Night Of The Hunter

Making Friends - Flashback

Sitting on the metal bench in the cafeteria, I poked at the sad excuse of a salad on my tray. I sat at the furthest table, as far away from everyone else as possible. From here, I could spot over forty other experiments, all trying to act normal, as if this place wasn't a high-tech prison disguised as a research facility. We were the government's toys—bred, built, and trained to kill or be killed.

There was a guard at every entrance. They stood still, looking relaxed, but their eyes never stopped moving. Especially when they landed on me. I was the new one, the unpredictable one. The one who fought back.

It had been about a month since they dragged me into this hellhole. The injections had stopped for now. Lately, they were testing my abilities—my strength, speed, endurance. I felt like a Frankenstein project on steroids. They called us evolved humans. Super soldiers. I called it what it was: weaponized slavery.

I should've been used to it by now. I had more combat training than anyone in this place. But this wasn't home. This was purgatory with fluorescent lights.

Crunching on a carrot, I looked toward the cafeteria entrance and froze.

Aiden had just walked in. And walking beside him? The devil in designer heels herself: Director Sarah Walsh. She was the first person I saw when I woke up here, the first to bark orders, the first to give the nod when they injected me with God-knows-what. She was always too calm, too composed. I fantasized about snapping her neck more than I cared to admit.

My pupils dilated without permission, zooming in like an out-of-control camera lens, snapping from face to face in hyperfocus. It always happened when I was anxious—a nasty reminder that my body was no longer fully mine but a science experiment gone rogue. Every detail sharpened to a painful degree: pores, inked names on skin, the flicker of fingers tapping on trays.

Then came the hearing. A tidal wave of voices slammed into me. Conversations layered over one another, crashing through my skull. The scrape of metal on metal, the chewing, the muttered threats—every sound was deafening. I clutched my head, nails digging into my scalp, trying to breathe through the chaos, forcing my thoughts into a narrow tunnel. One voice finally cut through the rest, piercing the static like a lifeline: Aiden's.

"You did good today, Braxton."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? Makes me sound old."

I couldn't see his face from here, but I could tell he was uncomfortable.

"You're progressing well," she said. "Might be time for your next mission."

Their voices faded as my hearing recalibrated. I blinked a few times and exhaled, the headache from the auditory overload slowly ebbing away. When I looked up again, Walsh was strutting away with her usual self-importance, her heels echoing sharply on the tile. But just before disappearing into the next corridor, she turned her head—not just a glance, but a long, slow look over her shoulder at Aiden. Her eyes raked him up and down with something that looked far too much like hunger, her smirk curling like a serpent's tail before she finally turned away.

Bitch.

I chugged half my water bottle, then twisted the cap shut just as Aiden dropped his tray across from me, the clang of plastic against metal sharper than it needed to be.

He didn't look at me. Just shoved his food around like it had personally offended him. His shoulders were drawn up, the fabric of his army green T-shirt straining against the bulk of muscle underneath. His jaw was locked so tight I could see the vein near his temple ticking with restraint.