“They were refining their techniques,” Reaper observed, voice flat but fingers tightening around his spoon until the metal bent slightly. “Learning from each failure.”
I opened an image folder with corresponding subject designations. The clinical detachment of the reports shattered against the visceral horror of the photos—men strapped to chairs, tables, and standing frames. Electrodes attached to shaved heads, IV lines snaking into arms, facescontorted in agonies I couldn’t begin to comprehend or blank with artificial serenity. Personnel in surgical masks and unmarked scrubs moved around them like mechanics working on machines. My gaze was frantic as it searched for two familiar faces—Reaper’s and Xavier’s.
“Jesus,” I whispered, bile rising in my throat.
Reaper’s jaw tightened, the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. His breathing remained measured and controlled, but I was close enough to feel the tension radiating from his body. Whatever programming kept his emotions in check was fighting against the evidence of his own victimization.
A folder labeled “Viable Assets” stood out among the others. Inside, the organization changed—code names replaced numbers: Specter_Secunda, Valkyrie_Prima, Ghost_Tertia, Hades_Secunda.
“What’s with the Prima, Secunda, Tertia?” I wondered aloud.
“Generations,” Reaper said. “The informant mentioned generations of agents. They must have evolved their protocol over time.”
Instead of medical reports, these files contained performance evaluations, mission parameters, and success rates. No longer patients—these were operatives.
“These must be the ones who survived,” I said, the realization sickening me. “The ones who lived got code names instead of numbers.” I looked up at him. Reaper’s gaze remained glued to the screen, and mine followed the motion.
We scrolled through images of men in various locations—surveillance photos, training footage. Their facesshowed nothing, eyes empty in a way that reminded me of taxidermy—something that once held life, now filled with artificial substance.
Then the scrolling stopped. A video file labeled “Reaper_Prima_Protocol” glared at us from the screen.
The air between us changed, charged with something beyond tension. Reaper went absolutely still beside me, not even breathing. Time seemed suspended as we stared at the filename representing his creation and my brother’s probable fate. Tightness clutched my chest, not releasing. My finger hovered over the trackpad.
“I can watch it first, tell you what’s...”
“No.” His hand covered mine on the trackpad, warm and steady despite everything. “I need to see.”
I turned to face him. “What if it triggers something worse than nosebleeds?”
“I need to know what they took from me.” His eyes met mine, determination overriding fear.
I nodded and clicked play.
The video showed a medical room with harsh lighting and tiled walls—institutional and sterile. A man—Reaper—sat strapped to a metal chair, head freshly shaved, expression defiant despite visible bruising. He looked different—younger, fuller in the face, with none of the calculated emptiness I’d seen when he first cornered me in my motel room. Most jarring was the life in his eyes—rage, determination, humanity.
A clinical voice spoke off-camera. “Subject twenty-seven demonstrates remarkable resistance to standard protocols. Increasing electrical current by thirty percent.”
What followed was methodical torture disguised as a medical procedure. Electrodes delivered shocks that made Reaper’s body arch against the restraints, tendons standing out in his neck, veins prominent under his skin. Between seizures, injections followed, clear liquids pushed into his veins while technicians in masks monitored vital signs on machines just out of frame.
Unlike other subjects in previous files, this man—the Reaper before he became Reaper—fought longer, harder. He screamed curses, threats, and promises of vengeance that made my skin prickle.
“My name is...” Static interrupted the audio, clearly edited. “You have no right!”
The Reaper beside me remained perfectly still, but a thin line of blood trickled from his nostril, a bright crimson trail against his skin. His eyes never blinked, fixed on the screen with the intensity of someone watching their own execution.
“Stop,” I whispered, reaching for his hand. “We can take a break.”
“No,” he responded, voice hollow. He allowed me to hold his hand, though. “I need to see it all.”
The video was cut in several snippets blurred together in the footage—his hair growing back slightly between recordings, new bruises replacing faded ones. The time stamps in the corner showed weeks passing. Different technicians rotated through, but the procedures remained thesame: electrical current, injections, sleep deprivation, sensory manipulation.
With each clip, his resistance weakened. His screams became jumbled, then fragmented, then ceased entirely. The defiance in his eyes dimmed to confusion, then vacant compliance. The transition from person to weapon happened in increments so small they were almost imperceptible, yet the cumulative effect was devastating.
The Reaper beside me watched his own unmaking with terrifying stillness. Blood now streamed steadily from both nostrils, dripping onto his borrowed shirt in a spreading stain. I grabbed a dish towel from the counter and pressed it to his face, but he didn’t acknowledge it, blinked, or moved.
“Your name is JD-2741. You are Reaper,” a voice repeated in the video. Over and over. Electrodes pulsed. Needles pierced the skin. A technician checked pupillary response, nodding with satisfaction at whatever he saw.
“Repeat it,” the voice commanded.
