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Yet as I look at Miles, his insidious smile wide and almost feral, I realize he knows that too.

I shut down my skeptical side and instead focus on the game at hand, victory my only aim. So what if it's nearly impossible? I've been defying the impossible for as long as I remember. This shouldn't be too hard.

The seconds stretch as we start placing our pieces on the board. I'm black while my opponent is white. The moment the game begins, though, my mind hones on anticipating every move he could possibly make.

As long as I manage to calculate his moves in advance, I should be able to also calculate the amount of tries it would take me to win the game.

Our hands move with extreme speed as piece after piece is settled on a square, the territories starting to take shape.

My opponent isn't bad. But he's not great either, which works in my favor.

One minute and thirty-five seconds.

By now half the board is full, my pieces overshadowing his. But there is one tricky aspect to Go. Unless he declares that he's forfeiting, then the game could go on forever.

And so with the seconds trickling by, time ticking, my resolve for victory strengthens. I double down my efforts, picturing all possible outcomes in my mind as I lay a piece down.

I need to corner him so badly that he won't have any other option than forfeiting the game.

Three more moves and I have him where I want. One look at him and his lips are trembling, his entire face sweaty from the mental exertion.

I raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to make a move where there's none.

His shoulders slump, and eventually he resigns himself to being the losing party.

There's a resounding bleep in the room, and everyone suddenly stands up.

"Well, well," Miles says, uncrossing his legs and rising from the couch. He's slow as he comes toward me, his hand on my back.

"It seems we have a winner," he declares and a smug expression appears on my face. I don't even stop to think what might be happening to the ones who lost, basking in the praise Miles is offering me and knowing it is limited.

As a mini celebration, Miles takes me to his office, offering me a glass of his precious bourbon and telling me his grand plans.

"We're almost there, Vlad," he sighs happily. "I don't think I've ever seen someone as impressive as you, my boy. You've certainly surpassed my expectations."

I just nod, taking in all the compliments and vowing to do better. Because while I'd been reluctant in the beginning, I now recognize that this isn't just about me.

It's about revolutionizing science and the way humans are seen. It's simply evolution, and I aim to be at the top when these findings are made public.

Certainly, in the beginning I'd thought that Miles' ideas were strange and a little irrational. But soon it had become clear that he was onto something.

After repeated trials, my skin stopped hurting, the pain a slow echo reverberating in my brain, but one I could shut off. My mind too acquired a new focus as clarity started to filter through my old haze of emotions.

He was right. Getting rid of feelings, and especially of fear, was liberating unlike anything. That coupled with the rush of adrenaline when I cut into flesh, dissected organs and played with tissue was almost godly.

I'm smart enough to realize that there seems to be an inverse proportional relationship between my feelings and my hubris. As my emotions became muted, my arrogance grew, my vanity knowing no bounds.

But that arrogance also made me the best, because it made me want to continually strive to be the best.

"And now for your prize," Miles adds, getting up and showing me a poker with a metal circle at the top, the number one hundred etched inside.

Going to his fireplace, he extends the metal into the fire, watching as it becomes hot, the material turning a deep red.

"You've officially completed your one hundredth kill, my little miracle. It's time to celebrate," he drawls, taking the hot poker and motioning me to show him my skin.

I don't even flinch as I tear down my neckline, grabbing onto my shirt and directing him to place it right in the middle of my chest.

With a satisfied smile, he does, his happiness only growing as the smell of burned flesh permeates the air.

As usual, there's a slight echo of pain, but I thrust it aside, focusing on this important day.

It's late when I made it back to the sleeping quarters.

Vanya is on her back, as usual, her stomach wounds still giving her trouble from the last experiment.

Weak.

I can't help it as my mind hones in on those words.

She's weak. Not worthy.

"V." I nod to her when she raises herself on her elbows to peer at me.

"You were gone a long time, brother," she says in that sweet voice of hers and for a moment I feel an unfamiliar—almost forgotten—pang in my chest.

"I won." I shrug, proudly showing her my brand.

She doesn't react as I expect her to. She barely glances at me as she gathers her knees to her chest, placing her cheek on top of them and sighing deeply.

I take a seat too, laying down on my side of the mattress.

"I'm scared, brother," she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Scared. Fear. Weakness.

"Why?" I ask mechanically.

"Change." She takes a deep breath, turning her eyes toward me. "Change is scary," she notes.

"It's not," I answer a little more aggressively than intended. "Being static is scary. Change is good," I point out.

"Until it's not…" she trails off, "Because it doesn't have to be a good change. It can also be a bad change."

"What are you getting at, Vanya?" I snap.

"You, brother. You're changing. And I don't know if I like it," she murmurs, her voice small as she looks away from me.

Without saying another word, she turns with her back to me, promptly ending the conversation.

I stare at the ceiling of our still dirty cell, counting the spots of mold as I listen to Vanya's even breath as she sleeps.

Change…

Maybe she has a point. There are some moments of lucidity where I ask myself what I'm doing. But then I'm once again embroiled in Miles' fascinating world of science, murder, and morbid curiosities.

And I let myself slip.