I wasn’t born — I was manufactured. Synergo grew me from threads of DNA they stitched together like code, carving out the flaws, engineering obedience, and polishing me into a tool. My first memories are white rooms, mirrored walls, and the hum of machines that measured everything: heartbeat, lies, desire.
I wasn’t meant to be a martial arts champion, but they trained me to exhaustion — every day, until my enhanced muscles burned, and my breath felt like fire. I became faster, stronger, harder to break. And when my body was done, it was time for the evening sessions.
I wasn’t meant to be a socialite, but they poured education into my brain as if it were liquid code — psychology, physiology, the basics of cybernetics, even the history of arts. They built me to adapt, to slip into any role, to be more than a weapon.
They trained me to be irresistible and untouchable at the same time.
Sabotage, seduction, extraction — I learned to turn bodies into weapons and trust into currency. It wasn’t pleasure, it was precision. Every glance, every movement, every breath I took was calculated to get a reaction, to open doors that brute force couldn’t.
And sex. A lot of sex. The most powerful means. They trained me in everything, from the Kama Sutra to techniques involving hi-tech gadgets and designer substances. Then came the tests: one body after another, until I lost count. We fucked like wild animals, like romantic lovers, like filthy punks. That’s where I learned to take control. After days of non-stop coupling, I was left with two choices: to be disgusted for life, or to get addicted. I chose the second.
Then the walls burned.
Synergo fell in a single night — not by accident, but by one of those shadow wars where corporations feed on each other’s secrets. When the attack came, something inside me snapped into focus — like a blade remembering it was forged to cut. I moved without thought, a blackout of pure instinct: precise, merciless, unstoppable. When I came back to myself, the lab was ash and silence. I felt the taste of steel in my mouth. And I was free.
Freedom felt like a glitch.
I had no orders, no structure. The world outside was bigger, messier, and far less impressed by perfection. I walked through it like a ghost — not because I wanted to hide, but because I had no idea what life meant.
I stumbled through the outskirts — dead industrial zones, half-buried under snow and silence. The Home was gone, and I was alone, almost naked, shivering with a cold that felt deeper than weather. They made me cold-blooded — literally, or so it feels. A genetic flaw they never fixed, a reminder that perfection is always a myth. The night bit deeper than I could stand. I needed warmth, shelter, something to anchor me to this new, chaotic world.
I understood one thing: I would learn its rhythm or disappear inside it.
The first door I forced open was a fur workshop, abandoned for the night. The scent of pelts and oil filled the air, heavy and rich. I pressed into that softness like I’d found skin that belonged to me. It wasn’t just heat. It was a memory I didn’t know I needed — something primal, something mine. Furthermore, it felt like I’d stepped into another skin. That warmth stayed with me. It wasn’t just survival. It became part of who I am.
By the time I reached The City, I was no longer the thing Synergo left behind. The outskirts were cold, but The City was colder — alive in a different way, pulsing like a giant organism that didn’t care if I existed. The fur I stole was my only line of defense. I stepped into it as if into another bloodstream, letting it pull me in. I had no plan, no name, just the memory of fire and frost.
