From the day he was born, Ethan's life seemed doomed to tragedy. His father had died in an accident weeks before his birth, and his mother, weakened by grief and pregnancy complications, did not survive childbirth.
The hospital tried to contact family members, but none could be found. A newborn, his eyes wide open, he had nowhere to go.
He ended up in a small orphanage in a secluded village. The building was modest, with brick walls and corridors that smelled of cheap soap, but inside there was warmth. The caregivers treated him tenderly, and the days passed between games in the sun and whispered stories before bed.
But the warmth did not last long. One day, without warning, an official letter arrived, cold and impersonal, announcing the closure of the orphanage due to lack of funds. That same week, Ethan was moved to a new institution.
There, the warmth completely faded, replaced by the coldness of rigid schedules and the indifference of the adults. There was no laughter, no games, just the pressure of fitting into a preset mold. Ethan didn't cry. Crying wouldn't change anything. He quickly learned that tears were for the weak, and he couldn't afford to be.
Classes were tough; only the brightest received any recognition. Ethan, by then, already knew that standing out was the only way not to disappear into oblivion. He immersed himself in his studies, turning the competition into his only company. And he became excellent at everything.
On the night he turned fourteen, two shadowy staff figures woke him; their expressionless faces were illuminated by the dim light of a flashlight. He was told that a couple had read his file and wanted to meet him. Adoption? The simple idea seemed unreal.
They walked silently down a poorly lit corridor. Halfway through, one of the staff members slipped behind him, too fast and silent. He felt the prick of a needle in his neck, and the world vanished into an abyss.
He regained consciousness with a dry mouth and a numb body. The ceiling light blinded him for a moment. He was in an unknown room, with smooth white walls, tied to a metal stretcher. There was only one closed door and surgical equipment. His heart was beating hard. Every attempt to free himself only reinforced the feeling of confinement. He tried to scream, but his voice was barely a hoarse whisper.
Minutes later, a group of people in white coats came in. They didn't say their names; they didn't look him in the eye. One checked a tablet, another adjusted a machine next to his head. Only one came close enough to speak to him:
–You'll be fine, Ethan. This is for everyone's sake.
Ethan didn't understand. He wanted to ask what was going on, why he had been brought there, what it all meant. But he barely managed to open his mouth before an oxygen mask descended on his face and plunged him back into darkness.
When he came to his senses, everything was different.
His head hurt: twinges, pressure, and an electric pulse running through his skull at regular intervals, like a living signal. The light was too bright, and the sounds too loud. He could hear the individual buzz of each fluorescent tube, identify patterns in the flickering of the LEDs, and perceive the slight vibration of the machinery behind the walls.
She slowly sat up, and in his mind, a sentence emerged unbidden:
– [Full activation. Ready to receive instructions.]
It wasn't a voice. It had no gender. It was rather a direct impression, as if his thought had been intercepted and returned as pure information.
–Where am I?
– [Unidentified location. External signals blocked.]
The answer materialized in his mind, instant, precise, and unemotional. Like a function executed without delay.
He was silent for a moment. His breathing accelerated. He wasn't hallucinating.
–What are you?
–[Integrated cognitive assistance unit. AI Core 001. Experimental design.]
The clarity of the information, the way it appeared in his mind without the need for spoken words, disoriented him. It was like having direct access to a computer built into his consciousness.
There was no surprise, no trial, no intention. Just data.
Time passed quickly. Ethan lived in isolation from the outside world, in a windowless cell. He only saw the technicians, the doctors, the cleaning staff, and, most often, Dr. Elvis.
Tall, thin, with neatly combed hair and round glasses he never took off, Dr. Elvis was the only one who treated him as more than an experiment. He always arrived with a smile, carrying a folder under his arm and speaking in a kind tone.
–Good morning, champion. How do you feel today?
–My head hurts again.
–Sure, of course... It's normal. Your mind is growing, adapting. You're making history, Ethan. Did you know that? You're unique.
He spoke to him as if he appreciated him. As if he truly cared.
Ethan was trying to believe him.
But there were times when something didn't seem right. Brief silences between his sentences, smiles that lasted a little longer than necessary, glances that were averted before answering a direct question.
And above all, there was the evidence.
Increasingly demanding tests: complex simulations, long-term memory exercises, understanding of advanced systems, logical operations with no margin for error. They watched him relentlessly, even while he slept.
And every new record he achieved made Elvis's face shine... not with pride, but with ambition.
–We're very close, Ethan,– he said one afternoon, his eyes shining behind his glasses. –Very, very close. When this is ready, you will change the world.
–And then...? What's going to happen to me?
The doctor laughed softly, as if he had been asked a humorous question.
–Then you'll live however you want. You'll be free. I promise.
But there was no promise in his eyes.
Ethan didn't know why, but from then on he began to count the days more carefully and to doubt the soft words of the only kind face he had ever known.