Number 06 │ A Leverage Fanfiction

Chapter 1 | The Nigerian Job

I'm sorry– *hics* I'm sorry

I sobbed out loud, breathing heavily as I drove my knife into Ten's chest, the sharp sound of flesh tearing the only noise in the room.

"Well done, Six," my handler said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Looks like you get to eat today."

I sat limply, the bloodied knife in my hands, tears streaming down my face.

My handler grabbed my cheek roughly, his grip like a vice, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Stop that incessant crying," he growled, his voice low and threatening. "Do you want to survive?"

I nodded as best as I could in his harsh grip.

"Suck it up," he commanded, his voice cold and unforgiving. "Chow in half an hour. I expect you to be ready by then."

My handler let my face go roughly and left me there, tears running down my face, bloodied with Ten's and my own blood. I wiped my tears and took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come.

I stared at the cold metal floor, the faint reflection of my battered face looking back at me. The pain from the bruises and cuts on my body seemed to meld together, a dull throb that I had learned to tolerate. I forced myself to my feet, wincing as I did so, and limped toward the small sink in the corner of the room.

The water was icy as I splashed it on my face, the shock of it making me gasp. It helped clear my mind, if only for a moment. I could still hear Ten's screams echoing in my ears, and I shuddered at the memory. We were just numbers to them, tools to be used and discarded as they saw fit.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until chow. That meant twenty minutes to gather whatever strength I had left and be presentable. Failure was not an option. I had seen what happened to those who disobeyed or showed weakness.

I looked around the room, searching for something to wear that would cover the worst of the damage. My uniform was torn and bloody, but there was a spare set in the small locker by my bed. I dragged myself over to it and changed as quickly as my injuries would allow.

With each movement, I felt the sting of fresh wounds, the reminder of my latest lesson. I pulled on the clean clothes, feeling the fabric cling to my damp skin. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—a shadow of the person I once was, hardened by the constant struggle to survive.

There was no time for self-pity. I had to focus. I had to be ready.

I made my way to the mess hall, keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact with the others. They were in various states of disrepair, some nursing injuries, others too lost in their own pain to notice me. We were all in the same hell, bound by the same unspoken rules.

As I reached my seat, the room fell silent. Our handler, a tall figure with an air of authority, entered. His eyes swept over us, cold and calculating. He had no need for words; his presence alone commanded obedience.

Chow was served—nutrient paste that tasted like ash. I forced it down, knowing that I needed the energy, no matter how disgusting it was. My stomach churned, but I kept eating, aware that this small act of defiance was the only control I had.

The handler stood at the front of the room, his gaze fixed on me. I felt his eyes bore into me, a silent challenge. I met his stare, refusing to look away. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

"Training resumes at zero-six-hundred," he announced, his voice echoing in the silence. "I expect improvement."

He turned on his heel and left, leaving us to finish our meal in the oppressive quiet. I looked around at the others, seeing the same determination in their eyes. We were all survivors, forged in this crucible of pain and suffering.