Swindon – Unknown Location
3:17 AM
The place smelled like rot and rusted chains.
A long, suffocating hallway opened into an underground dungeon where the cries of boys were muted by thick cement walls and the steady hum of machines. Stark fluorescent lights flickered, casting an eerie, almost surgical glow over the rows of metal cages.
Inside them?
Young boys — barely teenagers.
Some shivering, others unconscious, a few simply staring into nothing as if their souls had escaped long before help ever could.
In another section of the facility, white-coated lab technicians hovered over cold metal tables, injecting formulas into chained animals, while others began testing volatile samples on sedated boys, noting reactions with clinical detachment.
Just then — hurried footsteps echoed.
Zayed — Reyaan's trusted assistant — burst into the hall, breath ragged, coat half open, eyes sharp.
"Everyone in line. Reyaan Malhotra is on his way down."
His voice was firm, cold.
"You know what happens when he sees imperfection. No mistakes. No second chances."
Everyone stiffened. Silence dropped like a guillotine.
Moments later, the air shifted.
Smoke curled into the hall long before his footsteps arrived.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Boots touched the stairs with slow rhythm — deliberate, unbothered.
Then he appeared.
Reyaan Malhotra.
Black coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak, cigarette dangling between two fingers, shadows painting his face darker than the smoke that left his lips. His dark eyes scanned the cages — cold and sharp like a butcher surveying livestock.
He stopped in front of one cage — a trembling boy clutched a dirty cloth to his chest. Reyaan stared at him with a tilted head and exhaled smoke slowly, as if it entertained him.
"How old?" he asked lazily.
A technician scrambled over. "Twelve. Picked from Leeds. Sold in auction twice. Still unsold, sir."
Reyaan gave a low hum. "Twelve…"
He bent slightly, bringing his face close to the bars. The boy flinched, pressing further into the corner.
Zayed stood stiffly behind him.
Reyaan straightened. "If he's not bought by tonight, test the new batch on him. The one with the nerve accelerator. I want to see how far the human brain can be pushed before it melts."
From the shadows, Ellen emerged — a tall man with greying blond hair and an expensive accent, dressed too clean for this kind of hell.
"Sir, auction prices are rising. Double than expected for the unscarred ones. If you want, I could select a few for your private quarters?"
Reyaan turned to him slowly.
"What do I look like to you, Ellen? A bacteria collector?"
Ellen's smile twitched nervously.
"N–No sir. I only meant—"
Reyaan's glare sliced through him. "You meant I'd touch the same trash that greedy hands already soiled. No. I don't devour rot. I manufacture it."
Ellen went quiet. A drop of sweat slid down his temple.
Reyaan flicked his cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his boots.
"Schedule the next live test in three hours. I want footage sent to Zayed."
He turned to Zayed without blinking.
"Also… increase the dose. Let's see if we can recreate the seizure patterns from last month's collapse."
Zayed nodded, expression unreadable. "Understood."
Before he could walk away, Reyaan looked back at the cages.
His voice dropped lower.
"If even one of them dies without use, Ellen, you'll replace them. In the same cage. Naked. Injected. Don't test me."
Ellen paled. "Of course, sir."
Reyaan walked away, not looking back once. Behind him, the sound of crying began to rise again. And no one dared to stop it.
Reyaan's footsteps echoed coldly through the damp, dimly lit corridor, the walls whispering secrets of unspeakable horrors. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette clenched between his fingers as he glanced sideways at Zayed, his ever-loyal shadow.
"Show me the new recruits," Reyaan said quietly, his voice low and laced with authority.
"The boys currently training under Nick's men."
Zayed nodded without hesitation, turning sharply and leading the way toward the next grim chapter of this living nightmare.
The pair arrived at a door marked with peeling paint and an aura of suffocation. Reyaan pushed it open and entered the drug storage room. Rows of dusty shelves lined the walls, stacked with packets and vials, each holding poison disguised in a thousand forms.
His sharp eyes scanned the shelves until he found a packet, peeling it open with the precision of a man who'd handled far worse. Bringing it closer, he tasted and sniffed with a practiced ease. The bitter sting confirmed its potency.
"Ellen," Reyaan's voice rang through the small radio clipped to Zayed's collar, "tell our men to push this on the teenagers hanging around the pubs and clubs. You know exactly what I mean — the ones too young for entry, but desperate enough to get their hands on something."
He smiled, cold and calculating.
"But make it clear — only those who ask for it get it. No forcing. Let the craving come from them. We don't waste resources on the unwilling."
Zayed acknowledged with a quick nod, already relaying the order.
Reyaan's attention shifted as they descended the stairs, stepping into the main training ground. There, under harsh industrial lights, rows of young boys stood in rigid formation, faces pale or hardened by a childhood stolen too soon.
From the shadows emerged Nick, the chief trainer. A grizzled man with scars mapped like a battlefield across his arms, Nick stepped forward and bowed his head respectfully.
"Sir," Nick greeted with a rough voice. "Batch fifteen. Started training ten days ago. Progressing well, but a few weak links."
Reyaan's dark eyes narrowed. He raised his voice, the coldness in his tone piercing the stale air.
"Weakness has no place here."
He barked the command with terrifying clarity.
"If anyone here shows the slightest crack—Nick, take them to the underground labs. Let the auction and tests decide their fate. No weakling walks free."
Nick swallowed hard, acknowledging the grim order.
Reyaan flicked his cigarette to the floor, crushing it beneath his boot, then extended his hand.
Without hesitation, Nick placed a long, thick wooden stick into his palm—rough-hewn and heavy with menace.
Reyaan strode forward, cane in hand, slowly pacing the rows of boys. His gaze was a scalpel, dissecting every twitch and hesitation.
Suddenly, he stopped before a trembling boy whose leg wavered under the weight of his fear.
"Stand straight!" Reyaan barked, striking the boy's leg sharply with the stick.
The boy gasped, nearly collapsing under the blow.
"Or would you prefer I cut your spine out?"
The room fell deathly silent.
Reyaan's gaze was merciless as he demanded, "How old are you?"
The boy stammered, "Fourteen, sir."
Reyaan nodded slowly and looked toward Nick.
"Make sure the youngest focus on groundwork — endurance, discipline, pain tolerance. The older boys learn to wield weapons, secure perimeters, and maintain order. Their lessons must be flawless."
His voice dropped, deadly serious.
"Any failure—pierce a hole in their fingers, but do not kill. Not yet. They remain useless until proven otherwise."
A cruel smile twisted his lips as he chose three boys from the line, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperate hope.
"Send these three to my quarters," he ordered coldly.
Nick nodded and motioned for the boys to follow, their footsteps echoing softly as they disappeared into the darkness behind the commander.
Reyaan turned sharply and strode away, leaving behind a field of broken childhoods and hardened resolve.
As he vanished down the corridor, his voice lingered in the stale air:
"Strength above all. Pain is the price of survival."The heavy door of the private quarters shut with a dull thud behind them, sealing the cold world outside. Reyaan's sharp eyes flicked toward Zayed as he took off his long, dark coat, folding it with a slow, deliberate calm that contrasted sharply with the raw power simmering beneath his composed exterior.
"Zayed," he said, voice low but commanding, "call Arav Mehera. Tell him to be here within the hour. No delays."
Zayed nodded, already pulling out his phone to make the call.
"You may leave," Reyaan added, his gaze hardening as Zayed hesitated.
Zayed obeyed, slipping out silently, closing the door behind him.
Reyaan turned toward the three boys standing rigidly in front of him, their eyes darting nervously between one another and their formidable host.
He rolled up his sleeves slowly, exposing his forearms, the veins visible beneath pale skin, a quiet warning of the strength concealed beneath.
"Look at me," Reyaan commanded, his voice sharp like a whip cracking in the silence.
The boys' eyes lifted hesitantly, meeting his piercing stare.
"Are you from England or India?" he asked, tone neutral but cutting.
One by one, each boy stepped forward, voice trembling but clear as Reyaan demanded every detail — their name, age, blood group, weaknesses, and strengths. The room filled with their whispered confessions and strained breathing, a fragile mosaic of broken lives.
Reyaan placed his phone and a sleek, black handgun carefully on the desk, sliding them with a slow, deliberate motion to the center of the table.
Then, his voice dropped a notch lower, dangerous and probing.
"Tell me—have any of you ever held a gun before?"
Reyaan's gaze flicked over the boys, searching for even a flicker of courage or fear.
"Or are you all just scared children pretending to be soldiers?"
The boys exchanged uneasy glances, some shaking their heads, others swallowing hard.
Without breaking the silence, Rehaan — standing quietly by the desk — reached out and picked up the gun.
He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight.
"Anyone afraid of this?" he asked flatly, eyes still on the boys.
Reyaan raised the gun, holding it steady as if it were an extension of his own will.
"Now listen carefully," Reyaan said, voice cold and sharp as a blade. "If I were to give you a chance—right here, right now—to shoot me with this gun... who among you would have the courage to step forward and do it?"
His dark eyes bored into the boys like a hunter sizing up prey.
"I want only one," he growled, "the strongest, the one ready to bleed for survival—to come forward."
The room was suffocatingly silent, the weight of his words sinking deep into the boys' bones.
One boy, trembling but resolute, hesitated at the edge of the group. His hands shook, but his eyes burned with something fierce—fear mingled with raw determination.
Reyaan's lips curled into a faint, cruel smile.
"Good," he said. "That is the first lesson. Fear is a weapon if you learn to wield it."