The rain always smelled like rust in the slum where he lived.
His name was Arin. He was born poor enough that hunger felt normal, like breathing. His house had a broken roof, his mother's cough never stopped, and his dreams were small—eat twice a day, sleep without fear, live one more year. Life had taught him not to expect miracles.
That was why he didn't believe it when the girl appeared.
She stood near the old bridge one evening, barefoot, wearing a white dress too clean for this place. Her hair shimmered like silver thread, her eyes soft and deep, as if stars had learned how to look human.
"Why do you look so sad?" she asked.
No one had ever asked him that.
Her voice felt warm. Gentle. Unreal. She laughed at his bad jokes, listened to his silence, touched his hand like it mattered. She said her name was Lyria. She said she liked broken places. She said she liked him.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
With her, Arin forgot hunger. Forgot pain. When she smiled, the world felt lighter. At night, she spoke strange things—about dreams that watched people, about shadows that could think—but she always laughed after, like it was just a story.
She kissed him under dying streetlights.
She promised never to leave.
He believed her.
That night, they were walking down a narrow road, their fingers locked together. The city was quiet. Too quiet.
Then footsteps.
Men came from every side. Masks. Black coats. Heavy boots. One grabbed Lyria's arm. Arin reacted without thinking. He swung his fist.
Pain exploded.
A metal rod crashed into his ribs. Another hit his face. The world flipped. He tasted blood. He heard his bones crack like dry wood. He screamed Lyria's name.
She didn't scream back.
Through swollen eyes, he saw her standing there. Calm. Untouched.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
That was the last thing he heard before darkness swallowed him whole.
He woke up screaming.
Lights burned his eyes. Cold metal hugged his wrists and ankles. Tubes pierced his skin. The air smelled of chemicals and rot. Around him, other beds stood empty—or stained dark.
A man in a white coat smiled. "Subject acquired."
Arin begged. Cried. Promised anything.
No one listened.
They cut him open without mercy. Injected black liquid into his veins. His blood burned. Something moved inside him—alive, angry, ancient. He felt it watching through his eyes.
They called it Project 753-UCr.
He saw Lyria again, behind glass, speaking with the scientists.
"She sold me?" he whispered.
One man laughed. "She was made for this. A lure. Commission paid in full."
Lyria didn't look at him.
Days blurred into nightmares. They drowned him and revived him. Broke his bones and healed them wrong. The thing inside him grew stronger, whispering in a language that hurt his mind.
Kill.
End them.
Let me out.
He held on to one thought: survive.
Then one night, alarms screamed.
The dark thing inside him laughed.
The lab shook. Fire exploded through the halls. Glass shattered. Screams echoed. In the chaos, his restraints snapped—not broken by machines, but melted by black energy pouring from his chest.
Arin fell to the floor, gasping.
He stood up.
The pain was gone.
He walked through fire like it feared him. Walls cracked when he touched them. Scientists ran. Some begged. The shadow inside him stretched, tearing through steel, turning screams into silence.
The lab collapsed behind him.
He escaped into the night.
Dawn found him on a hill, looking at the city below.
He was free.
But not whole.
His reflection in a broken mirror showed eyes darker than before, veins crawling like black snakes under his skin. The voice inside him whispered again—soft now, patient.
You are cursed.
But you are chosen.
Arin clenched his fists.
Once, he was poor.
Once, he was weak.
Once, he loved a fairy who sold his soul.
Now, something else lived inside him.
And the world would pay for creating it.