The Disabled Man's Obsession

The warmth of that afternoon smelled like soap and sunshine. Little Miguel laboriously dragged a laundry basket too large for him. Every step was an awkward struggle—his left leg dragged slightly, while his right shoulder instinctively compensated for the asymmetrical load of his body. On the worn back porch of St. Julia’s Orphanage, the laundry danced in the gentle breeze.

"Take your time, Miguel," the Matron, Eleanor, said from behind him. Soft, yet firm. She never offered unrequested assistance, a small gesture that meant everything to Miguel. It was recognition, not pity.

Miguel managed to set the basket beside him, his breath slightly labored. He picked up a white sheet, attempting to fold it as Eleanor had taught him. The folds were always slightly skewed, a result of his clumsy bodily coordination.

Eleanor took the other end of the sheet. "See," she said, her warm eyes meeting his. "Your strength isn't in perfection; it's in perseverance. You never give up. That's worth more than every straight fold in the world."

Those words were a balm to Miguel’s soul, which always felt 'wrong.' St. Julia’s was more than just an orphanage; it was a fortress. A sanctuary where children like him, cast away by the outside world for their perceived imperfections, could find warmth.

That was when the warmth shattered.

A muffled *pop-pop-pop* sound came from the distance. Not firecrackers. Miguel had heard it in old action films. It was the sound of silenced weapons.

Eleanor froze. Her hand still held the sheet, but her gaze changed, becoming cold and wary like a wolf's. "Inside," she hissed. "Now. Get the others to the cellar."

The vibrations in the floor began. Not the haphazard steps of thugs, but the measured, efficient cadence of boots. The movement of hunters surrounding their prey.

Miguel panicked. His legs felt frozen, the shackles of his disability tightening again. But Eleanor's command cut through his fear. He shoved two smaller children toward the trapdoor beneath the rug. *I have to move.*

"Hand over the files, Eleanor!" a cold voice roared from upstairs.

A stifled scream followed. Window glass shattered—not with an explosion, but with a controlled crackle as someone breached the entry. Iron Claws.

"The Type B Candidate List," the leader's voice urged again, closer now. "Hand it over, and these children live."

A moment of silence. Then Eleanor’s voice, hoarse yet fearless, echoed throughout the house. "Burn the place down. You’ll never get them."

Miguel pushed the last child into the hole just as the kitchen door was kicked open. He was about to jump in when a steely hand clamped onto his shoulder and dragged him out. He was thrown onto the floor, wood dust filling his nose.

The scene before him carved itself into Miguel's soul. Two men in black tactical uniforms dragged Eleanor's slumped body. Her face was pale and bruised, but her eyes still burned with cold hatred. A third man, the leader, held a torn half-sheet of paper.

"Stubborn," the man hissed. Eleanor spat on the floor, blood staining the phlegm. "They are just children, monsters."

The leader glanced at Miguel lying on the floor, then back at Eleanor. "This isn't about them. It's about him." His eyes indicated Miguel. "And the cost of your defiance." His hand moved in a blur to his waist, and a combat knife flashed under the lamplight.

The world slowed. The childish hope in Miguel's mind screamed: *This is just a nightmare.* But the gasping sound of Eleanor's breath as the blade plunged into her stomach was deafening reality. There was no scream. Only the final, hitching gasp of the only person who had ever made him feel whole.

Miguel's head buzzed. Hot tears flooded his eyes. He tried to rise, but the pain in his shoulder and his weak leg left him helpless.

"There are others down there," one of the men said.

The leader shook his head. "No need. We have what we came for." He crouched in front of Miguel, studying him with the interest of a scientist examining a rare specimen. A sharp flashlight beam pierced his eyes, then moved down, highlighting his disabled leg. "Check the profile. Clear asymmetrical condition. A perfect Type B Candidate."

The man who killed Eleanor gave a slight smile. "He saw everything. Acute trauma just implanted. This will save us months of time. Contact Doctor Dark. Acquisition successful."

They dragged him past the corpse of the woman who had been his world. Outside, a black, windowless van waited. That night, Miguel Kararas was no longer an orphan. He was an asset. A flawed asset, ready to be reforged.

***

Two days later, he woke in a room the color of bone. The antiseptic scent was so sharp it burned his lungs. Doctor Dark sat across from him, his thin-framed glasses reflecting the cold fluorescent light of the ceiling. He looked more like an architect than a doctor.

"Miguel Kararas," Doctor Dark stated, his voice precise and sharp as glass shards. "Classification: Type B. A perfect specimen, though the packaging is slightly damaged." He slid over a tablet, displaying a photo of a warmly smiling Eleanor, taken from her office at the orphanage. "You feel guilty, don't you? If only you had been faster. If only your body hadn't betrayed you."

"D-don’t…" Miguel whispered, his voice ragged.

"Oh, we must," Doctor Dark smiled, a smile that never reached his eyes. "Guilt is a wonderful chisel. And pain... that is fuel. We won't erase the trauma, Miguel. We will hone it. We will make it the anchor of your existence."

He stood, circling Miguel like a sculptor examining a block of marble. His cold, well-manicured hand landed on Miguel's uneven shoulder. "In our hands, your defect will no longer be a source of shame. It will be your reason to kill. Every target you eliminate will be atonement for your failure that night. They will call you The Scythe."

He picked up a syringe from a steel tray. "This is the initial conditioning. To open the neural pathways."

"I... I don't want to," Miguel whimpered, trying to pull away.

"Choice was never yours, Asset 7," Doctor Dark corrected, his tone placid as ice. The needle pierced the skin of his neck with practiced efficiency. A cold burning sensation raced to his heart, and his vision blurred. As thick darkness swallowed him, he heard Doctor Dark’s final whisper, close to his ear. "Welcome to your forging. Pain is the hammer. Trauma is the fire. And you... you will be our masterpiece."