Erevos Facility

  The quantum computer at the facility's core began to emit a deep, vibrating hum, rattling the steel walls of the laboratory. Blue lights, once serene and constant, turned blood-red in warning. Holographic panels flickered to life with erratic streams of data. On one particular screen, the neural scan of Aelina’s brain surged beyond safe thresholds.

  "President Caius!" one of the scientists shouted, panic thick in his voice as his fingers danced across a control panel. "Something’s wrong with the extraction, her body’s resisting! We’ve lost control!"

  From his office, President Caius stood abruptly, his face sharpening into grim resolve as he watched the chaos unfold on the screen. "Seal the chamber. No one gets out. Evacuate the team immediately!" His voice, cold and commanding, brooked no disagreement.

  Inside the lab, Aelina’s body convulsed violently within the containment pod. The cables connecting to her head trembled, lights flashing urgent messages: DATA EXTRACTION INTERRUPTED and MEMORY WIPE FAILED. Slowly, her eyes opened, pupils glowing with an erratic crimson light.

  With unnatural precision, she tore the cables from her body one by one. Metal connectors clattered to the floor like falling blades. In a single, fluid motion, Aelina leapt from the pod and landed in the center of the lab.

  Her face was expressionless, but her eyes, those red, searching eyes, scanned the room like a machine set to analyze and survive. Scientists recoiled in fear. Some dropped their tools. Others backed away toward the exit.

  "Secure the facility!" President Caius's voice rang through the loudspeakers. "Everyone out! Do not engage!"

  But Aelina did not attack.

  She sprinted through the room with terrifying agility, weaving between staff and guards. Every movement was honed, controlled, yet she harmed no one. The guards hesitated, fingers twitching on their triggers, paralyzed by the uncertainty of the threat.

  As she entered the corridor, Aelina stopped. Her fingers moved to the side of her head. A slight grimace crossed her face as she dug into her temple, extracting a small, disk-shaped device pulsing with a faint blue light. She stared at it. Then, with a subtle clench of her fist, crushed it into glittering shards.

  The connection severed.

  Across the lab, red alerts faded into stillness. Systems fell quiet. Screens returned to normal, though a few blinked with residual warnings.

  Aelina stepped into the open, the battlefield outside still scarred from the last skirmish. Wreckage, scorched debris, and the scent of burnt metal lingered.

  Without hesitation, she incapacitated a guard with a single, clean strike and snatched the jetpack from his back. Strapping it on, she launched into the air, no destination, just escape.

  The wind tore across her face as Erevos Facility shrank behind her. But the jetpack’s fuel waned. Aelina lost altitude rapidly. She crashed through scattered ruins before hitting the ground in a scrapyard of twisted metal.

  Theros City, Slums

  Consciousness returned like a flickering signal. Aelina stirred amid piles of rusted steel. Her limbs trembled, but she forced herself upright, stiff and unsteady. Above, the sky was choked in smog, broken by the cold gleam of Theros City's lights.

  She stood. Blank-faced. Yet her crimson eyes scanned the unfamiliar terrain, hyperaware. She bolted through the scrap maze, driven by instinct, her gaze darting to every shadow, as if chasing fragments of a lost identity.

  But the light in her eyes dimmed. The red glow faded. Her pupils turned human again. Strength left her.

  She collapsed.

  In the silence, only the moan of wind remained, until footsteps approached.

  From the mist of the alley, an old man emerged. His broad frame carried by a long wooden staff. His face, marred by scars, told tales of wars once fought, of glory long past.

  Garron Strife.

  Once a feared underground fighter, now a relic walking among ruins.

  He turned the corner and froze.

  A girl. Unmoving. Hidden under scrap metal and dirt. Hair tangled, clothes torn. Yet something about her presence halted him.

  "What in damnation..." he muttered, stepping closer.

  He knelt, inspecting the mark on her temple, a faint wound where something had once been embedded. With rough fingers, he touched it. His eyes narrowed.

  "Hybrid human... but why are you here?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "In a place like this."

  He lifted her gently. Despite her size, she felt heavier than expected, as though carrying something unseen.

  "You look like a miracle fallen from the stars," Garron murmured. "Maybe you’re what I’ve been waiting for."

  Garron's Home, Edge of the Slums

  He laid her on a battered couch, surrounded by outdated training equipment. An old boxing ring sat at the center, lit by a single, buzzing bulb.

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  Lighting a cigarette, Garron sat across from her, studying her face with a fighter’s intuition.

  "Who the hell are you?" he muttered.

  Just as the question lingered, she jerked awake. Her eyes opened, no longer red, but lifeless and hollow. Garron stood instantly, gripping his staff.

  She tried to sit up, slow and mechanical. Her gaze moved, lost, unsure.

  "Hey," Garron called out, firm but not hostile. "Can you speak?"

  She turned to him.

  Silent.

  "What’s your name?" he pressed, louder now.

  Still no reply.

  He sighed, exhaling smoke. "No name, huh?" He gave a crooked smile. "Alright. From now on, I’m calling you... Serra. That’s a good name for someone who just crash-landed into my life."

  She didn’t respond. But something flickered behind her eyes, like the name had echoed in an empty chamber.

  The Next Morning

  In the dim room, Garron stood before Serra, who now wore a simple training outfit. In her hands: old, worn boxing gloves.

  "Alright, Serra," he said with measured authority. "I don’t know where you came from, but you’re under my roof now. And if you want to stay, you’ll have to be useful."

  She stood still, expression unreadable.

  "I’ll train you," Garron continued. "But first, we test what you’ve got. Hit that sandbag."

  He pointed to the corner. Serra moved toward it slowly. Her stance was wrong, but intentional. Her body remembered something she didn’t.

  With a sharp jab, THUMP!, the bag swung violently.

  Garron nodded.

  "Not bad," he muttered. "Power’s there. Still raw. But with the right form? You’ll be unstoppable."

  Serra glanced back at him. That vacant look still lingered, but this time... he saw a flicker.

  He grinned.

  "You’re my new project, Serra. And I’ll turn you into the meanest fighter this city’s ever seen."

  [Several Weeks Later]

  Serra was evolving, fast. She didn’t speak, but she absorbed every command Garron gave her with sharp, instinctive precision. From basic strikes and evasive maneuvers to discipline and endurance, she mastered each lesson as if her body already knew them. There was something undeniably raw and unnatural about her strength.

  Garron never let his guard down. No one could know the truth: Serra wasn’t fully human.

  "That kid’s a rough diamond," Garron muttered one evening, watching her train alone in the ring, her fists slicing through air with fierce determination. "But I have to make sure she stays under control."

  That night, he took her to a back-alley fight pit nestled deep in the city’s underbelly, a place thick with sweat, shouts, and the hunger for violence. Garron led her to the center of the ring, where her opponent waited: a towering man, musclebound and brutal, known on the streets as "Breaker."

  "Don’t be afraid," Garron whispered close to her ear. "I don’t care if you win or lose tonight. Just survive. Learn."

  Serra didn’t reply. She stepped into the ring with calm resolve. The bell rang.

  Breaker lunged first, a punch like a freight train, but Serra slipped past him, her movement clumsy yet effective. The crowd roared. She countered with a sharp jab to his ribs, staggering the brute.

  The fight grew vicious. Serra's body moved faster, sharper, instinct taking over. In the end, Breaker crashed to the mat beneath a flurry of precise blows and rapid kicks. The crowd erupted. Garron stood at the edge of the ring, his pride barely hidden beneath a crooked smile.

  "You are a rough diamond, Serra," he said under his breath. "And I’ll make sure you shine."

  Morning sunlight pierced through the cracked roof of Garron’s ramshackle home. The old floorboards groaned as he stepped out of bed. In the corner of the room, Serra was already seated cross-legged on the floor, focused on the fraying thread of her worn boxing gloves.

  "You’re up earlier again," Garron yawned, stretching. "At this rate, I’m going to think you don’t even need sleep."

  Serra looked up briefly, silent as ever, but a faint smile touched her lips.

  Chuckling, Garron moved to the stove in the corner and lifted the lid off a battered pot. He took a whiff. "You cooked again? Let me guess, reheated soup from yesterday? Or did you add something new this time?"

  Serra shrugged, pointing to a small pouch of herbs she’d found at the market days ago.

  "Getting creative, huh? I like that," Garron said, grabbing a bowl. "Next time, try adding real meat, not just wishful thinking."

  She stared at him, face blank but eyes sharp, If that’s what you want, buy me meat.

  Garron snorted a laugh. "Alright, alright. We’ll head out today. Find something decent to eat, yeah?"

  The narrow streets of the slums were alive with morning bustle. Workers rushed, vendors shouted over rusted stalls, and children darted through the crowd in gleeful chaos.

  "Look at that," Garron pointed at a bread seller surrounded by a desperate huddle. "That loaf looks harder than the rocks I train you with. Maybe we should buy it, for punching practice."

  Serra rolled her eyes slowly.

  "Hey, come on," he grinned. "I’m joking. But seriously, Serra, if you want real food, you’ll have to earn it in the ring."

  They stopped at a cluttered kiosk selling used goods. The vendor, a wiry man with a thin mustache named Rallo, greeted them with mock enthusiasm.

  "Garron! Been ages. You here to browse, or just wasting my time again?"

  Garron laughed. "You know me, Rallo. Life is a series of time well wasted. But this time, I need gloves. For Serra. Got anything cheap but functional?"

  Rallo eyed Serra, then raised a brow at Garron. "Still fighting? I thought you were out of the game."

  "Retirement’s for the rich. We don’t get to stop. So, gloves?"

  With a sigh, Rallo dug through his pile of gear and pulled out a pair of worn boxing gloves. "These’ll do. No guarantees they’ll last."

  Garron inspected them closely. "Good enough. Price?"

  Coins exchanged hands, and the pair continued down the dusty, narrow street lined with trash and rust.

  Back home, Garron handed the gloves to Serra. "Here. Not bad, right?"

  She slipped them on, flexing her fingers, testing the weight.

  "Well?" Garron lit a cigarette.

  A nod. A quiet, content gesture, They’ll do.

  He grinned. "Good. You’ve got a match tonight. Your opponent might not be on your level, but you know the rules. Never underestimate anyone."

  Serra gave him a serious look and nodded again.

  "And one more thing," Garron said, stepping closer. "If you win, we feast on real meat. Lose..."

  Serra raised an eyebrow.

  "...we still eat. But maybe just that rock-hard bread."

  She shook her head, lips twitching in a half-smile.

  Night in Theros’s slums had its own melody: the clang of metal in dark workshops, hurried footsteps through alleyways, and the dry wind that smelled of rust and ruin.

  But in Garron’s modest room, it was quiet. Serra lay beneath a thin blanket on a worn-out mat, her breath steady, her mind drifting far from the world.

  She stood in the heart of a forest, dense, wild, alive. Towering trees stretched into a sky painted with golden light. Leaves danced above, and sunlight filtered down in shifting patterns. The air was rich with birdsong and the rustle of life.

  A young girl, no older than seven, stood ahead, clutching a small wooden bow, struggling to draw its string.

  "Focus, Aelina," a gentle voice spoke behind her.

  She turned to see a woman with long hair and eyes full of fierce love. Her clothes were rugged, her stance confident. She knelt beside the girl, guiding her hands on the bow.

  Nearby, a silver-haired man stood with arms folded, watching with a soft smirk.

  "Don’t push her too hard, Kirana," he said lightly. "She’s still learning."

  Kirana glanced back and rolled her eyes. "Zephyr, I just want her to learn properly. You know how vital hunting is for survival here."

  Zephyr stepped forward, ruffling the child’s hair. "You’ll be just fine, Aelina. I can see it, you’ve got the instinct."

  The girl smiled shyly, refocused, and drew the bow again. This time, steadier. Her target: a rabbit, barely visible in the underbrush. She inhaled... aimed...

  A blinding white flash.

  Everything dissolved.

  Only one word echoed in her mind, stretching across the void like a distant heartbeat:

  Aelina.