They called me *Project Seraphim*. Not a name. Not a person. Just an experiment. A weapon wrapped in flesh and bone, designed to kill without hesitation, without remorse.
I was six years old when they took me. Or maybe I was born in that cold, sterile lab—I don't remember. My earliest memories are needles, scalpels, and the hollow eyes of men in white coats watching, always watching. They carved into my DNA, rewired my brain, and whispered lies about purpose, about destiny.
"You were made for war, Ronan. You are salvation."
Bullshit.
I was made to be a monster.
By twelve, I could dismantle a man twice my size with my bare hands. By fourteen, I could outmaneuver combat drones, my mind sharper than any AI. And by sixteen? Well, that's when they gave me the wings.
Black. Metallic. Indestructible.
They folded into my back like shadows, appearing and vanishing at my will. Beautiful, in a grotesque way. Like a fallen angel who never asked to fall.
The scientists loved their little pet project. They tested me in simulated battles, threw me into war zones disguised as training exercises. I killed soldiers, rebels, sometimes even other experiments like me. And I *enjoyed* it.
That's the part they didn't expect—the part they couldn't control.
I wasn't just their perfect weapon.
I was *broken*.
And broken things have a habit of cutting whoever holds them.
Then came the accident. Or was it sabotage? A fight gone wrong, a containment breach, a flash of light—and suddenly, I wasn't in their world anymore.
I woke up in a place that smelled like blood and burning wood. A world of swords and castles, of kings who thought themselves gods, and peasants who prayed for mercy.
Modern, yet medieval. Familiar, yet twisted.
And me?
Well… I think I'll have some fun here.