The rain hammered against the grimy windows of St. Catherine's Orphanage like the fingers of desperate ghosts seeking entry. Eight-year-old Marcus Chen sat on the edge of a threadbare cot, his small hand completely enveloping the even tinier fingers of his six-year-old sister, Lily. Where Marcus had inherited their Chinese father's sharp features—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes so dark they seemed to swallow light, and ink-black hair that fell straight no matter how often the nuns tried to tame it—Lily was their mother's daughter through and through. Her hair cascaded in honey-golden waves past her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face dominated by impossibly large green eyes that sparkled with an innocence Marcus had already learned to protect.
"Why are you squeezing so hard?" Lily whispered, her button nose wrinkling as she looked up at him. She wore the same gray uniform all the orphans did, but somehow on her it looked like a princess playing dress-up. The patch on the knee had been Marcus's doing—he'd sewn it himself after she'd torn it climbing trees, trying to follow him.
"Sorry, Lilybug," Marcus loosened his grip but didn't let go. Something felt wrong today. The morning felt too heavy, the shadows in the corners too dark. Sister Margaret had been nervous during breakfast, her usually steady hands shaking as she served the watery porridge. The other children—thirty-two souls ranging from infants to teenagers—had noticed too. The usual chatter had died to whispers.
The heavy oak doors of the common room burst open, slamming against the walls with such force that several younger children started crying. Three men entered, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. The leader stood well over six feet tall, his presence filling the room like smoke. His face was all angles and edges—a blade of a nose, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a jaw that could have been carved from granite. Salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back from a pronounced widow's peak, and his eyes were the pale gray of winter ice. He wore an expensive charcoal suit that probably cost more than the orphanage's yearly budget, but it was the way he moved that made Marcus's instincts scream danger—too smooth, too controlled, like a panther pretending to be human.
"Children," the man's voice was cultured, pleasant even, but it made Marcus think of honey poured over broken glass. "My name is Mr. Crane. These are my associates, Mr. Voss and Mr. Lynch."
The two flanking him couldn't have been more different. Voss was built like a bulldozer—barely 5'8" but nearly as wide, with a neck that disappeared into shoulders meant for breaking things. His face was a roadmap of scars, the most prominent being a puckered line running from his left temple to his jaw, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer. His hands, Marcus noticed, were covered in old burns.
Lynch was Voss's opposite—tall and thin as a skeleton, with prematurely white hair despite appearing no older than thirty. His skin had an unhealthy pallor, like he'd never seen sunlight, and his eyes were such a pale blue they seemed almost colorless. When he smiled, revealing perfect white teeth, several children instinctively stepped backward.
Sister Margaret, a plump woman in her fifties whose kind face had provided comfort to hundreds of orphans over the years, stepped forward. Her usually rosy cheeks were pale, and Marcus could see her hands trembling where she'd clasped them in front of her habit. "Mr. Crane, I've told you, the children aren't—"
"Sister," Crane interrupted, his smile never wavering, "we've discussed this. The Morrison Foundation is offering these selected children opportunities—education, training, careers. Futures they'd never have otherwise."
His pale eyes swept across the room like searchlights, cataloguing each child with the efficiency of a butcher evaluating cattle. They lingered on a few—Tommy, who at fourteen was already showing signs of the athlete he could become; Sarah, twelve, whose quick wit had her reading at a college level; little James, only seven but with reflexes that defied explanation.
Then those winter eyes found Lily.
Marcus felt the exact moment Crane's attention locked onto his sister. The man's pupils dilated slightly, his head tilting with the interest of a collector who'd spotted a rare butterfly. Lily, oblivious to the danger, was humming quietly to herself, playing with a cloth doll Marcus had made her from scraps.
"The blonde girl," Crane said softly, and Lynch started moving toward them with his skeletal stride.
"No." The word left Marcus's mouth before he'd even formed the thought. He stood, pulling Lily behind him. At eight years old, he barely came up to Lynch's chest, but something in his stance made the pale man pause.
Crane's laugh was like ice cracking on a frozen lake. "Brave little thing. What's your name, boy?"
"Marcus Chen." He kept his chin raised, meeting those pale eyes without flinching. "She's my sister. We stay together."
"How touching," Crane approached, each step measured and deliberate. Up close, Marcus could smell his cologne—something expensive and sharp that didn't quite mask an underlying scent of gunpowder. "But I'm afraid that's not how this works. Your sister has been selected for a special program. She'll be adopted by a wonderful family—doctors, I believe. She'll have everything a little girl could want."
"Then take me too," Marcus said immediately. "We're a package deal."
Crane crouched down to Marcus's level, and for the first time, his smile reached his eyes—but it wasn't a kind expression. It was the look of a spider who'd felt something interesting touch its web. "You'd give up your sister's chance at a perfect life just to stay with her? How selfish."
"You don't want to give her a perfect life," Marcus said quietly. "You want to take her. There's a difference."
The room went silent except for the rain. Crane studied Marcus for a long moment, then looked back at Lynch and Voss. Some silent communication passed between them. Finally, Crane stood.
"Very well. We'll take you both—but not to the same place. The boy shows... potential for a different program." He turned to Sister Margaret. "Have them ready in an hour. The girl to the Fairfields—they're expecting a daughter. The boy comes with us."
Sister Margaret's face crumpled. "Mr. Crane, please, Marcus is just a child—"
"A child who just negotiated with me," Crane interrupted. "Successfully, I might add. That requires reward." His smile was all teeth. "Or punishment, depending on perspective."
The next hour passed in a blur. Sister Margaret helped them pack their few possessions, tears streaming down her face as she hugged them goodbye. She pressed a small wooden cross into Marcus's hand and whispered, "God protect you, child. Protect you both."
In the parking lot, two cars waited—a white Mercedes for Lily, black SUV for Marcus. The Fairfields were everything Crane had promised—Dr. James Fairfield was tall and distinguished with kind brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and graying temples that made him look trustworthy. His wife, Dr. Patricia Fairfield, was elegant in a way that spoke of old money, with auburn hair pinned in a perfect chignon and a smile that actually seemed genuine. They looked at Lily like she was a miracle, not an acquisition.
"Come here, sweetheart," Patricia said, her voice warm as honey—real honey, not Crane's poisoned version. "We've waited so long for a little girl just like you."
Lily looked at Marcus, her green eyes filling with tears. "I don't want to go without you."
Marcus knelt down, taking her small face in his hands. He memorized every detail—the constellation of freckles across her nose, the way her left eye was slightly larger than her right, the small scar on her chin from when she'd fallen trying to follow him up a tree.
"Lilybug, listen to me," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. "These people are going to give you everything I can't. You're going to be a princess, just like in those stories I tell you. You'll go to school, have pretty dresses, eat ice cream whenever you want."
"But what about you?" She was crying now, her small body shaking with sobs.
"I'll be fine. I'm going to a special school, going to learn important things. And hey," he forced a smile, "maybe when we're grown up, I'll find you again. You'll be a famous doctor or artist or whatever you want, and I'll be so proud."
"Promise?" She held out her pinky finger, their sacred ritual.
Marcus linked his pinky with hers, the lie burning his throat like acid. "Promise."
He watched the Mercedes disappear into the rain, taking the only light in his world with it. Then Lynch's skeletal hand landed on his shoulder, the grip strong enough to bruise.
"Touching," Lynch said, his voice like grinding bones. "But where you're going, boy, love is a luxury you can't afford."
As the SUV drove in the opposite direction, Crane turned from the passenger seat to study Marcus. The boy wasn't crying. His dark eyes stared straight ahead, already beginning to empty of everything except purpose.
"Rule one," Crane said, lighting a cigarette despite the no-smoking sign on the dashboard. "Shadows have no past, no family, no name. Marcus Chen died today. What remains is clay for us to mold."
The orphanage disappeared behind them, then the city, then everything Marcus had ever known. Three hours later, they pulled up to a compound that didn't exist on any map—high walls topped with razor wire, guards with automatic weapons, and buildings designed to break people down and rebuild them into weapons.
As they processed him—burning his clothes, shaving his head, assigning him a number instead of a name—Marcus held onto one thought like a lifeline: Lily was safe. She'd have the life she deserved, far away from whatever hell awaited him here.
He was wrong about her being far away. The Fairfields lived only fifty miles from the compound, their presence carefully orchestrated by Crane. The adoption papers, the background checks, even their seemingly genuine affection—all carefully manufactured to create the perfect leverage.
But eight-year-old Marcus didn't know that. He only knew that as they locked him in a cell that first night—concrete walls, no windows, a cot with no pillow—he could stop pretending to be strong. In the darkness, where no one could see, he pressed his face into the thin mattress and sobbed for the last time in twenty years.
When the sun rose, Marcus Chen was truly dead.
What remained was Project Ghost: Experiment 237.
The transformation had begun.