The scream that tore out of Jakob lungs was sharp, animalistic — the kind that usually earned a slap from the night staff. But no one came.
He sat up too fast, and the world lurched sideways.
Breath shuddering. Heart pounding. Hands
He stared down at them. Small. Brown-skinned. Bone-thin. Fingernails bitten raw. Fingers trembling not with fear, but muscle memory recoiling from the shock of coming back.
Jakob Cain was dead. He thought
But Shade… Shade was still breathing.
The rusted bunk creaked beneath him. Thin sheets. Mattress full of springs and regret. Moonlight cut across the floor in bands through a barred window above. The stale stink of mold, floor wax, and urine filled his lungs.
A familiar hell.
A whisper of static echoed in the back of his skull, mechanical and cold.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]
[Subject: Jakob "SHADE" Cain]
[Age Sync: 8 Years, 2 Months, 3 Days]
[Kill Count: 1,254 (Archived)]
[Blood Currency: 500]
[Class: Ghost Assassin [LOCKED]
[Temporal Node Confirmed: T - 92 Days Until Organization Extraction]
[Objective: SURVIVE. INFILTRATE. ERASE THE ORIGIN.]
Jakob's eyes snapped to the door. He could hear heavy footsteps.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a warning drum. Sweat slicked his skin, cold despite the heat in the cramped room. Shadows clung to the cracked walls, the faint flicker of a broken ceiling light casting uneven shapes.
He tried to steady his breath, but the lingering images—images-the past life, the betrayals, the blood—pulled at his mind like a storm he couldn't outrun.
"What the hell is this?" Jakob muttered under his breath, blinking to clear the fog clouding his senses.
Before he could make sense of anything, the door to his small room banged open.
"GGett! Up! Move!" Lupa's voice cut through the silence—sharp, commanding, no room for excuses
Jakob moved from his bed, muscles stiff from restless sleep. There was no time to question, no luxury to hesitate.
Down the hall, the guttural shouts of the other kids echoed—training had already begun.
Lupa appeared at the doorway, her sharp green eyes locking onto Jakob's like a hunter zeroing in on prey. "You think the world waits for you to be ready? It doesn't. Not here."
Jakob swallowed hard, forcing the weight of his memories into a tight corner of his mind. Here, in LUPA, survival meant facing pain head-on.
He followed Lupa down the narrow corridors, his boots hitting the cracked concrete floor in rhythm with the distant sounds of fists pounding heavy bags, grunts, and barked orders.
The training room was a raw space—padded mats stained with old bruises, worn punching bags swinging from rusted chains, and a dozen kids circling each other with feral intensity. Jakob's nerves screamed for escape, but his body obeyed the drill.
"Pair up!" Lupa barked.
Jakob's eyes locked on a wiry kid with a scar slicing down his cheek. The kid smirked, already bouncing on his toes like a predator.
The System inside Jakob flickered faintly—a cold whisper in the back of his mind. Tactical assessment: opponent fast, aggressive. Best counter? Wait, watch, strike.
Jakob's breath slowed, eyes narrowing. The pack was waiting to see if he was a wolf or a lamb.
Hall, the guttural shouts of the other kids echoed—training had already begun.
Lupa appeared at the doorway, her sharp green eyes locking onto Jakob's like a hunter zeroing in on prey. "You think the world waits for you to be ready? It doesn't. Not here."
Jakob swallowed hard, forcing the weight of his memories into a tight corner of his mind. Here, in LUPA, survival meant facing pain head-on.
Her presence was quiet but oppressive, like a thunderstorm on the edge of hearing. She stood just under six feet, built with lean strength that age has not softened. Not one wasted motion in her body. Every step she took was balanced, purposeful, like she could kill you or cradle you — and you wouldn't know which until it was too late.
Her skin was olive-toned, weathered but not worn — the kind of complexion that had seen too much sun, too many nights spent in alleys, deserts, or warzones. Faint scars crisscrossed the back of her hands, her knuckles thick with calluses.
But it was her eyes that made people nervous.
Sharp green, vivid and unblinking, like a forest that could swallow you whole. She looked at people the way a hawk watched a rabbit — not with malice, just brutal analysis. You could lie to her if you wanted. But she'd already clocked your heartbeat and the twitch in your eyelid.
Her dark hair was braided tight against her skull, no loose strands, no softness — like her discipline extended even to her scalp. A single silver streak ran through the left side, but she didn't dye it. She dared the kids to say something.
She wore black fatigues and a sleeveless compression top, revealing corded arms and a tattoo running up her left bicep: a wolf, teeth bared, flanked by Roman numerals and old military script.
She never raised her voice unless she was about to break someone. When she spoke, kids listened. Even the older boys. Even the feral ones.
Jakob remembered the legends—whispered among the broken and the bitter—that Lupa once led black-ops teams so deep off the books their files didn't even exist. That she survived six kill orders. She buried every man who trained her.
He didn't know what was true.
But as he sat in the corner of the gym, watching her watching him, he understood something:
Lupa didn't raise survivors. She raised wolves.
And if you didn't become one, you didn't leave the house at all.
He followed Lupa down the narrow corridors, his boots hitting the cracked concrete floor in rhythm with the distant sounds of fists pounding heavy bags, grunts, and barked orders.
The training room was a raw space—padded mats stained with old bruises, worn punching bags swinging from rusted chains, and a dozen kids circling each other with feral intensity.
The concrete floor was cold against his bare feet as Jakob stepped into the center of the room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The walls were lined with kids who still smelled like detergent and bruises, eyes flicking between each other in anticipation.
He remembered this gym. The peeling red mats. The scuffed heavy bags. The taste of iron in the air.
But he didn't remember this clarity.
Everything was sharper. Cleaner. As if waking in this smaller, younger body had stripped the static from his brain.
Across from him stood Milo — wild, lean, a fast striker with no discipline. A future corpse if things played out the same.
[Engaging combat preview…]
[Opponent profile: Milo]
[Age: 12]
[Style: freestyle street. Weak stance. Over-commits left.]
The System pulsed in the back of Jakob's skull — not loud, just present. Like a second awareness. Like a tool. Like muscle memory, wearing a headset.
Jakob didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just slid into a basic stance — loose shoulders, feet staggered, calm eyes tracking every twitch.
Milo grinned. "You gonna stand there or—"
Jakob stepped in.
One, two. Half beat. Milo twitched forward.
Jakob sidestepped — not dodging, reading. Testing.
Milo threw a jab. Too wide. Lazy. Jakob's right hand snapped up, caught it on the wrist, twisted, and pressed into the elbow. Pain. Off-balance.
Jakob pivoted.
"Window open. Counter Strike optimal."
A short, controlled strike to the chest — not enough to break, just enough to hurt. Then he swept Milo's leg and let the kid hit the mat face-first with a sharp thump.
Jakob didn't gloat. He didn't flinch.
He stepped back with perfect form. Calm. Breathing steadily.
Milo groaned on the ground, already trying to get up.
The other kids went silent.
Lupa said nothing for a long second.
Then: "Again."
Jakob nodded once.
Milo hesitated, but got back up.
This time, Jakob didn't rush. He let the fight breathe.
He tested footwork. Timed reactions. Mapped Milo's habits like a predator cataloging prey.
Three minutes later, Milo was on the floor again — not knocked out, but fully outmatched.
Jakob straightened and turned toward Lupa.
Their eyes met.
She tilted her head, studying him like a rare weapon on display. Then she simply said, "Put him with Tier Two tomorrow."
A few murmurs rippled through the watching kids.
Jakob Cain walked off the mat without a word, wiping his knuckles on his shirt. Calm. Composed. Controlled.
Inside? The gears were turning.
[System Sync: 7%"...]
[Combat efficiency: 94%]
[Skill {Predator's Focus} unlocked.]
As he sat on the side bench, Jakob's mind replayed the fight like a tactical drill. No wasted movement.
No emotion…Not anymore.
"This world broke me once."
It won't get a second shot.
He didn't come back to chase peace.
He came back to win.
And if that meant he had to wear a child's skin to do it, so be it.