Chapter 7: The Name I Wasn’t Meant to Remember
824 Words
(Arianna’s POV)
They kept the boy in the basement.
No windows.
One light bulb.
Chains around his wrists, blood dried on his shirt.
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t beg.
Just sat still — like I used to, before the tests.
Before the pain taught me silence.
Leo stood beside me, arms crossed.
"You recognize him?" he asked.
I nodded.
The mark on the boy’s chest wasn’t just a Syndicate brand.
It was from my unit.
We were called Unit Echo.
A ghost group inside a ghost organization.
I was the last one they made.
He must’ve been one of the newer ones.
Maybe still half-human.
Not broken yet.
Leo leaned forward.
"You’re going to talk to me."
The boy looked up, slowly.
His eyes were strange.
Not empty — but trained to be.
"I only speak to her," he said, voice rough.
Leo glanced at me.
Then stepped aside.
---
I crouched in front of him.
Close enough to smell gunpowder and blood.
I signed:
Why did they send you?
He smiled a little.
Not because he was happy.
But because he already knew something I didn’t.
"You don’t remember, do you?"
I didn’t move.
"The file said it might happen."
"They gave you a chemical wipe after your last kill."
"Took memories from you."
My chest tightened.
I tapped my temple.
What memories?
He leaned forward, whispering now.
"You weren’t sent to kill Leonardo Bianchi."
"You were sent to join him. Get close. Win trust."
My blood ran cold.
"And when he finally lets his guard down... you die."
I stared at him.
"That’s your final mission."
"They built you to self-destruct."
"You're not supposed to survive."
---
I stood up slowly.
The room spun.
Self-destruct.
The word echoed in my skull.
Leo stepped forward, but I raised my hand.
Stopped him.
I needed air.
I needed truth.
I walked out.
---
In the hallway, my hands trembled.
They never did before.
Not in combat. Not in torture. Not in fire.
But now?
Now I couldn’t breathe.
They made me to die.
They never planned for me to live past him.
This whole time, I thought I was a failed assassin.
But I wasn’t.
I was a trap.
A ticking bomb in human skin.
---
Leo found me in the garden, where the fire had been put out.
He stood beside me, quiet.
I couldn’t look at him.
Couldn’t let him see the shaking.
"He said something, didn’t he."
I nodded.
"What was it?"
I took a deep breath.
Then I signed slowly.
They sent me here to get close. Then die.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Not for a long time.
Then:
"Do you believe him?"
I nodded again.
"Then we stop it."
I looked at him, confused.
"Whatever they planted in you — whatever switch they think they control — we break it."
I signed: You don’t know how.
"Then we find someone who does."
His eyes were full of fire.
Not fear.
Not betrayal.
Just fierce, sharp loyalty.
"You're not dying, Arianna."
"Not for them. Not for anyone."
---
Later, in my room, I stared at myself in the mirror.
Same scar under my ear.
Same black eyes.
But now… I felt different.
Before, my body belonged to them.
My mind, too.
But not anymore.
Not if I could help it.
I wasn’t a weapon.
Not Leo’s.
Not the Syndicate’s.
Not even mine.
I was something else.
I just didn’t know what yet.
---
At midnight, I couldn’t sleep.
So I walked the halls.
Old habit.
Until I found myself outside Leo’s office.
The door was open.
He sat at his desk, papers scattered, shirt undone at the collar.
He looked up when he saw me.
No surprise.
Just something soft in his eyes.
"Couldn’t sleep?"
I shook my head.
He motioned me in.
I sat on the couch across from him.
We didn’t talk for a while.
Just sat.
The silence was not heavy.
It was... warm.
Then:
"When I was fourteen," he said, "my father tried to have me killed."
I blinked.
He chuckled darkly.
"Said I wasn’t strong enough. That I was too soft."
"So I killed the man he sent. And then I became strong."
"But I think... maybe I never stopped being soft."
I stared at him.
And something inside me broke.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
I leaned forward.
Touched his hand.
He looked down at it.
Then looked at me.
His thumb brushed against my fingers.
"You don’t have to say anything," he whispered. "I already hear it."
---
That night, I didn’t return to my room.
I stayed.
On the couch.
Across from him.
Close enough to hear him breathe.
Far enough to feel safe.
When morning came, I opened my eyes…
And I felt no fear.
Not of death.
Not of them.
Not of myself.
Only a quiet voice, deep inside me.
Whispering:
You are not what they made you.
You are more.
- Writer
