There were always other kids.
At first, Natalie Winters tried to be one of them.
Back then, she was small, quiet, and wide-eyed. She sat on school benches with her backpack hugged to her chest and watched the others play. But the smiles never lasted. Not after what happened to the first boy who tried to shove her.
She remembered the dirt.
She remembered the blood on his lip.
She remembered standing over him, fist clenched, daring someone else to step forward.
No one did.
They just looked at her like she was the monster in the room.
"I told him to stop," she muttered to herself later. "They never listen. So I made them."
From then on, the others began to distance themselves. Birthday parties became private. Desks next to her sat empty. Parents whispered. Teachers sighed.
Natalie didn't cry.
She just stared ahead with a small, stubborn smirk.
—
Middle school was worse.
She tried dating—once. A boy two years older, smooth-talking, charming. He made her feel wanted for a few weeks, and that was enough to drop her guard.
Until he pushed too far.
They were alone by the riverside, near the old concrete bridge after school. His hands didn't stop when she told him to.
So she shoved him. Hard.
The bridge railing cracked.
He fell.
Screamed.
Hit the water, limbs flailing.
Natalie didn't run. She called for help, screamed like a victim. Cried like she meant it.
They believed her.
She never apologized.
No one suspected the truth—just that she was unlucky, maybe cursed.
After that, she made herself smaller, more careful. But inside, something started curling in her chest. Tighter, sharper.
—
By high school, it was unbearable.
Her reputation followed her like a shadow. They called her names. "Freak." "Psychogirl." "Bridgepusher." Some stuck notes to her locker. Others laughed when she passed.
She still fought back—verbally, mostly—but each time, it left her more isolated.
Until one night, she walked alone through the neighborhood park, silent under the weight of everything.
She stood at the edge of a metal platform in the rain, wind rushing past her face.
Her feet shuffled forward.
She told herself she didn't care.
But as she stared down, heart sinking, a voice screamed behind her.
"Natalie!"
Her parents.
Her mom was crying. Her dad running with no umbrella. She froze.
They reached her just in time, grabbing her arms, pulling her back.
They didn't yell.
They held her.
They wept.
And in that moment, for the first time in years, she broke down, clutching both of them and saying nothing at all.
—
Present day.
The bus squealed to a stop. The door folded open.
Natalie stepped down with a black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, her hoodie tugged low, headphones covering her ears.
She looked up.
Valortown.
Not loud like her city. Not calm either. It had that strange weight, like the buildings were watching her.
She didn't care.
She blew a strand of hair out of her face and kept walking.
The streets were already getting dim, the sky turning a deep violet. Her playlist blasted through her headphones, the beat drowning out everything else.
Her dad had signed her up for some company. Vanguard Administrative Solutions. She didn't ask questions. She figured it was a job, a fresh start. Her parents had worked hard to set it up. They still believed in her—even after everything.
She didn't deserve them.
She knew that.
But she was trying.
She passed a dark alley. She should've walked faster.
She didn't.
Something growled in the fog.
Natalie turned just as a clawed hand grabbed her from the darkness.
She screamed—barely. A second hand slammed over her mouth.
Then she was airborne.
Dragged upward into the night, kicking wildly.
No one saw.
—
Everything after that was pain.
She woke up in a white room, lying on a cold metal bed, arms and legs strapped down in restraints that buzzed with electricity. Her hoodie was gone. She wore a sterile gown, pale and stiff.
People in surgical masks stood outside the observation window.
No emotion. No empathy.
Just cold calculation.
A voice crackled over the intercom.
"Subject 07-A. Female. Human. Will begin integration attempts."
She screamed. Begged.
No one listened.
Needles pierced her arms. Fluid burned through her veins. Machines pulsed. Tubes wrapped around her limbs. Cold mist surged through the vents as scientists watched monitors for signs of failure.
But she didn't die.
She fought.
Whatever they injected—whatever they did—it didn't kill her. It twisted something inside.
Something hot.
Something heavy.
She was transferred to another room. Then another.
They made her run on glass treadmills, her ankles cuffed in place.
They shocked her.
Forced her to react.
She'd wake up in a tank of water. Then fire. Then earth.
Somehow, her body began responding. Little flickers of something elemental. Uncontrolled. Barely visible.
And when it happened—when her hand sparked or her skin steamed—they laughed. Took notes. Ran more tests.
They called her "the clean slate." A rare Hybrid, not born, but created.
—
One night, in a containment chamber dimly lit, she curled up in the corner. Arms wrapped around her knees. Thin gown soaked in sweat. Her voice barely more than a whisper.
"I'm sorry," she muttered.
"I didn't mean to ruin everything."
She sobbed, rocking gently.
"I just wanted to be normal... I didn't want this..."
No one heard her.
Not yet.