In the shadowed crawlspace of Louisiana politics in 1955, Dario Cross (20 years old) walked a blade so thin it might as well have been invisible. He moved like smoke—silent, choking, unseen. A master assassin sworn to the ancient codes of the Fraternity, he now served as the reluctant executioner for Governor Mike Foster, a man whose handshake once brushed the robes of the Ku Klux Klan.

The irony didn’t escape Cross. Blood money flowed freely in Baton Rouge, and his cut came straight from the same hands that used to fund hate rallies. He took it anyway. Survival had no morals—just terms.

He didn’t flinch when he was handed names, just as he hadn’t flinched when his mother—strung out and blank-eyed—traded him to the Fraternity for a fistful of crumpled bills. No goodbye. No explanation. Just a door closing behind him and the echo of footsteps leading him into a new life where love was replaced with precision and pain was just another tool. That sort of beginning didn’t just kill childhood; it buried it somewhere deep and salted the earth.

Now, in the attic of an abandoned warehouse overlooking a luxury condo complex, Dario’s fingers ghosted over the cold steel of his rifle. It came together in his hands like a memory—each part snapping into place with surgical certainty. His body knew the rhythm better than it knew rest.

He lay prone on the dusty floorboards, sighting through the scope. The reticle traced the empty balcony of a penthouse suite. Wind measured. Distance calculated. Bullet accounted for.

He remembered the target’s dossier—memorized, burned, then shredded in a motel sink. Another corrupt official. Another liability to Foster’s empire.

Dario wasn’t even sure what this one had done—embezzlement, blackmail, maybe just talked to the wrong reporter.

It didn’t matter. The job never asked why—only how clean.

He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath you learn to control after years of watching people die through glass. The weight of the rifle felt more familiar than a mother's hug, more honest than any lover’s promise.

Foster’s name whispered through his mind again—the man who once smiled beside Klansmen, now hiring the very man they would’ve hung. Dario almost laughed. Instead, he blinked. The glass lens stayed steady.


 The Fraternity had shaped him with surgical cruelty, carving out weakness and sewing in obedience. They'd made sure his conscience didn’t just sleep—it drowned.

And yet... there it was. That flicker. That traitorous thought.

A moment. A heartbeat. Regret?

He buried it. Shoved it down where all the other ghosts lived.

In this line of work, even a second of hesitation could write your name on someone else’s bullet.

And Dario Cross didn’t make the obituary section. He wrote it.

And if Dario Cross excelled at anything, it was survival.

He had outlasted his mother’s betrayal, endured the Fraternity’s brutal shaping, and walked away from more bodies than he could count. He wasn’t lucky—luck ran out. He was efficient, cold when necessary, invisible when it mattered.

So he’d be damned if some washed-up governor with skeletons in his closet and Klan blood on his breath was the one to bring him down.

As the black sedan crept into view, Cross’s breath slowed. The wind whispered across the rooftop, tugging at the hem of his coat.

At this moment, he wasn’t a pawn. Not a puppet. Not even a man. He was fate.

The man. He was fate. was merely a formality.

He fired once.

By the time the windshield spiderwebbed and the driver slumped sideways, Dario Cross had already vanished into the concrete veins of Baton Rouge like smoke down a drain.

The hospital reeked of antiseptic and quiet dread. The floor beneath his boots gleamed too clean, the lights overhead too bright. Everything about this place felt foreign to him—orderly, structured, safe.

He didn’t belong here.

And yet, just down the corridor, beyond a pane of glass, he saw her.

Tiny. Swaddled in a soft pink blanket. Her chest rose and fell like the hush of a distant tide. His daughter.

For a man who had never known innocence, the sight was enough to still his breath.

He entered the nursery without a word. His usual predatory presence melted away into something... careful. Reverent. He moved as if the world might break if he stepped too hard.

She stirred as he lifted her. His arms, more accustomed to cradling rifles than infants, adjusted instinctively, as if some long-buried instinct had awakened.

And for the first time in years, he smiled. Not a smirk. Not a bluff. A real smile.

He’d spent his life ending things. And now, somehow, impossibly—he had created one.

"Out of everything I’ve done..." the thought crept in, sharp and fragile, "this... this is the one thing that feels right."

But the moment shattered.

“Say, doc,” Cross called out to a passing physician, “where’s Maria?”

The doctor’s expression shifted instantly—downcast, grave.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Miss Fraser passed away during childbirth. But before she went under, she insisted we contact you. She wanted you to take the baby.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

Cross blinked. Slowly.

He and Maria were never in love. Hell, they barely tolerated each other after that night. The pregnancy was an accident, a complication he hadn’t asked for—but he hadn’t run either. He was ready to try.

He’d thought maybe… maybe this could be different.

He clenched his jaw, bitterness stinging the back of his throat. “She was a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “But she didn’t deserve this.”

He looked down at his daughter. Her face was peaceful, untouched by the cruelty of the world she’d been born into.

And in that moment, everything else—Foster, the Fraternity, the bloodstains on his soul—blurred.

It didn’t matter anymore.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Looks like it’s just you and me now, baby girl.”

Months passed.

Cross moved like a ghost between two worlds—one drenched in blood, the other in lullabies.

By day, he remained the Fraternity’s silent blade. Steady. Precise. Unstoppable. By night, he transformed into a man who sang softly under dim nursery lights, who changed diapers with clumsy tenderness, who marveled at every tiny change in his daughter’s face as if it were a miracle.

But the balance was brutal.

Most evenings, she was already drifting into sleep with the babysitter when he arrived home. He’d hold her anyway, whisper to her anyway, even if she didn’t hear him. Especially if she didn’t.

And then one night, the knock came.

Three short taps. A pause. Two more. A pattern etched into his past. Byron.

Cross opened the door, still in his undershirt, the scent of baby powder clinging to him. The assassin and the father met at the threshold.

Byron’s face was grim.

“It’s time,” he said. “The Chosen Selection.”

The words hung like smoke between them—a legacy of horror, a tradition buried in euphemism.

One hundred infants, taken. Trained. Broken. Molded into killers.

Just like Cross had been.

He didn’t answer right away, just looking over Byron’s shoulder at the crib across the room. She was there, small fingers curled around her blanket.

Byron followed his gaze. “Are you putting her in?” The question burned.

Cross’s eyes turned sharp, venomous.

“Of course not,” he hissed. “I’m not condemning her to that.”

But his voice faltered as he turned away.

Back to the crib. Back to her.

His fingers brushed her cheek.

“…But I’ve been thinking about giving her up,” he whispered, barely audible.

Byron said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Cross spoke again, the words choking out of him.

“I love her. More than anything. But I’m gone all day. I get home when she’s already half-asleep. I’m dragging her into a life she never asked for. This world—it’s poison. And I don’t know if I can keep her safe from it forever.”

The truth settled heavily in the air.

He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of her paying the price for it.

Byron’s expression softened—not with sympathy, exactly, but understanding.


“Whatever you decide,” he said, “the Fraternity will back you. But once you make the call… there’s no going back.”

Cross nodded, his eyes never leaving his daughter.

She stirred in her sleep, letting out a small sound—a soft sigh.

And suddenly, the man who had killed for power, for orders, for survival was now weighing the most human decision of his life.

Byron left without another word—no ceremony, no advice—just the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Cross remained unmoving. Hours passed unnoticed as he stood sentinel over his daughter, his thoughts trapped in a storm of contradictions. He’d stared down death a hundred times without blinking.

But this? This broke him in ways no bullet ever had.

One Week Later

A nondescript government building with blank walls, linoleum floors, and air that smelled like old paper and stale coffee.

Cross stood at the front desk, motionless, a single folder in hand. The weight in his chest made the thick manila feel like stone.

He had convinced himself this was the right thing.

Safer. Cleaner. Better.

He was still trying to believe it.

A receptionist called out as he turned to leave, her voice soft and uncertain. “Wait—sir? The baby… She doesn’t have a name. The hospital left it blank. Would you like to…?”

Cross froze.

He hadn’t even given her a name.  It hit like a gut punch. The girl he’d held in his arms. The girl he loved. And he’d nearly left her behind nameless.

He stood there for a long moment, then spoke, his voice low and almost reverent.  “Lishcelle.”  A pause. “Leave the last name to whoever takes her in.”

A smile tugged at his lips—small, broken, but genuine.  A gift. The only one he could give.

Hours later, the air in the governor’s mansion felt thick with excess—expensive cologne, polished wood, and the quiet hum of old money.

Cross sat opposite Governor Foster, who looked like a man choking on his own power.

“You’re asking for how many?” Foster scoffed, adjusting the cuffs of his designer shirt. “This is a lot to sweep under the rug, even for me.”

Cross didn’t blink. “The Fraternity cleaned up your messes, buried your enemies, and silenced your critics. You want our loyalty? This is the price.”

Foster shifted, visibly unnerved. He knew what it meant to owe the Fraternity. He’d seen what happened to those who tried to renege.

“…Fine,” the governor muttered, signing the documents. “Just keep the media away. Eliminate whoever asks too many questions.”

Cross nodded once. “That’s handled.”

But as he rose to leave, he hesitated. One more thing.

“One favor,” he said, his tone like stone scraping steel. “That agency on the East Side—Foster Children’s Home. Keep your people away from it.”  Foster blinked. “Why?”

“My daughter’s there,” Cross said flatly. “Lishcelle. She doesn’t go near the program. She never hears the word Fraternity. You stay away, or you’ll wish I had put you in the program myself.”  Silence. A bead of sweat formed on Foster’s brow.  He nodded quickly. “Understood.”

Later That Night

The Baton Rouge International Hotel stood like a monument to old wealth—its iron balconies curling like gothic vines, white columns glowing in the moonlight. The bayou beyond was dark, still, humming with insects and secrets.

Cross rolled up in silence, tossing his keys to the valet without a glance.

Inside, marble floors reflected chandelier light like liquid gold. The staff knew him. They didn’t ask questions.

The bar was where the real work happened: deals, betrayals, forgiveness bought in bourbon and blood.  Cross sat at the far end, his back to the wall, eyes sweeping the room with silent precision.

“Sazerac,” he muttered to the bartender—a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and an aura that suggested she’d seen her share of killers.

She nodded silently, sliding him the drink a moment later.

Cross took a sip, the bitters and burn settling in his throat like old regrets.

Around him, conversations buzzed in low murmurs—French, Russian, Creole. Men and women whispered of things they’d never say in daylight.

But Cross wasn’t listening.

His mind had drifted. To Lishcelle.

Did she cry when he left?

Would she remember his face?

Would someone hold her the way he did, softly and scared, as if she were the only good thing left in the world?

He swallowed the last of his drink and gestured for another.

He could still kill with ease. Still lie, still disappear, still navigate the underworld as if he were born in it. Because he was.

But now… part of him was somewhere else. In a crib. Wrapped in a pink blanket. With a name.

He spotted familiar faces across the room—figures cut from the darker cloth of the world. A Yakuza boss sat near the window, speaking in hushed tones with a South African smuggler. A Russian arms dealer laughed too loudly at something unfunny. And there, tucked in shadow, were a few fellow assassins—rivals by trade, but neutral here.

The International Hotel demanded civility. It wasn’t just tradition—it was enforced.

They all played nice. For now.

But the air carried more than the weight of cigar smoke and quiet deals. Cross could feel it in his bones—an undercurrent of something older, darker. Occult whispers woven into the walls, perhaps. Hoodoo rituals long buried in the floorboards. Or maybe it was just his own grief making the atmosphere feel thinner tonight.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

The Bayou King.

The hotel manager moved through the crowd like smoke, never touched, never hurried. Even the worst of the underworld lowered their gazes when he passed.

Cross had never spoken to him. No one spoke to the Bayou King unless he chose to speak first.


Rumors claimed he could hex a man with a look—and that he’d once turned a cartel prince into a tree.  Cross didn’t believe half of it.  But he also never looked too long.

He let the hotel’s strange atmosphere wash over him, numbing the tight coil of regret in his chest.  Lishcelle’s name echoed in his mind like a prayer—or a wound.

Was she safe? Would she be loved? Would she ever know what he gave up to keep her from this world? The second Sazerac burned warmer than the first. He welcomed it. Then, a familiar presence slid into the space beside him.

“Dario,” came the voice—smooth, deliberate, lightly laced with a Nigerian accent. Cross didn’t need to look.  “Cormac.”

The 19 year old assistant manager of the International Hotel settled onto the stool next to him.  Impeccably dressed. Every movement precise.  There was nothing ordinary about him, despite the title.

Beneath the calm exterior was someone who had once walked through fire and come out sharper. Cormac raised a finger. The bartender poured his drink without a word.

“Rough day?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Cross exhaled a short laugh—dry, humorless. “One for the books.”

They sat like that for a while.  Two men in the eye of a storm, pretending the walls weren’t closing in. “I heard about the Selection,” Cormac said eventually, low enough no one else would hear. “The arrangements… done?”

Cross nodded, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.  “The governor signed off. Soon, it begins.” Cormac gave a small, knowing hum.  He was one of the few who knew the whole story—about Lishcelle. About the choice Cross had made.

He didn’t often speak about personal matters. But when he did, it meant something. “You did what you had to,” Cormac said quietly. “For her.” Cross looked up and met his eyes.

No judgment there. Just the steady gaze of a man who knew what it cost to survive. “Did I?”  The question came out raw, unguarded.

Cormac didn’t answer immediately.  He took a sip of his drink, scanning the bar out of habit.  Always watching. Always calculating.

Then he said,  “The world we come from doesn’t forgive innocence.  You gave her a shot at something else. That matters.”

Cross let that sit. Let it settle.

Cormac was right. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I appreciate it,” Cross said after a pause. “You coming over. I know you don’t... do this.”

A faint smile ghosted across Cormac’s lips. “You’re not just a guest, Dario. We’ve bled in the same dirt. That makes you family, for better or worse.”

They fell into an easy silence again. The buzz of the bar faded into the background.

They talked a bit—names of old ghosts, stories half-true and half-regret. The kind of conversations only two killers could have without flinching.

And through it all, Cross held on to that flicker of humanity inside him.

Cormac’s presence was a balm to Cross’s frayed mind, a rare constant in a world defined by shadows and shifting loyalties. Even in a place like this, where blood stained more than just hands, friendship—real friendship—was possible.

When Cross finally rose to leave, Cormac walked him to the side exit, where the night pressed in thick and humid.

But just before they reached the door, Cormac paused.

Cross noticed the change immediately—the shift from decadence to something forgotten.  “Hold up a sec,” he said, frowning. “How many infants do you need for the Chosen Selection, exactly?”

Cross sighed. “A hundred. The governor only managed ninety-nine before too many noses started sniffing around. The last one’s been... problematic.”

“So what’s the plan?” Cormac asked.

“I was considering pulling a kid off the street. Like me. Figured the Fraternity wouldn’t care as long as it bleeds.”

Cormac’s expression darkened with thought. Then something shifted in his eyes—an idea sparking behind his calm exterior.

“I think I know the right one.”

Cross narrowed his gaze. “What the hell are you talking about? The Selection starts in less than twenty-four hours. Where the hell am I supposed to find a baby by then?”

Cormac didn’t answer. He just turned, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “Follow me.”  Without another word, Cross fell in step beside him.

They moved deeper into the hotel, beyond the public halls and hidden lounges, past the velvet-draped meeting rooms where wars were quietly negotiated. The corridors narrowed, ceilings dropped, and the air grew cold and damp.

The walls here were bare concrete. The warm lighting of the hotel proper gave way to buzzing fluorescent tubes. The International’s charm faded behind them, replaced by an industrial quiet that felt... wrong.

They reached a rusted steel door, reinforced and sealed with archaic symbols etched in iron.  Cormac punched a code into a weathered keypad. The door hissed and swung open.

Inside the room stood a massive, cylindrical tank, easily ten feet tall, filled with a viscous, faintly glowing liquid.

Suspended within it—still, fetal, yet impossibly large—floated what looked like a newborn child. But no child should have musculature like that. Or eyes that flickered open as they approached, as if aware of their presence.

“What the fuck is that?” Cross asked, instinctively reaching for a hidden blade.  Cormac didn’t answer right away. He stepped to the tank, resting a hand against the cool glass, eyes locked on the thing inside.

 “I don’t know how long this has been here,” he murmured. “It was already in the sublevels when I took the job. Some say it was hidden by the Germans after the war. Others say the Bayou King had it smuggled from Europe after Operation Paperclip went bad.”  Cross stepped closer, wiping the grime from a tarnished brass plaque embedded in the base of the tank.

PROJECT ÜBERMENSCH

SUBJECT: GAMMA

His stomach tightened.

Cormac continued, his voice quiet but reverent. “They say it’s a weapon. The next step in human evolution. Designed to survive any war, any terrain. No soul, no fear. Just instinct. Just death.”

Cross’s gaze remained fixed on the tank. “And it’s... alive?”

“It’s breathing,” Cormac said. “It has been doing that for as long as I’ve worked here. Never moved, never aged. Just... waits.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Cross’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a baby. It’s a fucking monster.”

“Maybe,” Cormac admitted. “But the Fraternity didn’t specify what kind of child. Just that it had to be number one hundred. Maybe this was always meant to be part of it.”

Cross stared at the fluid-suspended form, a creeping sense of wrongness curling in his gut. The thing’s eyes were still open, still watching—though it hadn’t moved a muscle.

As if it were waiting for a signal. A command. Or a kill order.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Cross asked, his voice low.

Cormac turned to him, and for once, there was no humor, no diplomacy in his tone—just quiet inevitability.

“Nothing about the Selection is wise. But this... this might be fate.”

Cross scoffed, taking a slow step back from the tank, his instincts prickling with unease. “This is some straight-up sci-fi bullshit. How the hell is it even alive after all this time?”

Cormac moved to a small metal desk tucked against the wall, rummaging through a weathered drawer until he produced a thick, yellowed file. He flipped it open and skimmed until he found the relevant page.

“Says here the fluid is a prototype—an experimental suspension medium. Saturated with optimal doses of vitamins A, C, D, E, K, plus the entire B-complex alphabet: thiamine, riboflavin, niacin, pantothenic acid, biotin, B6, B12... and then some.”

Cross raised an eyebrow. “So... basically bio-roids in amniotic soup?”

Cormac chuckled, still reading. “Yeah, a government-funded super smoothie. Enough for seventy years’ worth of nutrition, calculated for ideal cellular development. It’s not just about staying alive—it’s about evolving. Slowly.”

Cross stepped closer to the tank, the glow of the liquid casting warped reflections across his scarred face. The infant—if it could even be called that—was still, but disturbingly intact. Despite its engineered nature, it looked almost human.

Almost.

“And you think the Fraternity will take this thing for the Chosen Selection?” Cross asked, his voice low.

Cormac nodded, setting the file down. “It’s unconventional, sure. But that’s what makes it valuable. It’s not just another child plucked from a crib. This thing was built to survive anything. If the Selection is about forging a future weapon for the Fraternity… well, this might be it.”

Cross didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained locked on the floating subject. His fingers twitched at his sides—half wanting to draw a weapon, half wanting to touch the glass.

“Problem is,” he said finally, “we don’t know what it can actually do. For all we know, the second we thaw it, it could start snapping necks. Or just... die.”

Cormac shrugged and picked up the next sheet in the file. “We don’t know. But according to this, it was constructed from a very... deliberate combination of genetic material.”

He cleared his throat, reading aloud. “Leadership DNA from Heinrich Himmler. Physical genetics from Joe Louis. Martial skill from Chuck Norris. Strategic brilliance from Erich von Manstein.”

Cross blinked, then turned to him slowly. “Chuck Norris? Are you serious?”

Cormac paused, then looked down at the page again, frowning. “Huh. Damn. That didn’t sound right, did it?”

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small spray bottle labeled REVEAL INK. With a quick mist across the page, the false name shimmered and faded, replaced with another beneath it.

“Ah. There it is,” Cormac muttered. “Gichin Funakoshi.”

Cross let out a low whistle. “Founder of Shotokan karate. That makes a lot more sense.”

Cormac nodded. “Yeah. The Germans encrypted the real source under random names in case the Allies intercepted the records.”

Cross turned back to the tank, staring hard at the child-shaped enigma floating in front of him. “So we’ve got a super baby made from a Nazi, a boxing legend, a Japanese karate master, and one of Hitler’s best generals.”

“Don’t forget,” Cormac added, “it’s also been aging—slowly, steadily—in nutrient-rich goo for sixteen years, absorbing enough chemicals to make a horse immortal.”

Cross exhaled through his nose, remaining silent for a long moment.

“This is either the worst idea I’ve ever agreed to... or the best damn insurance policy we’ll ever have.”

Cormac gave him a thin smile. “Sometimes, those are the same thing.”

Cross nodded slowly, the decision settling in his chest like a stone. “Alright. I’ll present it to the Fraternity. But Cormac,” he turned, his voice low and sharp, “this stays between us. No one else hears about this. Not a soul.”

Cormac gave a short nod. “Of course. The Bayou King already wrote it off. Tried to sell it years ago—no buyers, even though it's one of four.”

Cross’s expression darkened. “Hold up. Four?”

Cormac blinked. “Yeah. It says it in the file.” He flipped through the pages until he reached the addendum near the back, running a finger down the faded print. “‘This document was scheduled for destruction per standard protocol following the disappearance of Subjects ALPHA, BETA, GAMMA, and DELTA.’ Dated December 1999.”

Cross’s stomach tightened. “Disappearance? So someone took the other three?”

“Looks like it. The who and how are redacted. Big black bars everywhere.”

Cross swore under his breath and rubbed his temple. “So we’ve got one of these things and three others out there in the world. Great.”

Suddenly, the lights in the basement dimmed. A deep hum vibrated through the floor. The tank’s soft blue glow shifted violently—flickering red.

A harsh mechanical voice barked from a hidden speaker:

“Insufficient nutrient levels. Subject GAMMA life signs critical.”

Cross whipped around. “What the hell does ‘insufficient nutrients’ mean? Nigga you said this thing had seventy years’ worth of that space juice in the motherfucka!”

“It did!” Cormac shouted, already scrambling toward the control panel. “I’m just as confused as you are bitch!”

The screen sputtered to life, lines of data racing across it. Cormac’s eyes darted frantically over the diagnostics—then froze. His breath caught.

“Oh my god...”

Cross took a step closer, tension crackling off him like static. “Cormac. What is it?”

Cormac turned, pale beneath his dark skin, his voice flat. “It’s gone. All of it. Every last drop. It absorbed seventy years’ worth of nutrients... in sixteen.”

A beat of silence.

“...You mean it’s eating faster?”

“No,” Cormac said, swallowing hard. “Its metabolism just absorbed it faster.”

They both turned to the tank just as a low creak echoed from within.

The piercing scream tore through the chamber, cracking the reinforced glass and forcing Cross and Cormac to clutch their ears against the agonizing sound. The underground facility shook violently, the ground quaking as if struck by a magnitude 6.0 earthquake. Far above, the International Hotel trembled with the tremor, ceiling lights flickering and glasses rattling in cupboards. Guests and staff braced themselves, assuming it was just another natural earthquake—unaware of the true horror brewing below.

When the cry finally ceased, the silence felt even more oppressive. Thick splashes of viscous liquid oozed onto the floor, steaming gently.

Cross stood frozen, staring at the containment pod, his mind reeling. "What the fuck," he thought, the unspoken words heavy with dread, "have we just unleashed?"