The lab was a symphony of cold, lifeless machinery, humming with an indifferent rhythm, its artificial glow casting eerie shadows on the blood-streaked metal floors. Holographic monitors hovered in the stagnant air, flickering lines of data scrolling endlessly, reflecting in pools of crimson that had long since dried. Among the neon blue holograms, the boy’s vitals were displayed in sharp, unfeeling precision—his pulse faint, his brain activity erratic as the machines systematically dismantled his very being.


    Rows of ancient empty medical chairs lined the perimeter of the room, each one marred by streaks of blood, gouged leather straps, and the rusted remains of shackles. Some still held the twisted remnants of their former occupants—severed fingers, clumps of hair, or the occasional, grotesquely grinning skull staring lifelessly at the ceiling. The air was thick with the stench of sterilized metal and something far worse: the lingering, ghostly rot of those who had perished screaming. This was not a hospital. This was a factory of erasure.


    And now, at its center, strapped in place by unyielding anti-magic clamps, was none other… than Kite Caulder. His young, withered body sagged against the brutal restraint of the chair, his malnourished skin pale and clammy, marred with bruises where the metal had dug in too deep.


    Where Rook’s brutal torture methods had deformed his frail body and psyche. Gone was the warmth of his gentle green eyes, the flicker of defiance that once burned so brightly. Gone was the silver chain necklace that he had once clung to as a reminder of who he was. Gone was his past, his identity, his very soul—piece by piece, it was being shredded into nothing.


    His head was split open like a cruel experiment, his skull wrenched apart by jagged mechanical clamps that had no concern for the sanctity of human flesh. His brain, slick and glistening, lay exposed beneath the sickly glow of crimson surgical lights, his blood dribbling down the sides of his face, tracing the contours of his young cheeks before pooling at his feet.


    His eyelids twitched In response to the horror unfolding inside his mind—a silent, unseen battle as his memories were plucked from him, dissected, and incinerated by the invasive laser probes that hovered mercilessly above his exposed mind. The slender, multi-jointed arms of the machine worked methodically, their sharp red beams cutting deep into the neural tissue, severing connections, corrupting thoughts, hollowing him out. Spiritually… and physically.


    With each passing second, another fragment of who he was faded into a void that could never be undone. Another memory stolen. Another dream shattered. Another piece of Kite Caulder—forgotten.


    And standing over him, the executioner of his very existence, was the man in charge of his destruction. The surgeon was a hollow figure, his face lined with exhaustion and the weight of a thousand sins. His dark curly hair was streaked with premature gray, his forehead furrowed with deep wrinkles that had been carved by guilt and time.


    His hardened, Mexican features should have been warm, should have held the kind eyes of a healer—but those eyes were empty now. Void of light, void of hope. Because there was no salvation here. There was only the work.


    His hands, drenched In the blood of children and adults alike, moved with a dreadful efficiency as he manipulated the tools of Kite’s undoing. His clothing, though once pristine and white, was stained with blood both fresh and old, the fabric woven with synthetic fibers that barely resisted the horrors it had endured.


    The sleek, black futuristic overcoat he wore bore the insignia of Rook Enterprises, its orange crest gleaming under the surgical lights—a constant reminder that he was nothing more than a cog in the machine. A machine that devoured the innocent and spat them out as hollowed-out husks.


    Still, he worked. He worked because if he hesitated, he would be next. As the laser-tipped instruments sliced deeper, Kite’s fingers trembled, the last dregs of his consciousness screaming in defiance. “...my name…” The poor boy whispered in a daze, a single tear trailing down his blood stained cheek.


    But his helpless voice was effortlessly drowned out by the distant machinery. For it was futile. The machine did not care. Rook did not care.


    Steadily, the last fragile remnants of Kite’s soul collapsed into the abyss, unraveling like threads pulled from a fraying tapestry. His existence—his dreams, his laughter, the warmth of his memories—was being reduced to mere data, flashing in cold, indifferent numbers across a flickering screen.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The machines beeped, their tempo quickening, as if mirroring the desperate struggle of a spirit on the brink of annihilation. Overhead, the sterile lights shuddered and dimmed, their feeble flickers resembling silent pleas—as if even the lifeless machinery mourned the boy who was slipping away.


    The air in the lab grew impossibly still. The only sounds that remained were the rhythmic beeps of the monitors and the occasional hiss of the neural probes burrowing deeper into Kite’s exposed brain. The surgeon continued his work with mechanical precision, but his hands trembled ever so slightly, the weight of his actions pressing against his weary soul.


    Then, the door slid open behind him with a hiss. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet, yet a slow, suffocating heat crawled over the surgeon’s skin like phantom fingers. The machines whirred, their beeping subtly slowing, their once flickering lights steadied, as if even the lifeless technology understood the presence that had entered. Rook had arrived.


    His footsteps were eerily soundless, yet his very presence was deafening. He moved with the controlled grace of a predator—deliberate, unhurried, inescapable. Standing tall and unyielding, Rook was a monolithic specter of authority, his physique sculpted into a form that radiated sheer dominance.


    His Mexican features were sharp and symmetrical, but there was no warmth in them, only the polished perfection of a man who had outgrown humanity. His glowing orange cybernetic eyes cast an unnatural light, their faint pulses reminiscent of distant warning beacons, cold and calculating. They dissected everything they fell upon, peeling away layers until only the raw, bleeding truth remained.


    The orange tie draped down his broad chest like a noose, pristine against the stark black of his immaculately tailored suit. But it was his skin—his very flesh—that unsettled most. Etched with intricate cybernetic veins, his body was a seamless fusion of man and machine, metal and muscle interwoven so perfectly that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Glowing circuits pulsed faintly beneath his skin like embers resting beneath glass, a reminder that his humanity had long since been augmented into something colder, sharper—merciless.


    He was a walking nightmare. The surgeon flinched. Though he did not stop his work, the weight of Rook’s arrival pressed into his shoulders, an oppressive force that no amount of training or desensitization could ever dull. He felt the prickling sensation of being watched, the unnatural stillness of the room amplifying the sound of his own breath—his own pounding heartbeat.


    Rook silently stepped forward, the lab lights casting long, stretched shadows around his towering frame. He moved with the precision of someone who never wasted an ounce of energy, who never faltered or hesitated. The cold hum of machinery served as his only soundtrack as he came to a stop directly behind the surgeon, his presence looming like an executioner over a condemned prisoner.


    The surgeon swallowed hard but did not turn around. His grip tightened around his tools as he forced himself to focus on Kite’s deteriorating brain. Yet, it was impossible to ignore the presence behind him, the way Rook’s unreadable gaze bore into him like a silent demand for perfection.


    Then, after a long, suffocating silence, Rook finally spoke. “How far along?” His voice was a low murmur, eerily calm, each syllable precise and clipped. There was no urgency, no impatience—just the certainty of a man who knew the answer would be exactly what he expected.


    The surgeon exhaled shakily before gesturing toward the screen. The holographic display flickered, revealing the progress of the mind-wipe: 98% Completion.


    Despite the sedatives flooding Kite’s veins, despite the relentless precision of the neural incisions, despite the overwhelming forces working against him… he was still fighting. The brainwaves on the monitor remained erratic, as if his subconscious mind still thrashed in its final moments of existence.


    The surgeon hesitated before admitting, “He’s still resisting. Despite everything.”


    Rook did not move. For a long moment, he simply stared at the screen, his cybernetic eyes scanning the data with a detached intensity. His silence stretched unbearably, heavy with something unseen.


    Then… he smiled. A slow, knowing smirk curled at the corners of his lips—not disappointment, not frustration, but satisfaction.


    He turned his gaze back to Kite’s trembling, twitching body, his eyelids flickering as his shattered consciousness clung to the last shreds of himself. The sight seemed to amuse Rook, his smirk deepening into something darker—a perverse, cruel pride that twisted in his expression like a blade sliding into flesh.


    “This only proves…” he murmured, voice thick with something almost reverent, “that I chose correctly.”


    He reached into his pocket. A quiet hum filled the space as he pulled out two onyx-black cybernetic bracelets—sleek, unholy things, thrumming with a faint green energy that crackled along their edges like caged lightning. The air around them distorted slightly, as if reality itself recoiled from their existence.


    The bracelets—his final gift, his greatest tool, his crowning masterpiece. He studied them for a long moment, feeling the static energy ripple across his fingers before turning his gaze back to Kite.


    Rook relished it. His cruel grin widened, his expression a chilling mixture of triumph and something disturbingly paternal. The storm of his cybernetic gaze locked onto the broken child before him. The boy he had crushed. The boy he had reforged.


    “You have made me truly proud…” Rook breathed, his voice laced with something insidious.


    Then, after a beat, he chuckled softly. He closed his fingers around the black cybernetic bracelets, gripping them like a king claiming his crown. His smirk deepened, his expression twisted with a sinister joy as he uttered the words that sealed Kite’s fate.


    “My son.”