"We've been infiltrated."
As the boy spoke, a hail of gunfire erupted across the facility. He and Shaw dropped to the ground, instinctively ducking as bullets tore through the air around them. Moving quickly but cautiously, they slid behind a nearby table, both struggling to process the chaos.
The boy's heartbeat pounded in his ears as he fought to control his ragged breaths.
"Majors?" Shaw called, his voice laced with urgency.
The boy turned, only for his gaze to freeze in horror. Lying just feet away was the Head of Operations, his body lifeless, chest riddled with bullet wounds, blood pooling around him. They shared a silent, horrified glance as the gunfire continued echoing through the facility.
"We need to get to our weapons," Shaw whispered urgently.
With a nod, the boy followed as they moved stealthily toward their quarters. But just as they edged toward the hallway, the main doors burst open. Figures in dark clothing and menacing masks charged in; the infiltrators. The boy's stomach twisted with fear, but he steeled himself, focusing on their immediate goal.
Once in his room, Shaw searched frantically, hands sliding over his belongings in the dark to avoid drawing attention. They'd grown accustomed to surveillance work, not combat, and locating his sidearm now felt painfully slow. After what felt like an eternity, Shaw's fingers closed around a handgun buried between his luggage.
"Drop your weapon."
The voice behind him sent a chill through his veins. Shaw recognized it instantly. Turning slowly, he saw the boy aiming his own gun, his expression fierce, his weapon trained on a masked figure looming behind Shaw with a gun poised.
The mask bore a twisted design; a snake-like emblem with a demon's face replacing the creature's head.
"Rokurokubi," the boy realized, heart sinking. This was the symbol of the ruthless Yakuza faction they'd been tasked with monitoring. How had they discovered the facility? There was no time to consider this; he had to act.
"Drop your weapon." His command was met with silence as the masked man's gaze shifted to him, eyes cold and calculating behind the mask.
Shaw took a careful step back, trying to ease away from the line of fire. Just as the boy tensed his grip on his weapon, ready to act, the intruder began to murmur, almost to himself, in Japanese.
"ろくろ首が私の罪を清めてくださいますように (Rokurokubi ga watashi no tsumi o kiyomete kudasaimasu yō ni)."
The words sent a chill down the boy's spine, his mind racing with the ominous meaning. In one fluid motion, the intruder adjusted his grip, pointing his gun back toward Shaw, finger closing over the trigger and firing.
"No!" the boy yelled, pulling the trigger on his own weapon without hesitation. His shot hit true, the force knocking the intruder back, his body dropping lifelessly to the floor.
Rushing forward, the boy knelt beside Shaw, eyes scanning him frantically for signs of injury.
"Shaw…" the boy murmured, crouching beside his friend, worry sharp in his voice. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Shaw managed, wincing as he clutched his left arm, where the bullet had grazed him. "It's just a flesh wound, luckily."
Shaw had dropped quickly after the shot, managing to evade the worst of it, though his arm throbbed in protest. The boy's tense face softened in relief, fear ebbing back now that he saw Shaw was still breathing. He hadn't been ready to lose his friend. But the reprieve was brief; they both knew the clock was ticking. They needed to escape, and fast. The sounds of gunfire would undoubtedly attract more of them.
"Shaw," the boy started urgently, "we have to..."
But his words were cut short by a sharp crack. He watched, helpless, as a bullet pierced Shaw's head, the light in his friend's eyes extinguishing instantly. The boy's heart clenched painfully, his world narrowing to the sight of Shaw's lifeless body, blood seeping across the floor in silence.
"彼はその仕事さえ終えることができなかった (Kare wa sono shigoto sae oeru koto ga dekinakatta)," sneered a voice behind him.
The boy's eyes stayed fixed on Shaw, numb to the world as another figure, masked just like the previous attacker, raised a gun to his head from behind him. However, as the trigger clicked, the boy instinctively tilted his head; an action faster than the bullet.
The bullet bolted past him, embedding itself in the wall. Inhumanly quick, his movement seemed impossible, and the intruder froze, his masked face hiding his shock.
"何? (Nani?)" he stammered, rattled by the boy's uncanny reaction.
After a brief moment, he dismissed it, chalking up his miss to bad aim. He adjusted his grip, steadying his gun for another shot. But before he could take aim, the boy's arm snapped up with breathtaking speed, gun already leveled at his attacker. Without turning his gaze from Shaw's fallen form, he fired behind him, the bullet finding the stranger's head with deadly precision. The masked man dropped instantly, his body crumpling behind the boy in an eerie silence.
The boy slowly rose, turning his head at last to face his fallen opponent. He revealed his pupils that were constricted, giving his stare a chilling, predatory edge. Then, as if an internal switch flipped, his gaze softened, pupils returning to normal. His chest heaved with rapid breaths, exhaustion beginning to weigh down his limbs as if from nowhere, though he hid it well with his anger.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the hall. More intruders were closing in. The boy's head snapped to the doorway as two more figures stepped into view.
"何が起... (Nani ga Oko...)" One started, only to stop as he took in the fallen men and the boy, standing amid the carnage.
Realizing what had happened, they reached for their guns. But the boy was already moving, faster than a blur, sweeping up beside them. His knee struck the closest intruder's arm with brutal force, knocking the weapon from his grip. Tears brimmed in the boy's eyes, his face contorted in a fury he could no longer hold back.
With lightning speed, the boy struck the first stranger with a brutal punch to the head, knocking him unconscious and fracturing his mask. The second intruder had his gun drawn by then, but before he could fire, the boy seized his arm, twisted the gun from his grip, and fired a shot straight at the first fallen man, striking him fatally through the heart.
Keeping a firm hold on the second man's arm, the boy wrenched it sharply, snapping bone. The infiltrator cried out in agony as the boy swept his feet out from under him, dropping him to the ground. The boy fell upon him, unleashing a storm of punches, each blow more forceful than the last, smashing through the mask and battering the stranger's face to a bloody mess. Driven by anger, he continued relentlessly, fists pounding even after the man lay motionless, his skull fractured and bleeding. But he couldn't stop; didn't want to stop; until a sudden gunshot broke his focus.
The boy froze, his blood-stained hands hovering above the man's battered face. A warm trickle down his side alerted him to the blood seeping from his own wound, one that had just manifested. Turning, he saw a figure approaching, gun aimed and voice dripping with cold malice.
"君たちの仕事はただ一つだった (Kimitachi no shigoto wa tada hitotsudatta)," the deep voice sneered. "あなたの死体はあなたと同じように役に立たない (Anata no shitai wa anata to onajiyōni yakunitatanai)."
The figure stepped closer, mask identical to the others in design, but painted in an ominous, rank-signifying, deep red. The boy staggered, the realization hitting as he felt the fresh wound beneath his shirt.
Before he could move, the red-masked man fired again, the bullet slamming into the boy's chest. A third shot followed, sending him collapsing to the floor. His vision swam, fading as the red-masked figure glanced briefly at his weapon, seemingly puzzled by his aim, almost like he had missed where he intended to fire.
Disregarding his concerns, the man pocketed his gun, dismissing the boy as he walked off. As he entered the main room, he pulled out his phone, speaking briefly to someone on the other end in Japanese before muttering, "はい (Hai)" and ending the call.
Regrouping with the black-masked men who stood waiting, he acknowledged their respectful bows before leading them out of the facility. They trailed behind him in silent unison, but as the rearguard members followed behind, they suddenly paused, hearing faint, ragged breaths from behind.
They turned, seeing a blood-soaked figure staggering from the shadows. The boy, head bowed, arms limp and trembling, gasped as he struggled to stay upright, his eyes obscured by a mess of blood-matted hair. He looked like he was clinging to life by a thread; an almost zombified version of his former self.
One of the Yakuza, the one closest to the boy, stepped forward, gun in hand, ready to finish the job. But before he could aim, the boy moved faster, raising a hidden weapon and firing a clean, precise shot. The bullet pierced the Yakuza's mask, right through the demon head of the snake motif, dropping him instantly.
Chaos erupted as the remaining intruders raised their guns to take him down. The boy moved with ruthless efficiency, grabbing the fallen man's body and holding it in front of him as a shield. Bullets tore through his cover, some grazing him, but he barely registered the pain. Driven by fury and loss, he pressed forward, his resolve unyielding, his only focus; vengeance.
The boy dashed to better cover, pulling his gun up again as bullets flew from all sides. With each shot he fired, his bullets struck their marks, dropping one Yakuza member after another and unsettling the remaining men, who now realized he was far more dangerous than they'd anticipated. Panicked, they began preparing heavier weapons. But then, silence fell over the room.
Into this stillness walked the man with the red mask, drawn back by the chaos he'd heard. His arrival was enough; at a single raised hand, the other members stopped, turning toward him with rigid deference and standing at attention.
Seeing the pause, the boy seized his chance and raised his gun to aim at the red-masked man, only to hear an empty click. Out of bullets, desperation flashed through him as he surged forward, fists clenched, rage propelling him. But his charge was cut short as a shot rang out, piercing his leg and sending him crashing to the ground.
Despite the pain, he struggled to rise, dragging himself forward. But before he could stand, the red-masked man appeared over him, striking him hard across the jaw. Darkness swallowed the boy as he collapsed.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The man crouched beside him, inspecting his unconscious form. "I aimed for his head," he thought, intrigued, "and missed... again."
A curiosity lingered, but he chose to dismiss it, gesturing to a nearby guard. He stood, giving orders, then exited the facility as his men hoisted the boy's limp body, carrying him out to a waiting black van.
The boy stirred, blinking awake to a rough cloth bag over his head, hands bound tight, shirt and shoes missing as he was dragged over rough ground. Disoriented and unable to recall how he'd survived, flashes of Shaw's last moments haunted him; the last thing he could recall.
Eventually, his mind reeled as he was yanked up, forced to his knees. Bright light pierced his vision as the bag was removed, and he squinted, taking in the scene.
Before him sat a man with a golden mask etched with the same twisted snake insignia that was marked on the others. This mask, though, gleamed with an air of authority, suggesting he was their leader; the head of Rokurokubi.
"これが彼 (Kore ga kare)?" the masked man asked, his voice deep, hardened by years of power.
Beside the boy, the red-masked man bowed respectfully. "はい (Hai)," he replied.
The gold-masked man rose from his seat, approaching the boy with slow, deliberate steps. He removed his mask before arriving ahead, gripping the boy's chin firmly, studying him with a scornful gleam in his eye. His rings dug painfully into the boy's cheek, his scrutiny unrelenting.
"ガキだ (Gakida)," he uttered in confusion.
The red-masked man nodded, agreeing quietly, "はい (Hai)."
Silence persisted briefly before the leader turned back after a sigh, his tone dismissive as he spoke. "どうせ (Dōse)," he said coldly, "彼を拷問し,身代金として使用する (Kare o gōmon shi, minoshirokin to shite shiyō suru)."
"はい (Hai)," the red-masked man acknowledged, bowing deeper.
With chilling efficiency, the red-masked man slipped the bag back over the boy's head and pulled him to his feet, leading him away. This was the beginning of his descent into hell.
Soon after capturing him, they began to waterboard the boy, forcing him to the brink of suffocation in hopes of extracting information. An English-speaking member joined them, translating demands for the boy to reveal any secrets he'd uncovered during his mission. But he stayed silent.
Some among them exchanged uneasy glances, disturbed by the cruelty inflicted on such a young captive, but they remained resolute, bound by loyalty to their clan. As hours passed without any response, they escalated their methods; twisting his fingers, piercing his skin. The boy's screams echoed through the room, cries that no child should ever make, yet the torture continued, unrelenting.
For two days, they dragged him through this relentless torment, pressing him for answers, but he didn't waver. He was prepared to die, if necessary, for his country.
When they realized he wouldn't break, they decided to exploit him as leverage, using his suffering as a message. They halted the torture briefly, tying him to a chair, leaving his wounds exposed. Beside him, the red-masked man and a black-masked translator stepped into view as a camera started recording.
In stark terms, they issued a threat to the United States to stay out of their affairs, and provide intelligence on their adversaries, or the boy would die. They even bluffed, claiming to have captured and tortured more soldiers who would face the same fate if their demands went unmet.
To underscore their threat, the red-masked man approached the boy, drawing a knife and plunging it into his side. The boy screamed, his voice raw, as the red-masked man spoke in Japanese, a calm menace in his tone as the translator elaborated for the recording. He translated that if their demands weren't met, they would dismember him piece by piece, sending fragments of his body to his loved ones.
Afterward, they dragged him back to the torture room, resuming the assault. Days blurred into a hellish agony as they inflicted wound after wound, bruising and tearing his flesh. His breathing grew shallow and labored; his body, exhausted and starved, struggled to survive in the stale, damp air. The torment continued for nearly a week, breaking him down physically, yet his silence remained unbroken.
One day, however, something strange happened.
The boy awoke to the rough drag of hands hauling him across the floor, a bag over his head. When the bag was yanked off, he found himself once again in the family head's home. The man with the golden mask watched them, an expression of annoyance flickering behind his eyes at this unexpected disturbance, though his true expression remained hidden under the mask.
"なぜこの餓鬼はまだ死んでいないのか (Naze kono gaki wa mada shinde inai no ka)?" he demanded, turning toward the red-masked man.
"失礼しました, おやっさん (Shitsureishimashita, oyassan)," the red-masked man replied with a respectful bow. "見てほしいものがある (Mite hoshī mono ga aru)." He hoisted the boy to his feet, directing the family head's attention to his torso.
Confused, the clan head glanced down, his face hidden behind his golden mask. "私は何を見ているのか (Watashi wa nani o mite iru no ka)?" he asked.
"彼の怪我 (Kare no kega)," the red-masked man replied. "彼の怪我はすべて完全に治った (Kare no kega wa subete kanzen ni naotta)."
A stunned silence fell over the room. The family head lifted his mask, his expression one of pure disbelief as he moved closer, examining the boy with wide eyes.
"馬鹿な (Bakana)," he muttered in shock, placing his hand on the boy's torso.
The boy stared back in confusion, unable to understand their language. The family head stared at the boy, processing an unbelievable truth he hadn't noticed until now. His shock was unmistakable. Disbelief etched into his face, he stepped closer to the red-masked man, murmuring instructions. The red-masked man nodded in response, then turned back to the boy, pulling the bag over his head once more. Moments later, the boy felt the sting of sedation pulling him under, and everything faded to black.
When he woke again, he found himself strapped tightly to a narrow bed, his arms, torso, and even his head secured in place. As his vision cleared, he saw a man standing nearby, dressed in a white lab coat, his face uncovered; the first person he'd seen not owning a mask since his capture.
"Ah, you're awake," the man said, smiling as he noticed the boy stir.
The boy blinked, stunned to hear English spoken for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Though the man's Japanese accent was heavy, it didn't matter. Frustration swept over him, and tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them.
"J-Just… kill me," he rasped, his voice frayed with exhaustion and pain.
The man's smile widened. "Oh, come now," he replied. "Why would I do such a thing? We're only just beginning."
The boy gritted his teeth, frustration mixing with steely determination. After days of unrelenting torture, he was resolute. He was not willing to give them anything. If they wanted information, they'd have to kill him first.
Turning his gaze to a table lined with syringes and various instruments, the man ran his hand thoughtfully over them, as if considering his next move. The boy felt a chill as he took in his surroundings; this setup was unlike anything they'd done to him before, and he could sense a different purpose behind it. Now that he could finally be understood, he gathered his courage and asked a necessary question.
"Why am I here?"
"Good question," the man replied, studying him with clinical interest. "I've heard an interesting rumor from my employers. Something about you being… not an ordinary child."
Confusion flickered across the boy's face. "What does that mean?" he asked.
The man tilted his head. "You haven't noticed, have you?" he questioned. "That all of your wounds… have healed."
The boy's eyes widened, and he glanced down, his heart racing as he realized there wasn't a single scratch or bruise left on his body. The bullet wounds, the cuts, the bruises, everything was essentially gone, almost like it had never happened.
"At least that's what I was told," the man elaborated, watching the boy's astonishment with a gleeful expression. "And that's why I'm here... to see this so-called gift from the gods for myself."
Turning to the side, the man clicked on a camera aimed directly at the boy, speaking animatedly in Japanese to the lens, explaining his intentions as though preparing for a scientific demonstration. To the boy, it felt surreal, like some twisted experiment, heightening his confusion and dread.
Finishing his introduction, the man picked up a syringe filled with an unusual, dark serum. He held it up to the camera, saying something with a hint of excitement, then approached the boy.
He leaned down, his smile widening as he locked eyes with the boy. "Don't worry," he whispered. "All I need from you… is to stay alive as long as possible."
After speaking, the man injected the strange serum into the boy's arm. He addressed the camera briefly, then left the room. Within minutes, the boy began feeling light-headed, a creeping sickness spreading through him like a poison. His body surged with pain, his vision blurring, sense of self slipping away. Each breath grew shallower, as though his organs were shutting down.
The agony stretched on for what felt like hours, but after nearly an hour, the searing pain began to subside. His head stopped spinning, his breathing steadied, and his vision cleared. Slowly, his body seemed to recover.
When the man returned at the hour mark, his eyes gleamed with fascination. He placed a gloved hand on the boy's forehead, his face filling with astonishment as he repeated the touch.
"馬鹿な (Bakana)," he whispered, before a wide smile stretched across his face.
Turning to the camera, he continued in Japanese, excitement gleaming in his eyes. "I was gone for barely an hour," he said, looking back at the boy. "And somehow, you managed to survive an intake of cyanide."
He laughed, a mixture of disbelief and twisted delight. "In mere minutes," he marveled, shaking his head.
With a grin, he turned back to the boy. "My employers were right," he said with unsettling cheer. "This body of yours truly is a gift from the gods. It would be a sin not to experiment to my heart's content, wouldn't it?"
From then on, the boy became a living test subject, enduring daily tortures in addition to new and crueler experiments. Fingers and toes were twisted, teeth extracted. Knives and needles pierced him, deep wounds carved into his skin. Even as the injuries healed, painfully slowly, they reappeared under fresh torment.
Each day, his captors grew more amazed by his body's capacity to heal. His regeneration defied explanation, and they were determined to unravel the secret. Yet, for all their fascination, every cut, break, and laceration brought him unbearable pain. They injected him with toxins and diseases, some so virulent they could threaten entire cities; they even exposed him to radioactive poisons. Every second was agony, each new trial dragging him deeper into a personal hell.
The man in the lab coat visited daily, smiling as he reminded the boy that all he needed to do was survive. The boy's anger simmered beneath the surface, each new experiment fueling his growing hatred.
"I will never… reveal any information," the boy said one morning, as the scientist entered for another round. "So just k-kill me now."
His voice shook with pain and defiance. He couldn't bear the agony that never ceased, but he refused to betray his beliefs, his principles. Even in hell, he would not give them what they wanted.
"Your bravado is impressive," the scientist replied, his tone nearly amused, "but I already know you won't reveal anything. That part of your situation is already over."
The boy, confused by his words, struggled to make sense of them. "Then why…," he managed to ask, "do you keep doing this to me?"
The scientist's smile broadened, tinged with a strange pity. "You weren't told, were you?" he said, stepping closer. "My employers sent a video to your country, using you as leverage. But it seems your officials, rather than negotiate, declined the offer outright. They didn't even consider the false mention of multiple hostages."
The boy's shock was palpable, yet the scientist wasn't finished.
"Their response," the man continued, "was that all of you are expendable; easily replaced. Why waste valuable resources for a few unnamed soldiers?"
The boy's face twisted in disbelief, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Lies… all lies. They would never…"
The scientist's laughter rang out, genuine amusement in his tone. "Naive, aren't you? Did you really think your country would come to your rescue?"
After another chuckle, he leaned in, his voice softer, more taunting. "Tell me, why would a military organization risk important connections for a child, that no one will remember, on a mission?"
Silence settled between them, the weight of realization hitting the boy with crushing force. The scientist merely shook his head. "Well," he said, his voice calm, "talk time is over. Time to get to work."
As he pulled on his gloves, the boy whispered, "Please… kill me."
His voice trembled with pain, his head bowed, tears streaming down his face. The strength he'd clung to shattered with the knowledge that those he trusted had abandoned him without a second thought.
The scientist gave a mocking half-smile, barely concealing his satisfaction. "Why would I do that?" he said softly. "You're my greatest sample, after all."
The experiments grew harsher from then on, each session more excruciating than the last. The boy's body bore wounds that healed just enough to be reopened, while his mind was stretched to its breaking point. He began to feel his life slipping, yearning for death to release him from the endless pain.
As the days blurred into each other, his memories surfaced, each one haunting him more deeply. He saw the face of his adoptive mother, who had given everything despite her hardships. He thought of Oscar, who had taught him to adapt, to survive, no matter the conditions. He remembered Shaw, a friend he could laugh with despite the trauma he carried.
He had joined the military, hoping the worst was behind him. Yet here he was, facing horrors that went beyond anything he'd ever imagined. Doubts and regrets churned in his mind, one more relentless than the rest: the night with Lefty, a life he'd taken in anger. Perhaps, he thought, this was his punishment.
Frustration began to grow in him, bitter and sharp. Frustration for every person who had cared for him, each one gone before they could be saved. Anger simmered, too, at the country he had served faithfully, only to be discarded without a second thought. And grief, deep and unrelenting, for all the sacrifices made in his name that seemed, now, to amount to nothing.
Tears fell silently down his cheeks as he reflected on his life, pain and regret swirling through his every thought. Yet amidst the endless anguish, as the experiments and torture wore him down, only one question echoed through his mind, growing louder as he slipped further into despair:
"Why me?"