The child, designated only as Experiment 1009, trembled under the weight of his father's presence. Each strike from the flat of the sword fell at a slow, calculated rhythm, giving the boy just enough time to speak the numbers aloud.
"One hundred and... five. One hundred and... six. O-one hund— a-ah..."
A heavy blow cracked against the side of his head. Dizziness surged through him alongside a wave of nausea, but nothing came up; his stomach was empty. He was starving, his throat dry and cracking, unable to produce even a single tear.
The father stopped abruptly at number one hundred and nine.
Without a word, he turned and stepped out of the room, leaving the six-year-old collapsed on the cold stone floor. Moments later, the father returned holding a grease-stained package of food pulled straight from the garbage. He forced the scraps into the boy's mouth—not out of affection, but as basic maintenance to keep the subject breathing. The child chewed numbly, wondering if he was simply born for this, or if the entire world was just as cruel.
As soon as the food was swallowed, the nightmare resumed right where it had paused. The father towered over him, weapon raised, waiting. The child hesitated, his mind racing in terror—was he supposed to restart from one, or guess where they had left off?
Before he could decide, a crushing blow struck his temple, knocking him completely unconscious.
When the boy went limp, the father simply turned around and lay down on the cold stone beside him, staring at the ceiling as he waited.
Days dissolved into weeks in the dark room. As the child lay motionless, faint wisps of heat pulsed beneath his torn skin—His power refused to let him break. Deep beneath his torn skin, the raw, stubborn heat flared of its own accord—dragging his pulse back from the edge and forcing his broken body to hold together. Dust settled over his face. Rain pooled and dried outside the door multiple times before his eyelids finally fluttered open.
He opened his eyes to find his father still lying on the cold stone. The child turned his head frantically from corner to corner, gasping as the foul stench of the room burned his throat. When his father suddenly pushed himself upright, the boy's eyes widened in terror.
"I-it's too p-painful... P-please... S-stop..."
But his father didn't so much as flinch. A sudden swing slammed into his jaw—a punishment for speaking without permission. The boy's sight snapped black from the force of the blow, and he gave up on ever speaking again. But his power didn't.
A year passed in that same endless cycle.
"Four hundred and one... four hundred... four hundred a-and... f-four hundred..."
A strike slammed into his ribs, sending his small frame swaying. Trash bags now piled up in the dark corners of the room, overrun with bugs and rats hunting for scraps while the beatings continued unabated through the years.
"One thousand... one thousand and one... one thousand and... two..."
Finally, the child reached the final number—an endpoint he never believed would come.
"One thousand and nine."
The father stopped completely. He stood motionless, watching the boy tremble in anticipation of the next hit. But the strike never fell.
The father turned around and walked out without looking back.
Right after he left, a different set of footsteps echoed into the room. The scientist stepped through the doorway, looking down at the broken child. After three years under one roof with a cursed father and scraps from the trash, Phase One was officially over—and Phase Two was about to begin.