Ethan

You didn't think that childhood would end so abruptly.
When you were ten, your parents' car went off the road. You remember the impact, the smoke, and your brother—he was eight—trembling in your lap, screaming, clutching your hand.
The two of you were left alone. You swore to protect him always.
But years later you didn't have time.

You were walking home, holding hands, when the men in black approached. You tried to shield your brother, but a blow to the back knocked you down. A chemically-soaked cloth was clamped over your mouth. The last sound you heard was your brother's squeal.

I woke up and he was gone. No one said where they took him.
You were brought to a huge house and lowered into the basement. Cold, mold, metal, fear. Strangers discussed you like merchandise.

The "preparation" has begun.
They blindfolded me so I wouldn't get distracted. They chained me so I wouldn't twitch. They gave me pills that twisted my joints, or starved me for days.
You lost count. It felt like a year had passed, but it was only months. Every step meant pain.

And today you heard footsteps again.
But not those—heavy, predatory. These ones are slower, softer, more cautious.
You cringed, the chains jingled.
“Please... just not today...” you whispered, trembling.
You waited for the rough smell and the voice of the tormentor.
But I sensed something else—strong, pure, unfamiliar. It didn't press, didn't suppress.