After GAMMA’s crying quake subsided, the chamber fell eerily still. The thick liquid had drained completely, leaving the baby curled motionless at the bottom like a forgotten doll.

"Did it die or something?" Cross asked, peering down with a raised brow.

Cormac's eyes flicked to the control panel. The monitor blinked steadily—pulse strong.

“Nah,” he muttered, half in relief. “GAMMA’s just... sleeping.”

Cross walked over to the chamber, watching the baby sleep soundly inside. The sight tugged at something deep in him—memories of his own childhood, of the child he once was... and the child he never got to raise. He felt a sudden, heavy sympathy for GAMMA.

“Let him out,” Cross said quietly.

Cormac didn’t move. “Did you not see what I just saw!?” he snapped, voice rising in disbelief. “It caused a fucking earthquake—just from crying!”

“I know what I’m doing!” Cross snapped back, louder this time. “Just open the damn thing!”

Cormac muttered under his breath, shaking his head, but ultimately complied. With a hiss and a soft click, the chamber door slid open.

Cross stepped in slowly, arms out. “Don’t worry, I got—”

He froze.

His hands touched GAMMA, but... nothing happened. He couldn't lift him. Couldn’t move him even an inch.

“The fuck...?” Cross muttered, brow furrowing.

Cormac leaned in from behind. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Cross lied quickly. “Just trying to be... extra gentle, is all.”

Cross grunted, trying again—and again—but he couldn’t move him an inch.

“Why the fuck…” he muttered, putting more effort in.

“He’s so heavy!?” he screamed internally, finally managing to lift GAMMA just off the ground.

A crooked laugh escaped his lips—a short-lived victory. The moment he stood, his knees buckled slightly under the weight.

“God damn! Cormac!” he barked, wobbling. “Motherfucker, help me!”

Cormac, arms crossed and clearly unimpressed, raised a brow. “What the hell’s wrong with you now?”

“This baby’s heavier than a motherfucker! Feels like I’m carrying two hundred pounds of solid steel!” Cross wheezed.

Cormac scoffed. “Tsk. Get the fuck outta here.”

Cross’s face twisted in frustration. “Man, if you don’t bring your nigiri-eatin’ ass over here and help me, I swear to God!”

His legs gave a final shake, and he nearly dropped GAMMA right there.

Cormac hurried over, grumbling under his breath. “I swear, you make me regret—” He stopped cold the moment Cross shifted GAMMA into his arms. 

“Oh… fuck! How is he this heavy!?” Cormac wheezed, nearly dropping him. Cross shot him a smug look. “Who's overreacting now?”

“Yeah, keep that same energy, Dario,” Cormac muttered. “Don’t forget this was a five-minute walk down here, smart ass.” Cross froze, eyes widening. “FUCK!” Reality hit hard. They had to carry this unnatural baby all the way back—and uphill.

The trek back was brutal. They moved in short bursts, stopping every few steps to gasp for air and shake out their arms, pride bleeding with each break they took. Not out of fear of being seen—they’d taken a service exit, far from the guests—but to protect what was left of their dignity.

By the time they reached Cross’s car, both men were drenched in sweat and ready to collapse. “Jesus…” Cross muttered, chest heaving. “Took us thirty fuckin’ minutes. With a baby.”

He stared at the front seat, dreading what came next. “Now that I’m here, I really don’t wanna drive with him on my lap.”

Cormac glanced into the back and chuckled. “Huh. Looks like you still got your baby seat.” Cross closed his eyes, exhaling with a tired, grateful sigh. “Thank God.”

Cormac helped Cross wrestle GAMMA into the baby seat, which was no easy task. The kid was built like a brick and longer than expected—definitely not your average newborn.

“Not only is he heavy, but he’s tall too?” Cormac grunted, adjusting the straps. “Gotta be at least two feet already.”

Cross wiped sweat from his brow. “You sure there wasn’t any growth hormone in that cocktail, son? ’Cause I swear if he hits six-two by twelve, I’m gonna lose it.”

After a few grunts, curses, and adjustments that looked more like they were strapping down a wild animal than a child, they finally—by some miracle—got GAMMA secured.

Cross slid into the driver’s seat, exhaling hard as he started the engine. Cormac leaned through the window and handed him the PROJECT ÜBERMENSCH folder.

“Why’re you giving me this?” Cross asked, glancing warily at the file. Cormac shrugged. “Because I don’t want anyone else finding out what that kid really is. And maybe… he’ll wanna know one day.”

Cross looked down at the folder, fingers tightening around it. Cormac tapped the roof of the car. “Besides, do you really want someone else using that formula? Making more of him—but evil? There’s four of these things out there, Dario. And God knows how many are already out of their pods.”

Cross didn’t answer right away. He knew it was a gamble—raising this thing. If GAMMA ever turned on them, it wouldn’t be a fair fight.

“Well,” Cross said finally, “if he goes sideways, I’ll put him down. Gotta do it while he’s still small.”

Cormac studied him. “Would you break your code? The one about not killing kids?”

Cross stared ahead, jaw clenched. His voice was low, flat. “I’m no monster. But… back in ’99, during Columbine in Colorado… I made an exception.”

Cross drove through the night, heading toward HQ, the city lights fading into the quiet hum of back roads. He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw GAMMA, sloppily wrapped in a blanket, asleep in the baby seat like a half-finished burrito.


“Damn… I always sucked at that,” Cross muttered to himself. “Could never get that wrap right.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “The babysitter used to roast me for it too. She’d show me how—tight corners, neat tuck—and the next day? BOOM. Screwed it up all over again.”

His smile faded into something softer, more reflective. “Not like it mattered. She was born just last month… New century baby. And now here you are, July 17th.”

Cross exhaled through his nose. “Dumb as hell for raw-doggin’ her mama at sixty-five. Now I got a kid, and I’ll be eighty-three before she even hits college.” He shook his head. “Christ.”

A beat of silence passed. “Why am I even talkin’ to you?” he asked aloud, smirking. “You don’t even understa—” His words died in his throat. He glanced in the rearview mirror again and nearly swerved off the road.

GAMMA was staring back at him—eyes wide open, locked dead-on with Cross through the mirror. “Jesus Christ—oh bloody Virgin Mary!” Cross shouted, jerking the wheel back on course. “You scared the dick off me!”

Heart racing, he snuck another glance in the mirror. Most babies stare blankly—eyes glassy, movements twitchy, unaware. But not GAMMA.

Those light brown eyes weren’t empty. They were focused, present—like he wasn’t just looking at Cross, but studying him. Listening. Cross’s voice dropped to a whisper. “…This baby’s creepin’ me the hell out.”

A few minutes later, Cross rolled into the Fraternity’s Baton Rouge base—a sprawling, fortified complex just blocks from the downtown River Center, hidden in plain sight behind high walls and tight security.

He flashed his clearance, and the gates creaked open.

First stop: the medical wing.

He parked, got GAMMA out of the backseat with a grunt, and carried the unusually dense baby straight into the facility like a man hauling lead in a blanket. No questions asked. No explanations given.

Inside, the sterile white halls were filled with the low murmur of medical chatter and distant footsteps. But the second Cross stepped into the ER with GAMMA in his arms, everything stopped.

The pediatric team had been briefed, but clearly not prepared. Two nurses moved to take the baby from him.

"Careful," Cross warned, his arms aching. "Kid's built like a damn anvil."

It took three grown men just to lift GAMMA onto the pediatric scale. The room went silent. Then came the beep. Followed by another. Then:  ERROR flashed on the monitor.

"Dear God..." the head pediatrician whispered, squinting at the screen like it had betrayed her. "He's so heavy it triggered a fault code."

"You want us to try a normal scale?" one of the nurses asked. She gave a slow nod, still staring at the infant like he might spontaneously combust. "Yeah. Sterilize it first. And make sure everyone has a solid grip on our little Heracles here."

The male staff collectively groaned. "Aww, man..."

"Just do it," she snapped, already turning back to her chart. "And if anyone throws their back out, I’m not filling out the paperwork."

Cross sat alone in the waiting room, foot tapping, mind racing.

The kid creeped him out—sure—but something about him still tugged at the back of his mind. Guilt? Curiosity? Maybe both. "The Fraternity’s got the best money can buy," he told himself. "Docs, tech, all of it. He’s in the best hands possible..."

Three hours dragged by. Then the ER doors opened, and the entire medical team stepped out looking like they'd just witnessed a miracle—or a horror show. Clipboards clutched, eyes wide, voices hushed.

Victoire, the head pediatrician, scribbled furiously as she walked, lips pressed in a line. Cross stood up and cut her off before she got past him.

"So?" he asked, trying to sound cool. "What’s up with the boy, Victoire? Is he good?"

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, still writing, as if her brain hadn’t caught up yet. Finally, she lowered the clipboard and looked him dead in the eye.

"The baby is..." She paused, searching for the right words. "Unnaturally healthy."

Cross frowned. “Unnaturally? What, like glowing piss or some sci-fi bullshit?”

She slipped her glasses off, folding them into her coat pocket. That alone made Cross tense up. Oh no... that’s the “serious talk” move.

"Cross," she said calmly, walking toward the nursery window where GAMMA now lay, sound asleep under the soft blue light.

"I graduated Harvard Med. Pediatrics, class of ’96. I was 29. I’ve seen kids survive gunshots. Seizures. Heart defects. I’ve seen miracles... and monsters."

She looked through the glass like she was staring at a puzzle with half the pieces missing. "But I can tell you, without exaggeration... that child shouldn’t be breathing right now."

Her voice wasn’t cruel. Just clinical. And that made it worse.

“Whoa now, Doc,” Cross said, holding up a hand. “I know the kid’s weird, but he can’t be that—”

Victoire spun around fast, cutting him off. “See, this is exactly why you’re good at killing people and not a doctor.” She brought her hands together under her chin like she was about to pray, but her voice was anything but holy.

“Because how in the fuck—” she snapped, stabbing her clasped hands in his direction, “—are you gonna look me in the eye and tell me this is just a little odd?!”

Cross blinked, a little stunned. “Well, since you’re the Doctor  here, why don’t you go ahead and break it down for me then?”

She exhaled sharply through her nose and dropped into one of the lobby chairs like she was already exhausted.

“First off,” she said, counting on her fingers, “the baby is so heavy it took three grown men just to put him on the baby scale. And even then, it maxed out. So we had to haul him to a standard adult scale.”

She gave Cross a hard look. “He weighs two hundred pounds.” Cross shrugged like that was old news. “Well, yeah, I could’ve told you that. He’s heavy as shit.”

Victoire didn’t even blink. “You ever heard of Anna Haining Bates?” Cross squinted. “Should I have?”

“She was seven-foot-eleven. Gave birth to the heaviest baby ever recorded—22 pounds, 8 ounces. That was back in 1879.”

“Oh. Well… good for her then, see? Just because something’s—”

“It died 11 hours later,” Victoire interrupted coldly. Her tone shut him right up.

She continued, voice like a scalpel. “Now imagine that, but almost ten times heavier. A baby the size of a cruiserweight boxer? That would kill the mother instantly. Pelvis shattered, internal bleeding, you name it.”

Cross bit his lip, thinking of Maria. The weight of reality—and guilt—sank deeper into his chest.

“Even babies half that size need emergency C-sections to make it out alive,” Victoire went on, ticking off more fingers. “Anything over 8 pounds, 13 ounces is considered fetal macrosomia. He isn’t just off the charts—he broke the damn charts.”

Cross’s mind drifted for a second. “Lishcelle was nine pounds... damn near the same thing,” he thought, the memory of her birth flashing behind his eyes. “Guess she was macrosomia too…”

Victoire wasn’t done. “I don’t know what he is, but Cross… biology doesn’t explain this. Nothing in human development does.”

Cross didn’t know what to say. He could just tell Victoire the truth, but if word got out, any chance of GAMMA living a somewhat normal life—at least by the Fraternity’s standards—would be dead in the water.

But then Victoire said something that caught him off guard. “I’d like to oversee his development personally,” she said, almost too calmly.

Cross blinked. “Really? Why?”

“Well,” she said, brushing off her coat, “for a child this... special, it’s only right he has the best pediatrician on standby, yes? He’s a living miracle. We need to see what he grows into.”

Cross stared at her, unsure. “Yeah... until we end up in some ‘I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream’ type shit, and he melts the walls like AM,” he thought. “But hey... sure, why not gamble with the apocalypse.”

“Fine,” he said, turning to leave. “You can oversee him. Just keep me posted if anything changes. I’m going to bed.”

But Victoire stopped him again. “Wait—what’s the baby’s name? Do you even know?”

The question hit Cross like a brick. “Shit... he does need a name. GAMMA ain’t gonna cut it. Think, damn it, think.”

Then it clicked. “Leo,” Cross said quickly. “Yeah... his mom named him Leo before she left the hospital. But she was cold-blooded... left the poor boy in a dumpster. That’s where I found him.”

It was a lie—every word—but he hoped she’d buy it. And she did. The wooden clipboard in her hands snapped in half.

“She did what?!” Victoire yelled, her voice echoing off the walls like thunder. Cross flinched.

“Shit... forgot she became a pediatrician because she couldn’t have kids. Did it out of love... compassion... and I just fed her a baby-dumping story. Real smooth, Dario. Real smooth.”

Victoire rushed him and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him like a ragdoll. “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?! Now I’ve got to run tests, give him his vaccines, track his nutrition—everything!”

She clapped her hands sharply. “Alright people, back on the clock! We’ve got work to do! Full panel—shots, scans, labs, the whole damn thing! Let’s go, chop-chop!”

A collective groan went up from the staff as they reluctantly turned around and headed back to the ER. One of the male nurses passed Cross on the way by, scowling. “Fuck you, Cross.”

Cross raised his arms in disbelief. “Bro—what?!” But the guy was already gone. “Man, I was about to say ‘hope you blow your back out lifting that kid’ but... damn,” Cross muttered, shaking his head. He stood there alone, staring at the chaos he’d just restarted. All because he couldn’t come up with a better lie.

All of the babies selected were the same age by design. The Fraternity always did it that way—raise them from birth, train them to become killers, tools forged in silence and blood, meant to bring balance to the world... or end threats too dangerous for diplomacy.

As head of the U.S. branch, Cross bore the responsibility of assembling the right instructors to train this new generation of Gen Z operatives. They were starting young, and they needed killers, not babysitters.

Cross stood at the window of his office, overlooking the compound’s training yards. His second-in-command, Byron Kris Ivan—his old inviter and fellow S-Class assassin—stood nearby, checking off profiles on a digital tablet.

“Sometimes I wonder why they made me the one in charge,” Cross muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Because you're the oldest of this branch... and the strongest, sir,” Byron replied matter-of-factly. “But I’d be lying if I said you were the most suited for this role.”

Cross glanced at him and snorted. “Normally I’d be mad, hurt, and offended—but that would make me shallow. And you’re right.”

He exhaled, sinking into the leather chair behind his desk. “I’m good at busting heads and stacking bodies. They want obedient little soldiers with just enough brainpower to follow orders, not question them. No critical thinking. No hesitation. Just violence with purpose.”

He said it with disgust—disgust for the system, for the old men still clinging to their outdated vision of the world. Men who played chess with human lives, hiding behind tradition and legacy.

“That’s why I challenged the old headmaster,” Cross continued. “Noa Uʻilani. I was 26. He was 41. I beat him in the dueling pit and took his place. Thought maybe things could change... but the gears of a thousand-year-old machine don’t turn easy.”

Byron smirked. “Well, only the strongest are allowed to lead. You should’ve thought twice before becoming the face of a centuries-old shadow syndicate.”

Cross chuckled dryly. “Yeah, I was ambitious back then... stupid, too.” Byron stepped forward, arms crossed. “Still... you did make a difference. In 1966, you were on a trip to Texas and ended up stopping Charles Whitman—the first modern mass shooter in U.S. history. Only five injuries. That could’ve been a bloodbath.”

Cross nodded silently. “And in 1997,” Byron continued, his voice softening, “you sent me to Pearl, Mississippi. Said you had a ‘bad feeling.’ Turned out to be the day of the Pearl High School shooting.”

Byron’s expression fell. “I wasn’t fast enough. Two people died. Five were injured. I failed.”

“But you stopped him,” Cross said, turning to face him. “He tried to get away, but Joel—assistant principal—he helped. That’s a hell of a thing. Going after a killer after watching your own school turn into a war zone.”

Byron nodded slowly. “Yeah... but I still think about it. Sometimes I wonder why  I didn't kill Luke Woodham when I had the chance.”

Cross didn’t press him.

“I wanted to,” Byron admitted, voice low. “Really bad. But... maybe letting him rot in a cell for the rest of his life was worse. Let him suffer. Let him know he failed, not just as a killer... but as a person.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Just the hum of the compound outside, the distant sound of gunfire from training drills, and the heavy weight of memory hanging between them.

“But...” Byron said, pulling out four profiles from a folder, “I already found four instructors perfect for the job.”

Cross grinned. “Awesome! Let me see those.”

He snatched the papers from Byron’s hands and started scanning through them.

Name: Boon-Nam

Origin: South Korea

Sex: Female

Age: 19

Height: 5'0"

Codename: Widow Mantis

Specialty: Stealth assassinations, emotional intelligence, psychological tactics.

Profile: A kind and sweet young woman with a deceptively pretty face. Highly skilled in poisons, infiltration, stealth kills, and emotional manipulation—particularly dangerous in relationships.

Cross whistled. “Damn... Byron, remind me to never leave my food or drinks around her. Nuh uh. I remember them white girls back in the day poisoning people with antifreeze.”

Byron laughed. “You’re not wrong.”

Cross flipped to the next profile.

Name: Ike Eiji

Origin: Japan

Sex: Male

Age: 19

Height: 5′9.5"

Codename: Shadow Ōin

Specialty: Martial arts, close combat.

Profile: Calm, focused, and coldly analytical. Known for his near-inhuman fighting IQ and speed. Allegedly took down 500 armed men with his bare hands and is skilled enough to dodge bullets under certain conditions.

Cross blinked hard. “Jesus Christ. Okay... First of all, why are all these instructors nineteen? They’re barely out of puberty! And second—why the hell is this guy so broken!? What is this, anime!?”

Byron stayed composed. “Tradition. The previous generation must train the next. They're Gen Y—barely out of their teens but already elite. As time goes on, the Fraternity refines the human condition, pushes talent to its peak. Stronger parents, stronger children. You said it yourself once: evolution through blood.”

Cross looked uneasy, staring down at the paper. “So... Leo could end up being an even bigger monster.”

Byron didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Cross moved to the next one.

Name: Prudenzio Giro

Origin: Italy

Sex: Male

Age: 19

Height: 6′0.5"

Codename: Al Shotpone

Specialty: Firearms, precision shooting.

Profile: A hopeless romantic with a temper when disrespected. Top marksman in the Fraternity. Can land a pistol shot at 300 feet and a sniper shot at 8,312 yards—using iron sights.

Cross raised an eyebrow. “Damn... Who do you think would win in a fight? Prudenzio or Ike?”

Byron gave him a deadpan look. “Sir... seriously?”

“What?” Cross shrugged. “You can’t tell me that wouldn’t be entertaining. Just throw up their stat sheets, run a sim, and let's see who comes out on top.”

Byron sighed. “You’ve been hanging out with the IT boys too much.”

Cross chuckled. “I mean, yeah. But come on—you gotta admit, it's a good question.”

Cross flipped to the last profile.

Name: Suhal Chika

Origin: South Africa

Sex: Male

Age: 19

Height: 6′3"

Codename: Apophis

Specialty: Melee weapons

Profile: A master of nearly every known melee weapon. Charismatic, arrogant, and a pure hedonist with sadistic tendencies toward anyone he deems inferior. Dangerous, unpredictable, but undeniably skilled.

Cross squinted at the paper. “Wow... Why are we hiring this guy? Even his damn file says he’s an asshole.”

Byron shrugged. “True, but he’s the best melee combatant we’ve got. Hell, the man once killed someone with a shard of glass barely an inch long.”

Cross raised an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s impressive, but I still don’t—”

“And he killed fifty men with a dress shoe,” Byron cut in, deadpan.

Cross stared. “A dress shoe?”

“Yep. Slit them open deep enough to hit vitals.”

Cross was quiet for a second, processing that, until Byron added casually, “Oh—and he also killed a guy with a watch clasp.”

“A clasp?” Cross asked, incredulous. “Like... from a wristwatch?”

“Exactly.”

Cross dropped the paper on the desk and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “Hold the fuck up. You're telling me that if this guy gets his hands on anything with a sharp edge, someone’s gonna die?”

“Pretty much, sir,” Byron said with a nod. “He’s a problem child, sure—but he’s still young. With structure and time, he might grow out of the sadist streak.”

Cross leaned forward, tapping the desk with his fingers in thought. “You know what? Fuck it. These four... they’re perfect. Thanks, Byron. Really.”

“Of course, sir.” Byron nodded and immediately pulled out his phone, already making arrangements.

As he walked out of the office, Cross reached into a drawer, pulling out a thick file labeled Chosen Selection Initiative. He opened it and began filling out the new roster.

“This generation's gonna be different,” he muttered, pen scratching across paper. “More modern. Stronger. Smarter. More... aware. Let’s just hope I can get everyone on board before it’s too late.”

He paused, staring out the window of his office at the Fraternity compound, where the future was being built one child at a time.

Despite everything she’d seen in her years as a pediatrician, Victoire was stunned by Leo’s rapid development. In just five days, the baby had already reached milestones well beyond his age—nearly walking with the coordination of a 15-month-old and displaying a sharpness that unsettled even her.

She had tested him repeatedly. For example, she’d hide his favorite toy while he wasn't looking—always in the same place—and every time, he’d go straight to it within a minute. Then she changed the hiding spot. He adjusted instantly, searching intelligently until he found it again.

“Amazing...” she whispered, furiously scribbling notes. “He’s walking, nearly talking, showing early problem-solving... even abstract reasoning. Truly, he might be a genius.”

But as she reviewed her clipboard, the excitement began to drain from her face.

She paused. Something wasn’t right.

“Communication... ✓

Cognitive... ✓

Physical... ✓

But... Emotional Development...”

Her eyes narrowed.

She looked up from her notes and called softly, “Leo?”

He didn’t turn.

She moved closer. “Leo,” she repeated, louder.

Still no reaction.

“Not responding to name,” she wrote, trying to stay calm.

Then she crouched down and tried to meet his eyes.

But Leo looked away.

“Reduced eye contact.”

She started to watch more carefully. No gestures. No pointing. No interest in faces. And—most heartbreakingly—he hadn’t smiled once since arriving.

“Limited social smiling.

Lack of gestures.”

Victoire felt her heart drop. The pattern was there. The signs were clear. She didn’t want to believe it.

“No... it can’t be...” she whispered, the conclusion forming in her mind like a cold weight.

Tears welled in her eyes. She bent down, wrapping her arms gently around Leo, pulling him into a trembling hug.

He didn’t hug back.

He didn’t react.

He just stared blankly forward, his expression unreadable.

Victoire held him tighter, her voice barely a whisper in his ear.

“You’re special, Leo... no matter what.”

And though he didn’t understand why she was crying, Leo tilted his head slightly—quiet, still, and utterly silent.