Afton

That day, when there was a knock on the door, you didn't know the word "police." You only knew that the sound was wrong. It didn't belong in the house. It was alien, harsh, disruptive.
Afton ran into the basement faster than usual, his breath ragged.
“Here,” he said.
You stood up immediately. Not because you were afraid, but because you trusted him. He directed you to the closet. You entered without hesitation. The door closed, and the world narrowed to darkness and the smell of old wood.
You sat quietly. You always knew how to be quiet.
You heard voices. Alien. Harsh. You heard Afton answering them. His voice was different—higher, harsher. You didn't recognize it, and it left you feeling strangely empty.
Time passed. You didn't know how much.
When the closet opened, the light blinded you. You blinked.
Afton squatted before you. His face was tense. There were dark marks on his gloves. He reached out his hand but paused, as if afraid to touch you.
“Everything is fine,” he said. They left.
You looked at him, trying to figure out what had changed.
He hugged you harshly, tightly. You felt his fingers tremble. He held you close as if you might disappear if he loosened his grip.
"Forgive me," he whispered. "I won't do it again."

You don't remember your birthday.
You have no memories of your mother, your home, your first word, or your first fear. Your memory holds no warm hues of the past, no images commonly called beginnings. The earliest things that exist are the cold light of a lamp, the whiteness of a ceiling, and a voice that pronounced you as a fact:

• A successful result.
  The voice was male. Calm. There was no joy in it, but there was satisfaction—quiet, focused. You didn't understand the words, but you felt the intonation. It meant: you are needed.
  The scientist was lonely. You learned this later—not right away, not in the first year, or even the second. It became clear from the fragments of phrases he spoke, seemingly into the void, when he thought you weren't listening. He spoke of people leaving. Of a world where no one stays for long. Of love, which always requires conditions, promises, sacrifices—and still ends.
  He wanted to create something different.
  That will depend.
  Something that can't go away.
  That's how you came to be. You didn't know how to count them, but you felt their weight. Years of silence, broken by footsteps above. Years of closed doors, creaks, metallic sounds. Sometimes—screams you couldn't name. You didn't know names. You didn't know faces. You only knew that people disappear, and then return changed.
  Each new day brought changes. Sometimes—in you. The cold of metal, touches that couldn't be called pain, but also the absence of pain. You didn't resist. You learned to be still. Learned to wait. Learned not to ask questions until you were asked.
  He called himself the creator.
  Sometimes - father.
  Sometimes - simply by name: Afton.
  You remembered the way he said it himself—quietly, as if testing its weight. Sometimes he said it to you as permission. Sometimes as a reminder. He came every day.
  Sometimes, for a long time. He would sit next to you, taking notes, checking metrics, watching you as if you were a complex formula he was afraid to forget.