The Ties That Bleeds

Dr. Elias Vorn stood in the sterile silence of his underground laboratory, surrounded by towering vats of glowing fluid. The sound of liquid bubbling in glass tubes filled the air, a symphony of creation underpinned by the steady hum of machinery. Dr. Elias Vorn stood at the center of his lab, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed his life's work.

Before him, four containment chambers stood tall, their translucent walls glowing faintly. Inside each chamber, a child floated, their tiny forms suspended in a viscous amber fluid.

His fingers traced the etched symbols on each tube-001, 002, 003, 004. His "masterpieces," though he never allowed himself to call them that out loud. In truth, they were his obsession, his legacy.

Elias's eyes glinted with something between awe and mania. "Perfect," he whispered.

Inside the tubes, the children floated in thick, translucent fluid, their tiny forms suspended like marionettes on invisible strings. Their eyes remained closed, their faces serene. They were supposed to be perfect-the pinnacle of human evolution, enhanced by gene editing and the finest genetic material science could offer. But perfection, Elias had learned, was an elusive and cruel mistress.

"They'll call me a monster," he murmured, his voice bouncing off the cold walls, "but history will remember me as a god."

The lab smelled of antiseptic and ozone, a sharp reminder of the delicate balance between science and madness. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the control panel in front of him. He had poured decades into this project, splicing the finest genetic material he could source, including his own DNA. He sought perfection-not just intelligence or strength, but something more. Something transcendent.

The lab was a place of stark contrasts. Spotless white walls reflected the cold fluorescence of overhead lights, but the instruments scattered across the room were stained with the residue of failed experiments. Years of research, sleepless nights, and sacrifices had led to this moment.

"These children," he murmured, "are the future. My future. A world reborn through their brilliance."

"They'll change the world," he whispered to himself, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

He approached the nearest tube, labeled 001. Inside was a boy, his features sharp even in their infantile state. Elias tapped the glass lightly, marveling at the slow flicker of movement from the child's tiny fingers. He moved to the next, 002, a girl with jet-black hair that floated like a halo around her head. 003 was a boy with faint scars from early procedures, and 004, the smallest, radiated a fragility that made Elias pause.

"They'll change everything," he said, not to anyone in particular but to the room itself.

Behind him, the lab doors hissed open. Dr. Mira Kessler strode in, her face a mask of concern. She carried a tablet, its screen glowing with data.

He turned, irritated by the interruption. It was Dr. Mira Kessler, his second-in-command, holding a clipboard close to her chest. Her eyes darted nervously between the tubes and the doctor.

"Elias," she began, skipping formalities, "we have a problem."

His jaw tightened. "Explain."

"The latest scans show abnormalities. Aggression markers are off the charts, and neural activity is... chaotic." She hesitated. "They're showing signs of psychopathy."

Elias turned to the vats, his eyes narrowing. The children floated motionless, their tiny forms illuminated in the eerie green light. Psychopathy? It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. A small price to pay for brilliance.

"It's manageable," he said dismissively. "We'll teach them control. Redirect their instincts."

Mira's voice dropped. "And if we can't?"

"Then they'll destroy the world," he replied coldly, "or rebuild it. Either way, they'll serve their purpose."

Mira hesitated but didn't argue further. She knew better. The project's funding depended on results, not ethics.

When the children awoke, the world was cold and unkind.

The amber fluid drained from their chambers, leaving them gasping on the metal floors of a sterile room. The bright, clinical lab had been replaced by the dim, oppressive halls of what Elias called the "Orphanage." The lights were blinding, the air sharp with the scent of chemicals. Their small bodies trembled as they took their first breaths outside the womb of their creation.

The transition from their liquid wombs to the harsh reality of the orphanage was jarring. They were no longer suspended in safety but thrust into a cold, windowless room with metal walls and flickering fluorescent lights. Cameras watched them from every corner, silent and unblinking.

Child 001, a boy with sharp features and piercing blue eyes, was the first to stand, he pushed himself up on unsteady legs, his gaze darting around the room. His piercing blue eyes surveyed the room with an unnatural focus, already calculating, already assessing, he stared at the camera with unnerving intensity, as though daring it to blink first. He was strength personified, even in his fragile state.

Child 002, a small girl with raven-black hair, sat curled in a corner, her eyes wide and calculating. She didn't cry;all she did was picked at the peeling paint on the wall, her fingers moving methodically.She pushed herself up next after 001, her movements deliberate. Her dark eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail, every camera, every exit. She was cunning, a predator in the making.

Child 003 whimpered, his hands clutching his head as if the world was too loud, too overwhelming. He muttered under his breath, rocking slightly, his fingers twitching as if grasping at invisible strings.

Child 004, the anomaly among them, crawled toward the others with a hand outstretched his expression soft and curious and seeking connection. His expression of innocence that the others lacked.

"Welcome, my children," a voice echoed from hidden speakers. It was Elias, watching from his observation room above. "This is your home now. Here, you will become more than human. Here, you will become extraordinary."

The children said nothing. They simply stared, their instincts already taking hold.

The orphanage was no home. It was a maze of cold, windowless rooms and endless corridors, all monitored by unblinking cameras. The children's days were regimented, filled with experiments and tests that pushed them to their limits.

Each morning, the children were dragged from their room by silent, masked attendants and taken to the testing chambers. The chambers were stark and clinical, each designed to push the children to their limits.

Endurance, strength, mental acuity, and, most disturbingly, moral experiments. They were pitted against one another, forced to compete for rewards or punished for failure. The punishments were swift and unrelenting: isolation in a pitch-black room, high-pitched sounds that made their heads throb, or deprivation of food.

Child 001 excelled in physical trials. He was thrown into arenas with moving walls and collapsing floors,forced to survive on pure instinct. He learned quickly, adapting to the chaos with a frightening precision. His powers of enhanced reflexes, unmatched speed, a strength that could shatter bone and spatial awareness began to manifest, allowing him to navigate the maze with ease.

Child 002 was subjected to psychological tests. She was shown images designed to provoke fear, anger, or sadness, but her responses were unnervingly neutral as she remained cold and detached. When her powers emerged-manipulating the emotions of those around her-she used them to toy with the attendants, forcing them to experience their own terror and turning them into unwitting puppets.

Child 003 struggled. His powers were chaotic, unpredictable. He could manipulate objects with his mind but often lost control, resulting in violent outbursts that left the lab in shambles. During one test, he crushed a steel ball into powder with a single thought, his eyes glazed and distant.

Child 004, however, struggled. His powers were slow to manifest, his nature gentle, and his empathy-an anomaly in their group-was seen as a weakness. He tried to comfort the others, offering small gestures of kindness to connect with them, but his kindness was met with cold indifference or outright hostility.

Elias had no interest in fostering bonds between the children. To him, attachment was a flaw. The tests grew darker as the years passed. The children were pitted against one another, forced to compete for food, shelter, and survival, rewarding success with small privileges and punishing failure with merciless efficiency.

In one trial, they were placed in a room with a single meal.

Child 001 claimed it immediately, his dominance unquestioned. Child 002 watched with a sly smile, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Child 003 hesitated, his hunger battling his fear, while Child 004 protested.

"We can share," 004 said, his voice trembling.

001 laughed-a harsh, mocking sound-and shoved 004 aside.

Elias observed from the control room, a faint smile on his lips. "Survival of the fittest," he muttered.

The moment came during a routine trial. A stray lab rat had wandered into the testing chamber, its tiny body trembling as it scurried across the floor.

"Kill it," Elias commanded through the speakers.

Child 002 caught the rat with ease, her fingers curling around its fragile body. She hesitated, glancing at 004, who shook his head.

"You don't have to," he pleaded.

But she did. With a single, deliberate motion, she snapped the rat's neck and dropped its lifeless body to the floor.

Elias's voice crackled through the speakers. "Excellent. You're learning."

004 turned away, his face pale. The others felt nothing.

By the time they were eight, the children were no longer innocent. The lab orphanage had shaped them into something unrecognizable-monsters in the eyes of the world, but miracles in the eyes of their creator.

Elias watched them with a mix of pride and detachment. They were his greatest achievement, his legacy. But even he couldn't predict what they would

become.