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It's gotten to a point where I don't know if my memory is mine or if it's been thrust upon me in one of Miles's crazy experiments.

All I know is that I only need to see something once in order to remember it forever, I’m able to dissect it at atom levels long after I'd seen it.

And so I pass the explosives test too.

Halfway through.

I know enough about Miles' wicked mind to only expect the worst. After all, this is a test to separate the weak from the strong. The ones who will proceed forward and the ones who will not.

Dead.

In the back of my mind, I feel a little pulsation as I think about my sister, the first semblance of feeling in a long time.

At least I'd managed to spare her by being Miles' exclusive guinea pig.

She's been worsening from all the experiments he'd subjugated her to, and her body is slowly failing her.

I know it. Miles knows it. Everybody knows it. Still, if I can keep her alive, I will.

I'll do anything to ensure her safety.

I barely see her nowadays, though. Miles has me either in training or in testing every single day. The most I manage is to say a few words to her before I go to sleep. Even with my new physical enhancements I'm having some trouble keeping up with some aspects of Miles' program.

The psychological tests have been the hardest, because I could tell that slowly, without even realizing, they were changing me from the inside out.

From the very beginning I've been forced to sit in a dark room with only one screen, nonstop watching atrocity after atrocity until I've become desensitized to everything.

Flesh? Blood? Bone?

I don't think there's anything that can phase me anymore. Certainly not even as I do it myself, the videos are weirdly educational as they taught me how to cut and probe, the entire human anatomy suddenly at my fingertips.

And Miles had been delighted when he'd seen that I could memorize everything after one watch. So he'd started letting me perform some of the experiments.

When you've shut even the last sane part of yourself, there's hardly anything that can make you react. In fact, the more I'd started delving into the secrets of the human body, the more intrigued I'd become, finally starting to share Miles' enthusiasm.

I wouldn't put myself in the same category as him, but at the same time I know I'm not far off.

I barely keep my head in the game anymore. A few more mundane tests and I'm in the lead with a perfect score. I'm… bored.

We should just end this now, since we all know who's going to be the victor. But Miles isn't one to cut corners. Even if he has to sacrifice other potential soldiers in the process, he will see this through, ensuring that only the fittest are allowed to the next level.

Going through the motions, I realize I'm already at the ninth task, and as I see what it is, my mood suddenly improves.

Torture.

The voice from the speakers explains the task. Each contestant that's gotten to this point has to get information from the prisoners—all part of the Mossad.

Known for their thorough training, they are the least likely to break. Especially in the face of a few scrawny children.

My target is in front of me in a chair, hands and feet tied, a bag over his head.

I circle him a couple of times, trying to determine who I'm dealing with.

Another tidbit I'd learned from Miles, but body language can offer a wealth of information. Truth to be told, my only weakness is in recognizing facial emotions. That's why I never focus on the face.

Instead, I look at how the legs twitch slightly, or how the muscles in his arms seem to involuntarily move when he hears me walk around him.

He's studying me just as I am him, and the prospect of finding someone of equal footing has a brand new type of excitement simmering inside of me.

I may be but a child, but my knowledge far surpasses most people. My training too, is nothing to scoff at, and I know that I'll only improve as I grow.

And so to start my session, I remove the bag from his head, letting him see me, watching closely the way his shoulders relax, his entire body at ease as he undoubtedly thinks a child cannot possibly harm him.

Yes, underestimate me. It will be your death .

As much as I'm wont to admit, Miles has given me the best education. Drawing from resources from all over the globe, my mind is rife with every type of knowledge one would need to succeed in this murky torture business.

That coupled with my anatomical experience makes me the perfect candidate to exact the perfect torture.

One look at the countdown and I see I have ten more minutes until the entire test is over. But considering there's another level, I don't want to risk it by spending too much time with this gentleman.

I look down at the note in my hands, the prompt saying I must find out the location of a couple of off-the-books nuclear weapons hidden somewhere along the coast line.

There's a very basic kit of knives and torture tools. Nothing too fancy, just enough to do the job.

He wants us, after all, to improvise on our own. Use our creativity and show him that his lessons have not been in vain.

A sly smile appears on my face as I drag my fingers over the tools, knowing he's watching me closely.

Like me, he's trying to gauge who he's dealing with.

But unlike me, he's already underestimating my abilities.

I pick up the smallest blade, testing its sharpness on my leg. Satisfied with the result, blood trickling down the moment the tip of the blade makes contact with the surface of my skin, I bring it to my lips, licking it clean.

The man is looking at me as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

Good. He's starting to become rattled.

Careful with the blade, I bring it to his shirt, the material giving way immediately, his naked chest in sight.

"Any organ you're particularly fond of?" I raise my eyebrows at him in question.

He sputters against his gag, thrashing in his bounds as he's trying to move toward me.

"Tsk, tsk. Now, that's simply rude," I add, plowing the knife right in his thigh, the move calculated, so I don't accidentally nab the femoral artery. Still, it's lodged not far off, ensuring direct blood flow to the artery.

The knife is so deeply embedded in his body, I can feel the bone right under the tip, a scratchy noise ringing out as I push and move it around inside the wound, creating a small socket.

The sound is almost like nails on a chalkboard, the sharpness of the knife ensuring in cutting all muscle and connective tissue.

He can't even scream out in pain, though he wants to. And I am immensely saddened by that, since it would have been music to my ears. After all, it's all I know.

Opening my small pouch, I take the knife out, watching as the blood shoots out like a small geyser, staining his clothes and falling to the floor.

He's watching me intently as I dip the knife into the pouch, coating the tip in a viscous substance.

He frowns, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Venom," I give him a wide smile, "viper venom," I amend. When I'm done scooping up all the venom, I simply place the knife back inside the wound, watching his face contort in inhumane agony, his skin turning red, his eyes bulging in his head as he's trying to bear through it all.

Ah, but this is just the beginning.

Letting him stew in the venom—literally, I turn my attention back to his chest, quickly making an incising from his clavicle to his navel.

Still having some trace amounts of venom, the moment the toxic substance hits his open flesh, he winces back in pain. It must be like a burning sensation that keeps on gaining depth. And as I cut deeper, his reactions worsen too.

"Let's see," I hum appreciatively as I carefully open up his stomach, flaps of skin on each side. "I believe you can still live with one kidney," I add, my hand hovering over the cozy pair in his side. "I wonder, though, how painful is the removal without anesthetic?" I ask pensively.

He's still not passed out from pain, which in itself is a feat and speaks of his training. Still, the moment he hears about his kidneys, and especially as he can gaze down into his own open belly, his face falls in resignation.

Got him.

Gag off, he's rattling off everything I needed to know.

Eyes on the clock I notice I have five more minutes until the end. Satisfied with his answers, I simply swing the blade under his throat, cutting him up and ensuring a quick death before moving to the final round.

Crossing the final wall, I'm met with a surprising sight.

Miles is casually sitting on a couch, two tables on either side of him.

Even though I'm the first to arrive, there are a few others who also make it.

Immediately, we are motioned at the tables, split in pairs.

I'm coupled with a guy a couple years older than me at one table, while at the other table there is one girl with another boy my age.

In front of us is a spread out Go board game. My lips twitch as I realize what the final trial is.

Strategy.

Miles is a Go aficionado, and he has his own board in his office. He'd even taught me how to play it once, so I have the basics down.

Like chess, one player is assigned the white side while the other the black. But unlike chess, the game pieces are small, round stones. The aim of the game is to gain space on the board.

Like a warring map, the pieces are like flags in areas conquered, the winner being the one with the most pieces on the board.

It's a titivating game, and certainly one that can give pause to anyone.

Still, it's no wonder that Miles has chosen this, aside from his personal interest in it. The game relies on the strategic placements of the stones to maximize territory. In his eyes, our success on the board should mirror our success in the outside world.

There is just one tricky aspect.

Three minutes.

With three minutes on the clock, it's unlikely that we'll be able to finish a Go game and proclaim a winner. These games can last hours, if not days, so three minutes is really absurd.