Killua got his first knife before he could sit up on his own.
It wasn't even subtle. No hidden message, no ceremony.
One morning, a tall, silent man in gray robes walked in, dropped a velvet-lined case in Killua's crib, and walked out without a word.
Inside was a knife. Silver, straight-edged, narrow as a whisper. Probably cost more than the room. No note. Just a gift-wrapped murder suggestion.
Killua stared at it. Then at the ceiling. Then at me.
I raised a brow and gave him a look that said, "I'm not touching that, and you shouldn't either."
He smiled. Not warmly. More like a toddler realizing gravity applies to other people.
Then he tried to hold the knife with both hands and immediately dropped it on his own face.
Nobody rushed to help.
The blade bounced off his forehead with a soft clink. A red mark bloomed, but he didn't cry. Just stared at the ceiling again like he was filing the experience under "notes for later."
That's when I knew—this wasn't the tutorial zone.
---
Three days later, I got my welcome package.
No knife.
Instead: a steel rod about the length of my arm, with grooves carved into one end like it could be screwed into something else. It was cold, heavy, and wrapped in silk like that somehow made it appropriate for infants.
No delivery speech. Just a new item placed in my crib. They were testing something.
Curiosity? Temperament? Tactile response? I didn't know. But I wasn't dumb enough to pick it up immediately.
So I ignored it. For two full hours.
Then, when the cameras blinked away for five minutes—shift change, maybe—I slowly wrapped my tiny fingers around the rod and started tapping it against the floor of my crib.
Rhythm. Pressure. Sound. Basic tests.
It wasn't just heavy. It hummed. Like a tuning fork with a dark secret.
I poked my foot with it. Nothing happened.
I poked my crib bar. It clicked sharply, leaving a faint mark.
I poked my own shoulder. Okay, maybe that one wasn't the best idea.
No blood, but my entire left side buzzed for ten minutes like I'd angered a ghost.
I put the rod down and made a mental note: do not self-stab with something that looked like an ancient demon tuning fork.
========
Zodiac Core System
System Note:Sensory Contact Logged
Level: 1 (Exp 50/100)
========
Still no abilities. Still no SE. Just status logs that showed the thing was watching me like a very chill, very judgmental professor waiting for me to cheat on a test.
Cool. No pressure.
Killua, meanwhile, had not given up on the knife.
He practiced holding it every morning like a kid learning to brush his teeth. Sometimes he jabbed at the mattress. Sometimes he tried carving into the wooden bars of his crib.
He wasn't strong enough to cut anything yet. But that didn't stop him from trying.
One morning I watched him lick the blade. Full tongue. No hesitation.
The nurse saw it, flinched, and almost stepped in. Then stopped. Looked at the camera. Backed off.
They wanted to see what he'd do.
Correction: they wanted to see what we'd do.
---
That night, I had a dream.
Not the normal kind. Not memory fragments or floating colors.
This one had teeth.
I was standing—standing, with real legs—in the middle of a circle of animals made of gold light. Each one sat perfectly still. Rat. Ox. Tiger. Rabbit. Dragon. Snake. Horse. Goat. Monkey. Rooster. Dog. Pig.
Twelve of them.
No sounds. No voices.
Just presence.
Then one of them—the Snake—opened its mouth and let something fall out.
A memory. Not mine.
I saw blood. Betrayal. A smile that ended wrong.
Then I woke up, shaking in my baby bones, and the rod in my crib was warm.
Not room temperature. Not "next to a lamp" warm.
Body heat warm.
Like it had been held by someone. Or something.
I didn't sleep for the rest of the night. Just stared at the ceiling and thought about how this wasn't a game.
This was a script.
And someone—or something—was watching to see if I'd follow it.
---
Next morning, we were moved.
New room. Bigger space. Thicker glass. Stronger cribs with hidden seams and embedded cuffs disguised as toys.
Killua sniffed the air like a wolf. Then crawled to the corner of his crib, sat down, and closed his eyes.
I did the same. Not because I knew what he was doing. But because doing the opposite felt dumb.
A few hours later, someone came.
Not a nurse. Not a Suit. Not Silva.
This one had long black hair pulled into a needle-straight tail and eyes that looked like they didn't blink on principle. He had a face like a statue—no softness, no warmth, just angles and expectation.
He crouched between our cribs and said nothing for a long time.
Killua didn't move.
Neither did I.
Then the man leaned forward and said:
"Which of you is the monster?"
No tone. No sarcasm. Just a flat, honest question.
Killua opened one eye. Looked at me. Then closed it again.
I smiled. Didn't say a word.
==========
Zodiac Core System
System Alert: Psychological Stressor Detected
Core Reaction: Inert Response Logged (Serpent)
Level: 1 (Exp 60/100)
==========
New number. New word.
Serpent.
I pretended not to notice, but my heart kicked against my ribs like it wanted to apply for early release.
---
Later, I heard one of the nurses whisper his name in passing.
Illumi.
Which made this whole thing feel a lot less like daycare and a lot more like foreshadowing with knives.
---
That night, Killua tried to escape his crib.
Not dramatically. No explosions. Just subtle. Slow.
He'd mapped the screw placements. Waited until the night shift rotated. Then started unscrewing the bottom corner of the crib bar with the edge of his pillow zipper.
I watched him for a full minute before hurling my pacifier across the room hard enough to hit the camera lens.
The red light blinked back on. The room flooded with quiet footsteps.
A butler entered. Saw the unscrewed corner.
Didn't speak. Just made eye contact with Killua.
Killua stopped. Stared back. Then smiled.
Not because he'd failed. Because he'd been noticed.
After that, we weren't moved again.
The cribs were replaced. Reinforced.
I didn't try to escape. Not yet. I was learning. I didn't need to be first.
I just needed to be ready.
And the system?
It was waking up with me.