I hated life. I’ve hated it for as long as I can remember—or maybe longer, since I can’t even trust my memory anymore. All I know is that I hate it. I hate it so much, I tried to end it, to just... disappear. Let me go to hell, let me be nothing. But they wouldn’t let me. No, they couldn’t just let me die, could they? They had to save me, to keep me alive, even if it meant selling my soul to someone. Now here I am. Just… what even am I?

  I don’t know anymore.

  I know I’m not alive, not like them. Not like the humans. I’m nothing more than an object to them, just a tool. Ronin. That’s what they call me. Ronin, and then they slap a number on me—like I’m a product. Not even a name, just a number. Or sometimes they just call me Scout, like that’s the only thing I am. Just a drone, sent to do their bidding, to fetch, to scout, to die. They don’t even see me as an individual. And the others—what do they call me? "Ro." As if that makes it better, like it’s some kind of nickname to make me feel less like a machine. It doesn’t.

  I get it, though. I’m not an individual to them. I’m just a tool. A puppet. They don’t even treat me like I’m human anymore. They treat me like I’m less than that. I can’t even end it. I can’t even rip myself apart and be done with it. When I try, my limbs stiffen up, like something’s holding me back, stopping me. As if something—or someone—is controlling me. The voices. They’re always there, always pushing, shouting. Screaming in my head.

  I can’t escape it. I can’t escape them.

  But sometimes… sometimes, they don’t speak at all. There’s a voice that’s colder than the rest. It’s new. It came with me when I was turned into… this. It doesn’t care about anything. It doesn’t feel. It doesn’t care about the anger, the sadness, the jealousy. It just speaks in orders, cold and emotionless. The others get drowned out by it. The voice is always so loud, so demanding. It tells me what to do. It tells me how to think, how to feel—how to be.

  And it never stops.

  But here, in this common room, I get a brief respite. The cold voice goes quiet, for once. Just for a moment. The others, the angry one, the sad one, the jealous one—are louder now. They take over, telling me how much of a failure I am, how this is my personal hell. They’re right, you know. This is my hell. All of it.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  And then he walks in—or he comes back. I’m not sure which. Yotta had told me about him before. He’s the first of us. The one they call Alpha.

  Or 01.

  The humans call him Alpha, too. The others do as well. The others look at him like he’s something special. Like he’s different. But I don’t see it. I don’t get it. He’s just like me, isn’t he? He looks like me. He has the same features, the same body, the same eyes. But his fur is black. Just black, nothing special. And he has four digits on his hands, while I have five.

  That’s it. That’s the only difference. His fur, his number of digits. He’s not special. So why do they call him Alpha?

  Why is he the Alpha?

  I’m so tired of it. I don’t care if he’s older or if he’s the first one of us. It doesn’t matter. He’s nothing more than a tool, too. A clone of whatever model they decided to throw together. The same as me, just with a bit of a higher rank. They’ve made him into this leader, but I don’t think he even knows it. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at any of us. He talks to Yotta, and the others look up to him. They call him Alpha with reverence, like he’s their savior or something.

  It’s pathetic.

  I’m pathetic.

  And yet, I can’t stop it. I can’t stop the jealousy rising inside me. It’s the jealousy voice, the one that always makes my skin crawl, the one that makes me wish I could just tear him apart, just rip him to shreds with my claws. I want to be the one they call Alpha. I want to be the one in charge. But no. That’s not for me. I’m just a cheaper model. A copy. A mistake.

  It’s all my parents' fault. They should’ve just let me die. If they had, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be stuck in this hell. They could’ve let me die, could’ve spared me from this. But no. They couldn’t. They had to keep me alive, didn’t they? Keep me “alive,” keep me from the peace of death. They had to sell my soul to someone, to something, and turn me into this. A puppet. A drone. A failure.

  I should’ve just died. It would’ve been better.

  No. No, it’s the humans’ fault. It’s their fault for doing this to me. They put me in this machine. They put me in this body. They made me this. And now, there’s another voice in my head. Another one. Another one who’s cold, who doesn’t care. I don’t even know what to call it. It’s just there. It’s not like the others. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t beg. It just orders.

  If I could get my hands on them, if I could get my claws on the ones who did this to me, nothing would stop me. I would rip them apart, piece by piece. I would make them pay for what they’ve done to me. I would make them feel what I feel.

  But I’m stuck. I’m stuck in this hell. And I’m stuck with them. All of them. The voices. The orders. The hate.

  It’s all I have left.

  And it’s never going away.