At night, the boy was no longer just a student.

  The world knew him as a nameless shadow, a silent predator hunting those who preyed on the

  weak.

  By day, he blended in—a quiet, intelligent student, his piercing blue eyes hiding the darkness

  he carried. But when the sun set, he became something else. A force of vengeance.

  He had started small—catching thieves, punishing bullies in ways they couldn’t explain. A

  broken wrist here, a fractured ankle there. He never killed. He didn’t need to. Fear was a far

  better punishment.

  But one night, as he listened to the city’s whispers, something caught his attention.

  Children were disappearing.

  The news spoke of homeless kids vanishing, their names never reported, their faces forgotten.

  No families to cry for them, no investigations to follow. Just another invisible tragedy in a

  world that didn’t care.

  But then, one mistake.

  The kidnappers took a boy—a street child who begged for his school fees. A child with parents.

  And now, for the first time, the police noticed the pattern.

  The boy sat in his room, staring at the news report on his phone. His fingers tightened into fists.

  "How many before him?"

  He had to find them.

  For the next few nights, he became one of them.

  Disguised in ragged clothes, he sat in the cold streets, his stomach empty, his body trembling

  not from hunger, but from anticipation.

  He waited.

  Four nights passed.

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  Then, on the fifth, they came.

  A sleek black car pulled up beside him.

  A man rolled down the window, his face unreadable behind dark glasses.

  “You look tired, kid,” the man said, his voice smooth, practiced. “How about some food?”

  The boy said nothing, only glanced at the wrapped sandwich the man held out. His fingers

  twitched. He knew.

  The food was drugged.

  He played his part, hesitating before reaching for it. He took a small bite—just enough to sell

  the act.

  Moments later, he let his body slump, his breathing slow.

  The man watched. Then, satisfied, he gestured to someone inside.

  Two more men stepped out, carefully lifting the boy. They whispered among themselves,

  laughing softly.

  They thought they had him.

  When the boy woke, his surroundings were different.

  A warehouse.

  The air was thick with the scent of oil and rust.

  But the worst smell was fear.

  Huddled in the corner, fifteen to twenty children sat, their faces pale, their eyes red from crying.

  The boy took a slow breath.

  "I was right."

  He moved toward the group, his voice calm, steady.

  “I’m going to get you all out of here,” he whispered.

  Silence.

  Then, one child spoke, his voice trembling.

  “They take us one by one… and they don’t come back.”

  The boy’s jaw clenched.

  Another child hesitated before adding, “I heard them talking. Something about… experiments.”

  The boy’s stomach twisted.

  He had expected trafficking, maybe even organ smuggling.

  But experiments?

  He had to find out more.

  He pressed his ear against the wall, listening.

  The guards were talking.

  “…Mad scientist, my ass,” one muttered. “He’s just some rich psycho playing with kids like

  they’re lab rats.”

  Another scoffed. “You saw what happened to the last one. That thing wasn’t human anymore.”

  The boy’s blood ran cold.

  Then, footsteps.

  A car screeched outside.

  Then a voice—calm, commanding, inhumanly cold.

  "Dispose of the last one. And bring me a new subject."

  The door creaked open.

  The boy’s breath caught as a man stepped in.

  He was tall, his face hidden behind a dark mask. His eyes were a striking green, gleaming with

  intelligence—and something else. Madness.

  A tattoo curled along his left hand, a serpent coiled around an eye.

  The scientist.

  The man’s gaze swept across the children.

  He took a step forward.

  And the boy moved.

  Like lightning, he lashed out, his foot connecting with the nearest guard. A sharp crack echoed

  as the man crumpled.

  Chaos erupted.

  The children screamed. The guards lunged.

  But the boy was faster.

  He dodged, his movements fluid, unnatural. His fist struck, his venom-laced blood making

  even a scratch paralyzing.

  The scientist stepped back, intrigued.

  The boy locked eyes with him.

  And the scientist smiled.

  “So it’s you,” he murmured.

  Before the boy could react, the scientist snapped his fingers.

  Dozens of guards swarmed in.

  He fought. Hard. But there were too many.

  And then—

  A syringe plunged into his neck.

  His vision blurred.

  The last thing he saw was the scientist watching him with quiet fascination.

  Then—darkness.

  The scientist studied the unconscious boy strapped to the metal table.

  A perfect specimen.

  He brushed a gloved hand over the boy’s arm, pressing lightly against his skin.

  “He’s already mutated,” the scientist murmured, almost reverently.

  One of the guards hesitated. “Should we… dispose of him?”

  The scientist chuckled.

  “No,” he said softly. “We study him.”

  Because he didn’t just want the boy.

  He needed him.

  Because in the boy’s blood, in the venom that now pulsed through his veins, lay the key to verything.