The Ruthless Return of Subject Seven

Kidnapped at seven, I spent fifteen years in the lawless badlands across the border. In the official archives, my identity was just a string of numbers. I had no name. After I was finally brought back, my dad named me Serene—wishing me a peaceful turn of fortune. I forced myself to blend in, learning how to pick out discounted eggs at the grocery store and how to smile politely at the neighbors. My mom, terrified I wouldn’t adjust to normal life, held my hand every single day during our afternoon walks. But my stepsister, Chloe, had lived in that mansion for twenty years, enjoying the luxury of having both parents to herself. The day I returned, she smashed her glass on the floor in a silent rage. Three years later, she brought her boyfriend, Marcus Sterling, to our house for a brutal showdown. Marcus’s thugs dragged my paralyzed mom out of her wheelchair, pinning her flat against the greasy kitchen tile. Chloe unscrewed a bottle of heavy-duty dish soap and shoved the neck of the bottle into my mom’s mouth. "Are you going to sign over the deed or not? If you don't, I'll force another bottle down your throat." My mom choked, vomiting thick green bubbles, but she still desperately clutched the house deed to her chest. Chloe looked up at me, laughing. "Why aren't you screaming? Aren't you supposed to be some quiet, antisocial freak? Go crawl into your corner and hide." I didn’t say a word. I calmly pulled the heavy chef's knife from the wooden block and wiped the blade on my apron. "Chloe, do you know what they taught me during my years in the badlands?" "What did they teach you?" Chloe laughed out loud. "How to prep vegetables? How to wash dishes? Or how to dig for expired canned food in the trash?" Marcus didn’t speak. He just took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes scanning me with cold amusement. I stood by the stove, gripping the knife. My mom lay on the floor, green chemical foam dripping from the corner of her swollen, bleeding mouth. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with terror. "Serene... put the knife down," my mom’s voice was raspy and thick. The harsh chemicals had already blistered her tongue, making her words sound like she was choking on cotton. "Mom is fine... don't do it." Chloe knelt down, pinching my mom’s chin with her manicured nails. "Mom, you should tell her that kitchen knives are for cutting meat, not for making pathetic threats." The biggest thug in the room took a heavy step toward me. "Drop it." He reached out to grab the blade. His movement was slow, his angle clumsy, his palm facing upward—in the training camps abroad, we called this "begging for a broken wrist." I flicked my wrist. The razor-sharp edge sliced clean through his palm. In an instant, muscle and skin parted, revealing the white flash of tendon underneath. The six-foot-three giant shrieked, his scream echoing louder than my mom's. A second thug lunged at me from behind. Without turning, I slammed the heavy butt of the knife backward, striking his wrist bone with surgical precision. His taser dropped to the floor with a loud clatter. A third man raised a wooden chair over his head. I dodged— But my foot slipped on the soapy foam spreading across the floor. That split second was all it took. The fourth guard rushed me from the side, landing a heavy kick right into my lower back. I slammed hard into the soapy puddle. The knife slipped from my grip, sliding deep under the refrigerator. A heavy boot stepped directly onto my right wrist. The sole ground down, making the small bones in my wrist creak under the pressure. "You can actually fight," Marcus said, flicking his cigarette ash onto my hair. He crouched down to look at me. "But what now?" Chloe walked over, her steps slow and arrogant. She held another bottle of dish soap, twisting the cap off with a click. "So you learned some parlor tricks abroad, huh? Want to play with knives?" She grabbed my jaw, squeezing hard. Her nails weren't long, but she knew exactly where to press, locking her fingers onto my jaw joints. "Open up. If Mom got a taste, you should get one too." "Chloe—" my mom screamed from the floor, her voice barely sounding human anymore. "She’s your sister—" "She’s a stray dog." Chloe poured the chemical liquid straight into my mouth. It was lemon-flavored, sweeter than I expected. But then my throat started to burn. It felt like swallowing a handful of shattered glass as the alkaline chemicals stripped the lining of my esophagus. I didn’t fight back. The timing wasn't right yet. The knife was under the fridge, my wrist was pinned under a boot, and my mom was still on the floor. Using my free left hand, I slowly reached into my apron pocket. My fingers brushed against a cold, rusted metal object. A military-grade distress beacon that had been with me for fifteen years. I pressed the red button. The indicator light didn’t turn on. Chloe noticed the device in my hand. She blinked in confusion, then laughed even harder. "What is that? A walkie-talkie? Who are you calling? Your garbage-collector friends from the slums?" Marcus stood up, pulling out his phone to dial a number. "Jax, I'm at the Vance estate. Yeah, bring your boys. All of them." He hung up and looked down at me. "Serene, you just mutilated four of my men." The roar of heavy engines echoed from the street outside. Chloe threw the empty bottle aside and leaned down to whisper in my ear. "Jax is the king of Oakhaven's underworld. Three hundred men, armed with machetes, are about to block this entire street." She patted my cheek mockingly. "Where’s your little kitchen knife now? Go on, go get it." I kept silent. My mouth was full of chemical foam. I couldn't swallow, and I couldn't spit it out. The beacon in my hand remained dark."Jax, the target is right inside," Marcus said at the front door, bowing slightly like a loyal hound. The front door was kicked off its hinges. The men poured in. I counted eight in the first wave, with more shadows moving in the hallway outside. They all had buzz cuts, carrying steel pipes and combat knives. They immediately fanned out, blocking every exit from the kitchen. The man in the lead had a massive black dragon tattooed from his neck to the back of his ear. A jagged scar ran across his left eye, pulling his eyelid into a permanent squint. He looked at the soapy foam and blood on the floor, his gaze finally landing on me. "This little girl?" "She sliced up four of my guards," Marcus said, brushing dust off his sleeve. Jax walked over and crouched in front of me. He grabbed my chin, turning my face left and right like a butcher inspecting meat at a market. "How old?" I didn't answer. The dish soap had numbed my tongue, making it hard to form words. "He asked you a question," the guard stepping on my wrist snarled, pressing down harder. A sharp, white-hot pain shot up my arm. "Twenty-two," I managed to squeeze out. Jax smirked. He looked at my mom crying on the floor, then back at me, nodding slowly. "Alright, Marcus, how do you want to handle this?" "The old lady refuses to sign the deed," Marcus said, kicking the file folder my mom was protecting. "Get rid of the girl first. The old lady will sign soon enough." Jax stood up, gesturing to his men. Two thugs dragged me up from the floor, pinning me against the heavy wooden dining table. One held my shoulders down, while the other forced my right hand flat against the tabletop, spreading my fingers wide. Jax placed a heavy combat knife on the table. "Hey kid, you sliced my boy's hand earlier, right?" He picked up the knife, tapping the tip of the blade against my index finger. "A finger for a finger. Seems fair, doesn't it?" My mom shrieked from the floor. Her voice was completely ruined, sounding like rusty metal scraping against concrete. "Don't touch her! I'll sign! I'll sign the deed!" Chloe immediately knelt down beside her. "Are you serious this time?" "Yes... yes... just don't hurt my baby..." Chloe snatched the folder, pulling out the deed. She reached into her bag, pulled out a pre-drafted transfer agreement, and slapped it in front of my mom. "Sign it. We could have avoided all of this if you'd just cooperated." My mom’s hand was shaking so violently she couldn't even hold the pen. Chloe lost her patience. "It doesn't have to be pretty. A thumbprint in blood works too." I watched my mom’s trembling hand slowly move toward the paper. "Mom, don't sign it," I said. Everyone in the room turned to look at me. Jax raised the heavy knife. "Say one more word, I dare you." "Don't sign." The knife came down. But it didn't cut my fingers. The flat of the blade slammed hard onto the wooden table, making the plates rattle. "Just a little scare," Jax said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "Marcus said not to make a mess that the cops can't cover up." But his cold, dead eyes told me: *Next time, I won't miss.* Chloe snatched the pen away from my mom. She stood up, walking over to stand right in front of me, looking down like I was dirt. "Serene, do you know why you've been in this house for three years and still feel like a stranger?" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "Because you don't belong here. You're just garbage they threw away, and then stupidly decided to bring back." She picked up my rusted black beacon from the floor, dangling it in front of my face. "What is this? Your little treasure?" She tossed it to Jax. Jax caught it, turned it over, and let out a dry chuckle. "What is this relic? A walkie-talkie from the nineties?" He dropped the beacon onto the floor and slammed his heavy boot down on it. The sound of cracking plastic was incredibly loud in the quiet kitchen. I looked down at the broken pieces. The indicator light was crushed, the circuit board snapped clean in half. The red button popped out from its spring, rolling away to the leg of the table. Chloe sneered. "Any other tricks? Let's see them." I said nothing. She didn't know. Once that red button was pressed, my coordinates were locked. It didn't need a signal, it didn't need a response. Within thirty minutes, my people would arrive. But Chloe didn't know. Marcus didn't know. Jax didn't know. I just had to survive for thirty minutes. Jax crouched down again, tapping the cold blade of his knife against my cheek. "Sign the papers, kid. I really don't want to get blood on my nice knife." Only four minutes had passed. "Marcus, her eyes look weird," Jax said, standing up and frowning. "Are you sure she’s just some quiet freak?" Marcus laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "She's a piece of trash we dragged out of the slums. What are you worried about?""Take her out," Marcus ordered his men. Jax’s thugs dragged me up from the chair, pulling my arms behind my back. They zipped a heavy plastic zip-tie around my wrists, right over the swollen skin where the boot had crushed me. The pain was sharp, but I kept counting the seconds. Fourteen minutes. "Where are we taking her?" Jax asked. "To the car. We wait for my dad's people." Marcus threw himself onto the living room sofa, crossing his legs arrogantly. He looked at Chloe. "My dad said we can't leave any loose ends. The girl who used the knife goes to jail for assault. As for your mother..." He pointed at my mom, who was still shivering on the floor. "The transfer must be finalized today. If she doesn't cooperate, ship her off to a private asylum." Chloe nodded eagerly. She knelt down and slapped my mom’s cheek lightly. "Did you hear that, Mom? An asylum. The kind where they lock the doors from the outside." "Chloe..." my mom’s voice was barely a whisper. "We raised you for twenty years..." "And that’s why this estate belongs to me," Chloe said, her voice dripping with entitlement. "Before she came back, I was the only daughter. But the moment she returned, you started talking about leaving the house to her?" She paused, her eyes flashing with hatred. "Twenty years of being your perfect daughter, and I get replaced by a piece of trash?" A sharp car horn echoed from the driveway outside. A sleek black luxury sedan with government-registered plates pulled up to the gate. Marcus immediately jumped up and ran to the door. Eighteen minutes. I was shoved onto the hardwood floor of the foyer, my face pressed against the cold wood. I could only see a pair of highly polished black leather shoes stepping into the house. "Dad," Marcus greeted him respectfully. "Where is she?" a deep, powerful voice demanded. Richard Sterling. One of the top three real estate tycoons in Oakhaven, and Marcus's father. I had seen his face on massive billboards around the city when I went grocery shopping. He always wore a warm, trustworthy smile next to the slogan: *Building Oakhaven, One Family at a Time.* Now, his expensive leather shoes stopped just inches from my nose. "This is her?" "Yes. She sliced up four of our guards," Marcus said, offering his father a cigar. Richard didn't take it. He knelt down, staring at my face pinned to the floor. "Young lady, you’re Serene Vance, right?" I didn't answer. "I ran a background check on you. Kidnapped at seven, returned late last year. Your file is completely blank. Your reentry records are classified under a military-level security clearance that even the local police department can't access." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you?" Twenty-one minutes. "A piece of trash," I whispered. Richard stood up, gesturing to one of his assistants. Moments later, another luxury car pulled up. This vehicle was even more imposing. The moment Jax’s thugs saw it, they immediately hid their knives behind their backs. A man in his fifties, wearing a sharp grey suit with perfectly combed hair, stepped inside. "Mayor Henderson," Richard said, shaking his hand. I recognized him. His face was posted on every community board in the city under the banner: *A Safer, Cleaner Oakhaven.* Mayor Henderson glanced at the chaotic living room—the chemical foam, the blood on the floor, the overturned wheelchair, and my mom huddled in the corner. He frowned deeply. "Richard, you told me this was a 'minor family dispute.' What is this?" "Just a little family drama with the stepdaughter," Richard said, lowering his voice. "But the younger girl used a weapon and assaulted my people. She needs to be handled. I checked her background—she spent fifteen years abroad in conflict zones. She might be a radical threat." *A radical threat.* Hearing that phrase, Chloe’s eyes lit up with excitement. "Yes! She’s definitely a terrorist!" Chloe ran forward, pointing at me. "She was gone for fifteen years! Who knows what kind of militant group she joined? You saw how she handled that knife—she’s definitely trained to kill!" Twenty-four minutes. Mayor Henderson looked at me, then at Richard, remaining silent for a long moment. "Take her to the station for questioning first." Two officers grabbed me by my arms, dragging me toward the door. My mom tried to crawl forward, dragging her useless legs across the floor. "It’s not her fault... please..." "Ma'am, please calm down," Mayor Henderson said, blocking her path. His voice was polite, but his stance was unyielding. Chloe grabbed my mom’s arm, pulling her back. "Mom, she’s mentally unstable. Sending her to a facility is for her own good." Twenty-seven minutes. They slammed me into the back of a police transport van. Just before they could shut the metal doors, Mayor Henderson's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and his face instantly drained of color. Suddenly, the hurried sound of leather shoes clicking against the pavement approached the van. The doors were violently yanked open from the outside. Mayor Henderson stood there, his face paper-white, his lips trembling. "You..." his voice shook violently as he stared at me. "Are you..." "Twenty-eight minutes," I said calmly. "Two minutes faster than I expected." He didn't understand what I meant, but his knees were already buckling.