Wesson

Gun.

Die.

That was all she had ever needed to know.

She was born to kill. Built from the ground up, not as a person, but as a weapon.

The world outside the facility had never existed to her. She had never wanted it to. What was the point? Life was simple here. Obeying meant no pain. Disobeying meant pain.

Simple.

And yet, despite her perfection—despite the fact that she never disobeyed—they had still thrown her away.

Funding had dried up. No one wanted a fifteen-year-old super soldier. Too young to be deployed, too old to start over. A failure. A loose end.

And loose ends had to be tied up.

She had received the order that morning. Her final mission.

Her final kill.

She had taken the file, opened it, studied the target as she always had. It had been routine—until she had flipped the last page and seen her own face staring back.

For the first time in her life, she had hesitated.

Not out of fear. Not out of rebellion.

But because she had never been given a kill order that didn't make sense.

She had spent the day thinking. It hurt. She didn't like it.

It was easier to just follow orders.

That was why, when the time came, she sat in the cold metal chair, staring at the gun on the table, waiting for her body to do what it had always done.

But she didn't move.

Because for the first time, she didn't understand.

And then, something shifted.

The air changed.

She lifted her head.

A child stood in front of her.

Small. Still. Watching.

She stared.

The world had always been simple. Black and white. Obey and disobey. Good and bad. Life and death.

But this child—this thing standing in front of her—was none of those things. It didn't belong in any category she had ever known.

It simply was.

A silent pressure settled over her. It wasn't threatening. It wasn't violent.

But it was absolute.

She knew, with the same certainty that she knew how to fire a gun, that this moment was important.

So, for the first time in her life, she spoke without being ordered to.

"Gun."

The child did not blink.

"Die."

Silence.

Then, for the first time, someone gave her an order she had never heard before.

"No."

She stared.

Her fingers twitched.

She didn't know why.

A man shifted behind the child. She hadn't noticed him before. He wasn't important. Not like this.

"Is that all she says?" the man muttered.

"Yes," the child replied.

She wasn't sure why, but something about that answer felt wrong.

The man sighed. He crouched slightly, watching her. "Alright, so you need a name, huh?"

She said nothing.

"Alright, let's think about this for a second," he said, rubbing his chin. "You like guns, yeah?"

She blinked.

It wasn't like. It was just true.

He smirked. "Course you do. I can see that." His eyes flicked to the gun on the table. "So, what about Wesson?"

Something shifted.

Not in the air. Not in the world.

In her.

She did not know what it was.

But she liked it.

Slowly, she reached forward.

Her fingers curled around the grip of the gun, her thumb sliding over the barrel. Perfect weight. Perfect balance. A part of her. A missing limb restored

The child tilted its head. "Wesson Tesla."

She froze.

It fit.

Like pulling the trigger of a well-oiled weapon.

She nodded.

"Wesson Tesla."

The man whistled. "Well, shit. That's actually kinda badass."

She looked at him.

It was the first time she had looked at anyone just to look.

His pulse hitched.

She didn't know why.

But she liked that too.