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Children with empty eyes were a dime a dozen in war zones. But this one? This one was special.

I spotted him through the morning haze, perched on a chunk of bombed-out concrete.

The air reeked of smoke and rot, the aftermath of mortar fire from the night before.

Distant gunshots punctuated the eerie quiet, but the boy didn't flinch at the sound.

He sat motionless, all bones and pale skin, a human gargoyle surveying his domain.

Five, maybe six years old, tops. Too small for the bloodstained t-shirt hanging off his shoulders like a shroud.

What caught my eye wasn't his stillness, or the dried blood caked in his hair.

It was the makeshift knife in his tiny fist. It was little more than a shard of metal wrapped at one end with electrical tape.

His knuckles were bruised and bloody, his nails rimmed with dark crescents. Fresh kills left traces .

"Dobro jutro," I called out in Bosnian, keeping my distance. The rubble crunched under my boots, sending pebbles skittering down the concrete slope. The kid had survived this long for a reason, and cornered animals bit. "You got a name, kid?"

The boy tensed, knife raising. His eyes darted to my security detail, counting them, measuring threats. His gaze calculated angles, escape routes, weapons. Smart. So damn smart.

"No closer," he warned, voice surprisingly steady. No tremor, no childish pitch. He spoke like a soldier.

I raised my hands, palms out. The winter cold bit at my exposed skin, but I didn't shiver. Couldn't show weakness. "I’m not here to hurt you. Just want to talk."

His head tilted. A predator assessing prey, though he had it backward. "You're American."

"Good ear." No point hiding the Boston accent that clung to my words like tar.

He pointed with his knife. "You have the American flag on your shirt."

I glanced at the little brass pin I'd forgotten about. Cold metal against the wool of my overcoat. The kid had an eye for detail. "So I do."

Behind me, my guide muttered about schedules and danger zones, his breath clouding in the frigid air. I silenced him with a look. Some opportunities you don't pass up.

The boy's ice-blue eyes locked onto mine. Not the vacant stare of shock I'd seen in other child survivors. These eyes were calculated. Cold. Perfect.

"You can call me Prometheus." I pulled out my tin of fancy French pastilles.

Not the cheap candies my men used to bribe local kids.

The good stuff, each candy wrapped in wax paper worth more than a day's wages here.

I popped one in my mouth first, letting the sharp sweetness bloom on my tongue. Universal sign for "not poisoned."

"Want one?"

He slid off his perch silently, muscles moving with unusual coordination for a child so young.

The knife remained ready, his small body coiled tight as he circled to maintain escape routes.

I gestured for my security to step back.

Men with automatic weapons retreated from a child with a scrap of metal. Kid had balls.

He selected a candy with his free hand, never lowering the knife. Only after I'd eaten mine did he try it, eyes widening slightly at the explosion of flavor. His cracked lips parted in surprise. Probably his first sweet in months.

"Family?" I asked as he carefully folded the wrapper one-handed, creasing it with his thumb.

"Gone." No emotion. Just facts. He pocketed the wrapper square.

“How long have you been alone?”

He counted on his fingers and held up three.

"You've been alone for three weeks?"

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the dirt on his cheek.

My guide stepped forward. Snow crunched under his boots. "Sir, the convoy—"

I shut him up with a gesture. "That blood on your shirt. Not yours?"

The boy shook his head. "The man who tried to take me." Matter-of-fact. He gestured with the knife, the blade leaving a silver arc in the air. "This worked better than I thought."

My skin warmed despite the cold. Such potential in those small hands.

"Your parents in there?" I nodded toward the collapsed building, concrete dust still floating in shafts of weak sunlight .

He pointed to what used to be the third floor, now pancaked concrete and rebar. "Soldiers came at night. Killed them. Ana and I hid in Papa's crawl space."

“And where is Ana now?”

His small face hardened, skin pulling tight across cheekbones too prominent for a child. "Gone.”

"You did what you could." The platitude tasted false on my tongue.

"I failed. She was my twin. I was supposed to protect her." For the first time, emotion cracked his voice.

"And you've been surviving since?"

"Yes." The word held no pride, no fear. Just fact.

I nodded toward a fresh cut on his forearm, red against pale skin. "Someone else try something?"

His grip tightened on the blade. "He tried."

"Where is he now?"

Something cold flashed in those eyes, a glacial depth no child should possess. "Dead."

Fucking perfect. A kindergartener with confirmed kills who didn't lose sleep over it. My pulse quickened, a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

I crouched to his level, my knee sinking into the cold muck. He remained motionless, only his gaze following my descent. "I've got a proposition. I work for important people. We find special children. Smart ones, survivors. Give them a new life."

"Doing what?" All business. No childish questions about toys or candy.

"Training. Education. A way out of this hellhole." The scent of ash and decay hung between us.

"To become what? "

"Whatever we need you to be. Maybe a soldier, but not like the animals who did this. Something more... refined." I held his gaze, watching comprehension bloom. Such intelligence behind those eyes.

He scanned the ruins around us, charred wood and shattered glass glittering in the weak sun. "And if I say no?"

"Then you stay here."

He weighed his options with adult gravity, his breath making small clouds in the cold air. "What do I have to do?"

"Come with me now. Leave everything behind. You’ll get new clothes, a new name, new—"

"I don't want a new name," he said sharply. "My name is Luka."

Backbone. I liked that. Heat spread through my chest. "Luka it is."

I held out my hand. After consideration, he took it. His calloused palm pressed against mine, a strong grip despite his size. His skin was cold, but alive with potential.

"One more question," he said as we walked toward the SUV, his small boots leaving tracks alongside my larger ones.

"Ask."

"Will you take me to America?"

I looked at this perfect package of trauma and potential and saw possibilities unfold like a map. Saw the next fifteen years of molding him into exactly what The Pantheon needed. What I needed.

"I'll take you all over the world."

For the first time, something like a smile ghosted across his lips. Just a flicker, gone quickly, but it transformed his face.

I pulled out a special penny from my pocket. The image stamped on it wasn’t Lincoln or any president, but a hooded figure in a boat. The metal drank in the surrounding light, warm against my fingers despite the cold .

"Know the myth of the ferryman? The one who carries souls across the river?"

Luka's eyes locked onto the coin as I turned it slowly. His focus was absolute, a predator watching prey.

"This is the toll. In our world, these open doors that stay closed to everyone else. Each one is payment between professionals." I pressed it into his palm, letting my fingers linger against his skin. "You'll earn many more. One penny, one passage."

He studied it, testing its weight with a small frown of concentration, then slipped it into his pocket next to the candy wrapper.

In the car, he fell asleep almost immediately, his body surrendering to exhaustion.

One hand clutched the candy tin, the other wrapped around the penny in his pocket.

Winter light filtered through armored glass, catching on the dried blood in his hair.

I dialed a number known to only seven people worldwide.

"Target acquired," I reported when the encrypted line connected. "And he’s perfect. Better than I could’ve imagined."

A pause, then: "You intend to proceed with the Icarus Protocol?" The digitally altered voice betrayed nothing.

I glanced at the sleeping child, his face peaceful for the first time. "The Pantheon needs new blood, Zeus, and these children have no future. I can give them that, give them a greater purpose."

"At eight million American each." Skepticism crackled through the encryption.

"You'll make a return on your investment. You have my word."

"I'd better." The line went dead.

I studied Luka's tiny body curled against the leather seats.

Those ice-blue eyes were hidden behind bruised lids.

The steady hand that wielded death now relaxed in sleep.

How he'd approached—maintaining escape routes while advancing.

Such instinct couldn't be taught. Only honed, perfected, weaponized.

This boy was a diamond in the rough. A perfect storm of trauma, intelligence, and killer instinct. Give me ten years, and I'd craft a weapon more precise than anything the world had seen.

I brushed dark hair from his forehead. In sleep, the hardness melted away. Just a child after all. Something dangerously close to affection stirred in my chest.

I suppressed it quickly. Sentiment was a weakness. This wasn't about saving a child, but creating an asset. Eight million for raw material that would return its value a hundredfold.

The boy stirred, brow furrowing with nightmares. His fingers tightened on the penny in his pocket.

His sister would make excellent leverage someday. If she was still alive, finding her might prove useful. If not, the memory would serve just as well. The most effective leashes were the ones people didn't recognize.

"Sleep while you can, little wolf," I murmured. "Tomorrow, your training begins."

As the war-torn landscape faded behind us, I smiled at what Luka would become. Not just an assassin—my assassin. The boy who'd kill on command, who'd become the Pantheon's most valuable asset.

My perfect creation.