The sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway like approaching thunder. The boy sat still on the bed, his legs dangling off the edge, his hands clenched into fists in his lap.
He wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
He had spent too many nights alone in the rain, too many days scavenging through trash bins and defending himself from worse things than monsters in suits. He didn't care who Ryan was. What mattered now was escape.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Ryan stepped in, casual as ever, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, landed on the boy.
"You're awake," he said, voice calm.
The boy didn't respond. He simply stared.
Ryan stepped closer and pulled the desk chair beside the bed, straddling it backwards and resting his arms over the top.
"I figured we could talk," he said.
The boy narrowed his eyes. "About what?"
Ryan smiled. "About you. About why I didn't just leave you out in the cold."
"You should have," the boy said coldly.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Ryan said, leaning forward. "But that would've been too easy. And I don't do easy."
There was silence between them, thick like fog.
"I don't care what you do with me," the boy muttered. "But if you think you're going to brainwash me or turn me into some kind of puppet, you've picked the wrong kid."
Ryan didn't flinch. He tilted his head, studying the boy again, as if he were looking at a painting that refused to reveal its meaning.
"I don't want a puppet," he said. "I want something better."
"You want a slave."
"No," Ryan replied, "I want a successor."
The boy blinked.
A quiet beat passed.
"…What?"
Ryan leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You have what I didn't at your age—courage. That anger burning inside you? That's survival instinct. It kept you alive. But it's wasted on the streets."
The boy's fists tightened.
"I'm not interested in becoming a criminal," he spat.
Ryan gave a slow, amused chuckle. "You're already one. You've stolen, haven't you? Fought. Lied. You know how to manipulate people. That's what you've been doing your whole life. You're just doing it to survive."
"That's not the same," the boy snapped.
"No," Ryan agreed. "But it's not that different either."
He stood and walked toward the window. The thick velvet curtains were shut, but he pushed them aside, revealing a long view of the city below. Lights blinked in the distance like dying stars.
"This world doesn't care about kids like you," he said. "You're not going to grow up and become a lawyer or a doctor. No one's going to save you. You either take control… or you get used."
The boy's chest rose and fell, breaths quickening.
"I'd rather die than be like you."
Ryan turned back around slowly.
"You say that now," he said, walking toward the door. "But wait until you see what I can offer."
As he stepped out of the room, he looked back one last time. "Maria will bring you food. Don't try anything stupid. This house isn't like the street."
Then he was gone.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Locked.
Again.
---
Maria came an hour later, carrying a tray of food—warm chicken, rice, a slice of bread, and clean water. She sat down on the chair Ryan had used earlier and placed the tray in front of the boy.
"You need to eat," she said gently.
"I'm not hungry," the boy said, though his stomach twisted in protest.
She stayed quiet for a moment, then looked at him seriously.
"I know you don't trust him," she said, "and you shouldn't. But you should eat. You'll need your strength."
"For what?" he asked.
Maria hesitated.
"…Because he's going to test you."
The boy's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
She didn't answer. She just looked down at her hands.
He picked up the fork, staring at the food as if it might bite him back. After a long pause, he finally ate.
As he finished the last bite, Maria stood.
"I'll come back later," she said. "Try to rest."
But the boy didn't rest.
He waited.
And when night fell, the door unlocked again.
This time, two men entered—both dressed in black suits, faces masked. They didn't speak. One of them grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him to his feet.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
They didn't answer.
They marched him out of the room, down a narrow hallway, and into a basement corridor dimly lit by a single overhead bulb. The walls were concrete, the air damp and cold. Somewhere far away, the sound of dripping water echoed.
Finally, they opened a steel door.
Inside was a room—bare, except for a camera in the corner and a steel table in the center. On it lay a black box, sealed with a lock.
Ryan was already inside, standing in the shadows.
"Come in," he said.
The boy stepped forward, the guards letting go of his arms. His eyes flicked toward the black box.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A test," Ryan replied. "Open it."
The boy hesitated, then approached the box.
It clicked open with ease.
Inside was a gun.
He stared at it.
Then at Ryan.
"Pick it up," Ryan said.
"No."
Ryan stepped closer. "Pick. It. Up."
The boy's hand trembled. He reached forward, wrapped his fingers around the cold metal, and lifted the weapon.
"Now point it at me," Ryan said, calm as ever.
"What?"
"You heard me."
The boy gritted his teeth. "Is this a game to you?"
"It's a lesson," Ryan said. "I need to know how far you'll go."
The boy raised the gun.
His hands shook, but his eyes didn't.
Ryan smiled.
"You've already passed."
Without warning, the lights flickered out, plunging the room into darkness.
A voice crackled through a hidden speaker.
"Subject one, response: rage suppressed. Instincts active. Trigger control present."
The boy turned toward the sound, confused.
"What the hell is this?"
But no one answered.
When the lights returned, Ryan was gone.
Only the gun remained.
Still warm in the boy's hand.