It started slowly, a creeping sensation at the back of my mind, like tendrils of fog curling inward, pulling me deeper. My body felt heavy, as though sinking into something soft and endless. But then, through the haze, images began to form—faint at first, flickering like an old film reel. And then they solidified, sharp, almost too real.
I was a child.
The air around me felt warm, almost stifling, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread drifting in from the kitchen. I stood in the middle of our living room, my tiny feet barely making a sound against the hardwood floor. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden hue over everything, but it felt wrong—like a painting with colours that didn't belong.
There was an argument happening, but I couldn't understand it. My father's voice rose above the rest, thick with desperation.
"You can't just take them!" he shouted, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, desperation etched into his features. My mother's voice cracked, a soft sound that pierced through the chaos. She was crying, her sobs raw and unguarded, as if every breath was a struggle.
"Please, you have to listen!" she pleaded, her eyes darting to the door as if hoping to summon help from thin air.
Then I saw them.
Men in black uniforms, their faces hidden behind reflective helmets that distorted their features into something monstrous. I felt my stomach twist as they stepped into the house, their movements precise, almost robotic. Behind them stood a woman in a crisp white lab coat, her hair pulled back tightly, her eyes cold and calculating. She stepped forward, her polished shoes clicking against the floor with an eerie rhythm that sent chills down my spine.
"We're here for them," she said flatly, as if announcing an order rather than a decree that would change our lives forever.
I felt Thomas's hand slip into mine, clammy and trembling. He was too young to understand what was happening—hell, so was I—but I squeezed his hand tighter, like somehow that would make it all okay. The woman stepped forward, her gaze sharp as she scrutinized us, her expression void of empathy.
My father lunged toward the men, his voice raw with anger. "You're monsters! You can't take them! They only go at ten! Jessica isn't even six and Thomas only just turned four!"
But it was useless. One of the guards grabbed Thomas first, his small body thrashing like a wild animal, screams tearing from his throat. I tried to shout for him, but my voice was swallowed by the sound of my mother's desperate cries.
The woman's gaze fell on me, icy and unyielding. "You'll thank us one day," she said, but I didn't believe her. How could anyone think that taking us away was for our own good?
My vision blurred with tears as they pulled me away. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was my mother collapsing to her knees, her hands reaching out for us like she could pull us back through sheer will alone.
Time blurred. I wasn't in the living room anymore.
I was standing in a room so sterile it hurt my eyes. The walls were white, painfully white, the kind of white that made you feel small and insignificant. Machines beeped in the background, their rhythmic sound almost hypnotic, but they were nothing compared to the sharp pain in my arm. I flinched, looking down to see a needle piercing my skin. The liquid inside glowed blue, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Where are we?" I whispered, fear creeping into my voice as I glanced at Thomas, who sat on the cot next to mine. His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror.
"We're going to be okay," he said, but even his voice trembled. "They said we're special."
Ava Paige entered the room, her heels clicking on the floor, drawing my attention like a moth to a flame. She crouched down in front of us, her presence suffocating. She touched Thomas's cheek with the back of her hand, almost like she was a mother comforting her child, but there was no warmth in her touch. There was only calculation.
"You and your sister," she said softly, her voice smooth as silk, "are the key to everything. The world is sick, dying. But you... you're going to save it."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to be a hero. But there was something in her gaze, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It was the way she said it—like we weren't people at all, just pieces on a chessboard. I glanced at Thomas, and he was hanging on to every word, his chest puffed out with pride.
"I'll do anything to save the world," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with conviction.
I didn't feel pride. I felt trapped.
The years blurred together after that.
We trained. Every day was a grind of brutal workouts, endless drills, and mental exercises that pushed us to our limits. I was older now—stronger, faster—but the weight of it all hung over me like a shadow. Thomas thrived in the chaos, always pushing himself harder, always trying to prove something. He believed in WICKED. He believed in her.
But I was starting to see things differently.
It was during one of these training sessions that I met Newt. We were sparring—well, if you could call it sparring. We were both exhausted, drenched in sweat, the muscles in my arms burning from the sheer number of times I had to block his attacks. His blond hair stuck to his forehead, and there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You fight like a girl," he teased, his British accent thick.
I rolled my eyes, flipping him onto the mat with a quick sweep of my leg. "That's because I am a girl, idiot. And I fight better than you!"
He chuckled, the sound light and infectious. "You think so? I'm not convinced. I think you just got lucky."
"Lucky?" I shot back, standing over him with my hands on my hips. "Right! Like I haven't just pinned you the last fifty times!"
Newt grinned up at me, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Maybe I should go easier on you, then. Can't have you thinking you can take me down every time."
I stepped back, feigning surprise. "Oh, are you saying you were trying?" I leaned down, grinning. "Next time, I expect you to give it your all. You know, actually try."
We laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that broke through the suffocating atmosphere. It felt... real. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.
Days turned into weeks, and our banter transformed into something deeper. We trained side by side, sometimes brushing against each other, igniting something electric between us. I found myself glancing at him when I thought he wasn't looking, my heart racing when our eyes met.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow across the training yard, we found ourselves sitting on the edge of the platform. The air was warm, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees. I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to suppress the flutter in my stomach.
"Do you ever think about what happens after this?" Newt asked, his voice low and contemplative.
I shrugged, my heart pounding. "Sometimes. But it's hard to think about anything beyond today. WICKED has us on a leash."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his brow furrowing. "I don't know if I want to be a part of this anymore. Something feels off."
I looked at him, my heart aching. "I know. It feels wrong."
"Jess," he said softly, turning to face me. "You're not like the others. You question everything, and it's... refreshing. I like that about you."
I felt my cheeks heat. "I could say the same about you."
"Yeah?" he said, his voice teasing but his gaze serious.
"Definitely," I replied, a smile breaking through. "You're not half bad,"
His expression softened, and suddenly, there was a weight in the air, a charged moment that made my heart race. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
I blinked in surprise, my breath catching. "What?"
He leaned closer, the space between us narrowing. "I mean, if you want me to. I won't force you or anything. Just thought—"
Before he could finish, I closed the gap, pressing my lips to his. It was hesitant at first, a brush of warmth that blossomed into something more as he kissed me back, gentle and exploring. My heart raced as I melted into him, feeling the world around us fade away.
When we pulled apart, we were both breathless, our foreheads resting against each other.
"What was that?" I whispered, a smile creeping across my face.
"Something special," he replied, grinning. "I think we should do it again sometime."
I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in a long time. "Definitely. Just try not to lose next time we spar, or I'll have to remind you who's really in charge here."
But the more time I spent with Newt, the more I felt the growing weight of WICKED's expectations pressing down on me. Every day, I trained, drilled, and followed their orders like a well-oiled machine, but something inside me shifted. The cracks in WICKED's facade became clearer, sharper. I noticed the cold, clinical detachment in the scientists' eyes, the way they talked about us like we were nothing more than subjects in an experiment.
Newt was my constant—a light in the suffocating darkness—but even he couldn't keep the gnawing doubts at bay forever. It all came to a head one night, when I stumbled upon something that made my stomach churn.
The lab was eerily quiet, the sterile scent of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. I moved slowly, my footsteps careful and measured. I had learned by now how to avoid the cameras, how to slip past the guards unnoticed. It was late, almost midnight, and the facility was shut down for the night.
I couldn't sleep. My mind had been racing for days, thoughts of what we were doing, what I was doing, swirling in my head like a storm I couldn't escape. I couldn't take it anymore. I had to know the truth.
Ava Paige's office was locked, of course, but that wasn't a problem. Newt had taught me a few tricks over the months, and within minutes, I was inside. The cold glow of the computer screen illuminated the dark room, casting shadows on the walls. My fingers moved across the keyboard with purpose, navigating through files that I shouldn't have been able to access.
There were reports, documents outlining the trials we had gone through, the serums they had pumped into us, the simulations we had endured. But that wasn't the worst of it.
I found files on us—on me, on Thomas. I scrolled through pages detailing every aspect of our lives, down to the tiniest detail. But what made my blood run cold was the section titled "Subject Potential."
Jessica– Subject A1: High potential for leadership and strategic innovation. Enhanced emotional resilience through repeated trauma conditioning.
I felt bile rise in my throat as I read through the descriptions of my so-called "potential." They weren't preparing us to save the world—they were using us. We weren't heroes. We were weapons.
There was no turning back. I grabbed the small flash drive I'd brought with me and quickly downloaded the files. I didn't know if this would be enough to take them down, but I had to try. I had to do something.
As I slipped out of the office, my heart pounded in my chest, the weight of what I had just done sinking in. I had committed treason against WICKED, and I knew what that meant. But I couldn't care about the consequences. This wasn't just about me anymore—it was about Thomas, about Newt, about Minho, about all of us.
The next few days were a blur of paranoia and tension. I kept the flash drive hidden in the lining of my jacket, constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to figure out what I'd done.
I hadn't told Newt. I couldn't risk it. As much as I loved him—and I did, more than I'd ever imagined—I had to keep him safe. The less he knew, the better. He would've tried to stop me, I knew that much. He trusted me, but he still believed in WICKED more than I did. And I couldn't drag him down with me.
But I needed help, and there was one person I knew I could trust.
My vision flashed faster, and I saw a glimpse of a hard drive. Its sleek surface reflected the dim light of the corridor, a beacon of hope in the chaos.
Ten guards were walking towards me, their boots echoing against the concrete floor.
Blood
A piercing alarm that cut through the shouts
More guards flooded in, their shadows elongating as they moved in synchrony. Panic surged through me. I had to act fast, but the weight of the situation pressed heavily on my chest.
A sharp pinch on my arm pulled me back to the moment, and I realized I was losing focus. I gasped for air, but it felt like I was drowning, the world around me blurring as I fought to regain control.
"WICKED is good,"