Jones stood alone in the training chamber long after the doors had sealed behind him.
The vow still echoed in his mind—every last rogue droid.
It felt heavier now, settling deeper than anger. It was purpose.
That purpose, however, did little to help him stand properly.
He took a step forward and nearly collapsed, metal feet scraping against the reinforced floor as his balance failed him. His body reacted too late, movements lagging behind thought. He caught himself against the wall, the impact sending a dull vibration through his frame.
So this is what being reborn feels like, he thought bitterly. Power without control.
Footsteps approached.
Dr. Sylvia entered the chamber, flanked by two guards. Her sharp gaze lingered on Jones just long enough to take in his unstable stance.
"So before any more information is passed down to you," she said firmly, turning and motioning for him to follow, "I need to see your current value. As of now, you're worthless to the course of this organization."
Jones followed, his steps uneven, eyes still drawn to his metallic hands as they flexed almost too smoothly now. "The course of this organization," he said, voice low. "And what exactly is that, if I may ask?"
She didn't slow.
"What else could it be?" Dr. Sylvia replied. "To eliminate rogue droids and preserve humanity. I never formally told you our name, but you've already been reborn through it."
They stopped before a massive silver door.
"We are known as The Bionic," she continued. "Humanity's last safeguard against extinction. The final answer to the rising casualties caused by rogue droids across the world."
She placed her palm against the door.
A low hum resonated through the corridor as the surface split apart, sliding open to reveal a silver-tinted hall beyond. Grey glass lined the ceiling, faint light filtering through it like frozen moonlight.
"Welcome to your personal trainer's private sector," Sylvia said as they stepped inside. "Accessible only by high-ranking officials. And me."
Jones glanced back instinctively. The guards had stopped at the entrance, standing watch, facing outward.
"And why doesn't anyone want to come this way?" Jones asked.
"You'll understand soon enough," she replied.
Another door opened.
This one led into a dimly lit room bathed in dark blue light, soft but heavy. Sylvia snapped her fingers.
The lights surged on.
Jones froze.
Trophies—dozens of them—lined a massive glass display, each engraved, each bearing signs of battle. Photos were embedded among them, all featuring the same man standing atop heaps of destroyed droids, blade in hand, expression unreadable.
Weapons were mounted beside the display: two short swords and one larger blade, their edges pristine. Beneath them rested a combat suit—sleek, reinforced, clearly designed for someone who had survived countless wars.
Jones swallowed.
"This man…" he said quietly. "He's my personal trainer, isn't he?"
Dr. Sylvia was already walking away.
"Yes," she answered. "And he's far more dangerous than he looks. I'll spare you the details—you'll bond over them soon enough. Read. Learn. Maximize that photographic memory of yours."
She paused at the doorway.
"And Jones? If you want to survive this second life—do exactly what he tells you."
Then she left.
Alone, Jones approached the counter stacked high with books—combat theory, mechanics, neural synchronization, battlefield psychology. He reached out, fingers brushing the spine of one.
The door behind him hummed.
Elsewhere, Dr. Sylvia walked beside a man with an unhurried stride.
He wasn't particularly tall, but his physique was solid, honed—built through years of discipline rather than display. White hair framed a sharp face, silver eyes reflecting the sterile lights of the corridor.
"So," he said, rubbing the back of his head, "you're giving me babysitting duty now?"
"You're the only one capable," Dr. Sylvia replied calmly. "We already saved him once. I'm not confident we can do it again."
They stopped before another door. Sylvia pressed her palm to it, revealing her office—medical equipment fused seamlessly with advanced technology. Holographic displays hovered above polished surfaces. Beyond it lay her private quarters, soft pink tones contrasting the cold precision of the lab.
She stepped inside briefly, then returned with a file.
NUMBER SIXTEEN was printed boldly across the cover.
"Commander Derick," she said, handing it to him. "He's in your hands now."
Derick sighed. "Fine. Not because I want to—but because I owe you."
He turned and walked away.
Back in the silver-tinted room, Jones turned as the front door hummed open.
A man stepped inside.
White hair. Silver eyes. Calm presence—but heavy, like a storm waiting to break.
They stared at each other for a moment.
"So," the man said, glancing around the room, then back at Jones. "You're the miracle project."
Jones straightened as best he could. "Jones. Formerly Black."
Derick nodded. "Commander Derick. Your personal trainer."
He stepped closer, eyes assessing every detail—stance, balance, reaction time.
"You want revenge," Derick said flatly. "You want power. You want to survive."
Jones met his gaze. "Yes."
Derick smirked faintly. "Good."
He turned toward the exit.
"You can call me Boss from now on," he said over his shoulder. "Because from today onward, you belong to me."
He paused.
"And if you want to accomplish that goal of yours—get ready to experience hell."