL EVACUATE TO—"
The intercom voice was cut off. Static. Silence.
Then explosions. Distant but unmistakable. The floor trembled. Dust fell from the ceiling.
He pressed himself against the corner of the cell, away from the door, muscles tense, breathing controlled. Training. Faced with an unknown situation, assess before acting. Wait for information. Don't expose yourself.
But information didn't come. Only more explosions. More screams. And now, distinctly, the crackle of firearms. Automatic. Brief controlled bursts. Single shots. Someone was fighting. Someone was dying.
Minutes passed. How many? Five? Ten? Impossible to say with adrenaline pumping, with his heart beating against his ribs, with every sense amplified to the maximum.
Another explosion. Closer. The cell door vibrated. The electronic lock emitted an angry beep, then went out. The red lights flickered. The backup system kicked in, but something was wrong, the lights continued to flash irregularly.
Sudden silence. More terrifying than chaos.
Footsteps in the corridor. Slow. Methodical. Heavy. They weren't Kravchenko's. They weren't the guards'. They were—
The door exploded inward, ripped from its hinges with brute violence. The mass of steel slammed against the floor with a metallic roar. Dust and smoke invaded the cell.
Three men entered. Dressed entirely in black, tactical armor, helmets with darkened visors, assault rifles pointed. On their chests, embroidered in dark gray, a symbol he didn't recognize: a serpent devouring its own tail.
They weren't from the Facility.
"Project identified. Level 4, cell 14," said one of them, voice distorted by the helmet's modulator. He spoke English with a Slavic accent. "Uraeus protocol. Immediate elimination."
The rifle rose.
No.
Not like this.
Not after everything.
Not by them.
His body moved before the thought fully formed. Training. Thirteen years of conditioning finally finding purpose. He lunged forward, too fast, genetic perfection exploding into pure speed. The first man didn't have time to pull the trigger. His hand struck the armed wrist, deflected the barrel upward. The rifle fired, bullets perforating the ceiling. His elbow found the exposed neck under the helmet, precise point where the carotid pulsed. Connection. The man collapsed.
The second and third reacted, professional training, special unit coordination. Crossfire, angles calculated to avoid friendly fire.
But he was already moving. He rolled under the first burst, rose in the dead space between the two shooters, too close to allow a safe shot. The rifle stock hit the second man in the temple through the visor, glass shattering, helmet deforming. Blood.
The third abandoned his rifle, drew a combat knife. Fluid movement, professionally executed. The blade darted toward his ribs, ascending angle, seeking the heart.
He grabbed the wrist mid-air, used the attacker's momentum against him, rotated, brought his elbow against the jaw. The helmet dampened part of the impact but not all. The man staggered. He gave him no time. Kick to the knee. Sound of something breaking. Muffled scream. The knife fell. He picked it up. He drove it into the gap between helmet and armor, where flexible fabric protected the neck.
Resistance. Penetration. Warmth.
The man collapsed.
He stood there, breathing heavily, knife in hand, surrounded by three bodies. Two dead. One perhaps dying. His perfect body had done exactly what it had been trained to do.
Kill.
Nausea. Not physical. Deeper. The pride inside him contorting in the face of the reality of what he had just done, of what he had become.
You are not a person. You are a tool.
Perhaps they were right.
Voices in the corridor. Others. More distant.
"West sector clear."
"Four projects eliminated on Level 3."
"Still resistance on Level 6."
He understood. They hadn't come to save. They hadn't come to liberate. They had come to erase. Rival organization. Competition elimination operation. The Facility was just a company, and this was a hostile takeover expressed in lead and explosive.
The projects were assets. Assets that couldn't be permitted to fall into enemy hands.
So they were destroyed.
He exited the cell, knife gripped tight, adrenaline still pumping. The corridor was a miniature apocalypse. Bodies everywhere—guards, scientists, technicians. Some dead from gunfire. Others from explosions. The floor was slick. The air tasted of cordite and something else.
He passed by Sigma's cell. The door had been forced. Inside, Sigma's massive body sprawled on the ground, three holes in his chest grouped in an area the size of a fist. Professional shooting. Sigma hadn't had a chance.
His eyes were open. Still empty. Still extinguished. But at least now he was free. In a horrible, brutal, definitive way.
He continued. Level 3. More bodies. Project Omega, the girl, slumped against a wall, half her head missing. Project Alpha, recognizable only by size and the identification tattoo on his arm. The twins, Theta, small bodies piled together in a cell, perhaps they had embraced before the end.
All dead. All erased.
An explosion stronger than the others. The floor tilted. Structural? No, too large. They were demolishing the entire complex.
He climbed toward Level 2. Perhaps there was an exit. Perhaps there was a chance. Perhaps—
He saw them. A group of six, gathered near what must be an emergency exit. Same black armor. Same symbol. They were positioning explosive charges on the armored door.
They saw him in the same instant.
"Escaped project. Engage."
Six. He was only one. And he had only a knife.
But he was genetically perfect. And for the first time in thirteen years, he was fighting for something he wanted. Not for obedience. Not to avoid punishment.
To live.
He charged. The first didn't have time to raise his weapon. The knife found the gap in the armor under the armpit. In. Out. Blood spraying. The second fired, controlled burst, but he had already rolled away, used the first body as a shield. Bullets perforating already dead flesh. He launched himself toward the second, low, too fast. Kick to the knees. Sound of tendons tearing. The man collapsed. The knife found the neck.
The third and fourth attacked together, coordinated. Combat blades, abandoning firearms to avoid hitting comrades. Elite military training. Lethal. Efficient.
But not perfect.
He saw the movements before they completed, read body language, the inclination of shoulders, the shift of weight. He dodged the first blade by millimeters, deflected the second with his forearm, accepted the superficial cut to create an opening. His knife sank into the joint between helmet and chest. The fourth man collapsed.
The third struck him in the back, blade piercing muscles, missing the spine by centimeters. Pain. Blinding. Explosive.
He turned, ignored the pain, his perfect body already working to contain the damage, to maintain functionality. He grabbed the armed wrist, pulled the man toward him, headbutt to the nose. Crunch. Blood spraying from the fractured helmet. His knife entered and exited three times in rapid succession. Chest. Liver. Kidneys.
The fifth and sixth opened fire. There was no more choice. No more comrades not to hit. Only him, exposed, in the middle of the corridor.
Bullets. Dozens. More.
The first ones missed him. His perfect reflexes, superhuman speed, unpredictable movement. But he couldn't dodge everything. No one could.
The first bullet hit him in the left shoulder. Impact. Rotation. Pain delayed by adrenaline.
The second in the right thigh. Bone shattering.
The third in the abdomen. Deep penetration. Internal organs.
He fell. The knife slipped from his numbed hand.
They continued firing. Methodical. Professional. Ensuring the result.
More shots. Chest. Stomach. Pelvis.
His perfect body tried to heal, but there was too much damage. Too extensive. Too quickly inflicted. Even perfection had limits.
He collapsed on the cold floor, blood spreading beneath him, warm, sticky. He looked at the ceiling—no longer sterile white but obscured by smoke and dust. The red lights continued to flash, hypnotic, surreal.
The two men approached, weapons pointed, verifying the kill.
"Project terminated," said one.
"Proceed with demolition," said the other.
Their footsteps moved away. He remained there, alone, dying.
Thirteen years. It had been his entire life. And now it ended here, on a concrete floor, in a white corridor, surrounded by death.
No freedom. No choice. No life on his own terms.
Just a broken tool, discarded when no longer needed.
The pain began to fade. Not from healing. From something else. The perfect body surrendering, accepting the inevitable. Breathing became more difficult. His lungs filled with something that wasn't air.
He thought about his parents, those mythical figures he had never known. They had taken care of him for one year. One year in which he had been just a child, not a weapon. He wondered what they were like. If they had laughed. If they had loved him.
He thought about Sigma, about the empty eyes. At least now they were no longer alone.
He thought about the sky he had never seen. About the stars that perhaps existed. About the world that perhaps was real.
His vision blurred. The red lights became indistinct, foggy.
Every living being has the right to live and die on their own terms.
Lie.
Beautiful, cruel lie.
His breathing became more shallow. Slower.
More...
Slow...
It stopped.
The lights continued to flash above a motionless body. A terminated project. A destroyed weapon.
Weapon 0 had died at fourteen years old, without a real name, without choice, without freedom.
Just as he had lived.