011. The Recruit

Moscow, Russia.
A young man with a close-cropped military haircut lay exposed on a surgery table, his body drenched in blood—his own blood, spreading like a dark halo beneath him. Deep, jagged wounds slashed across his athletic frame, more than a dozen in total, each a testament to some violent encounter.
His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the harsh lights above, unblinking. The absence of anesthesia was evident in the rigid tension of his muscles, yet his face betrayed no pain, only a disturbing emptiness.
Around him, four figures in hazmat suits worked with unnerving precision, their movements synchronized as they wielded tools that seemed to fuse the torn flesh together, the edges of each wound knitting under a harsh, metallic glow. Despite the intense, almost surgical care being administered, the young man remained disturbingly still, his expression a void, as if whatever life had once animated him had already bled out onto the table.
It had only been three days since Dmitry was taken deep beneath the OCK headquarters in Moscow—thousands of feet down into the earth—but it felt like a lifetime. The horrors he faced there, the relentless, nightmarish procedures, twisted his sense of reality until he could no longer trust his own mind. Every moment brought new agonies, new questions, and a chilling realization that gnawed at him: was he even human anymore, or had they transformed him into something else entirely?
In the first four hours, Dmitry's mind was bombarded with lessons—histories and theories he had never encountered before, each more obscure and unsettling than the last. He was forced to absorb and memorize every detail, the pivotal events, and the decisions that led to the establishment of the EPCU on February 29, 1948. The merciless flood of information twisted through his thoughts, leaving him disoriented and questioning everything he thought he knew.
The young man was granted just fifteen minutes to commit everything to memory before an evaluation test began. But this was no ordinary test. Without warning, a gunshot rang out, and a searing pain tore through his thigh. Blood pooled beneath him as he was forced to remain focused, answering each question aloud while fighting the agony that threatened to consume him.
Dmitry's photographic memory allowed him to pass the test quickly, despite the searing pain in his thigh. Blood seeped steadily from the wound, staining the floor beneath him, but there was no immediate aid. Instead, he was ordered to find the infirmary—wherever it was—on his own. All he had was a brief set of spoken directions. The sprawling, unfamiliar complex loomed before him, but once again, his exceptional memory became his lifeline, guiding him through the labyrinthine corridors as he fought to stave off the encroaching darkness, inching closer to bleeding out with every step.
It took only five minutes for the OCK technology to heal the bullet wound, but Dmitry was given no time to rest. Before he could even catch his breath, three men clad in black, advanced military tactical suits and gas masks seized him and dragged him into a vast hall. The space was lined with an array of weapons—both ranged and melee—positioned opposite a distant target.
Without ceremony, they commanded him to use each weapon in turn, including those he had never touched before. As they counted down from one to three, Dmitry was forced to act swiftly. If he failed to fire a shot by the time they reached three, one of the men would stab him with a knife, targeting non-lethal areas, but inflicting excruciating pain nonetheless.
From that point on, Dmitry’s existence was a ceaseless nightmare, far surpassing the horrors of death itself. The fleeting moments of respite arrived only when the hazmat-suited figures tended to his wounds between each grueling test, but these breaks were never longer than five minutes. During these brief, agonizing pauses, he was subjected to relentless brainwashing. The EPCU doctrines were hammered into him with such intensity that they began to erode and replace every layer of his common sense and personal principles.
The repeating cycle of injury and treatment, all administered without anesthesia, left Dmitry numb to both physical pain and mental torment. For three excruciating days, he endured a relentless parade of horrors: exposure to toxic gases and chemicals, grueling physical tests, and forced battles against monstrous creatures that defied comprehension.
That particular morning was especially brutal. At 4 a.m., he was drenched in the blood of slaughtered animals, shot in the shoulder, and then compelled to sprint across six thousand feet of slick, blood-soaked metal floor strewn with entrails. As he ran, a pack of hyenas pursued him, their snarls and growls reverberating through the chamber, heightening the terror of his flight. The culmination of this hellish ordeal left him collapsed and naked on the surgery table, his body a raw testament to the unrelenting cruelty he had endured.
"You're fine," one of the hazmat suited men said. The exact same words Dmitry always heard when his injuries are healed and another test was coming.
The young man, who had completely abandoned his past self to become a weapon of the EPCU, stood up from the surgery table. The transformation was evident in his cold, unflinching demeanor. As always, the three gas-masked men arrived at the infirmary. But this time, something was different. Instead of dragging him back to another torturous trial, they escorted him to an empty chamber.
Inside, the atmosphere was eerily calm. A slick, bald, sturdy-framed middle-aged man in a black tailored suit awaited, his imposing figure emanating a quiet yet unmistakable dominance. He introduced himself as Konstantin Raskolnikov, the director of OCK. Raskolnikov sat calmly at a small table with a nearly frozen bottle of vodka and two empty glasses, their breath misting in the cold air. An empty chair was provided for Dmitry, a silent invitation that carried the weight of something far more significant than mere formality.
"No one is ever truly prepared for the demands of our line of work," Konstantin began, his voice smooth as he poured vodka into each glass. "No matter how long or carefully we prepare them."
He gestured for Dmitry to sit and take one of the glasses. Once the young man complied, Konstantin raised his own in a solemn toast. They drank together, the cold liquid sliding down with a bite that matched the atmosphere.
"My brother Andrei has requested your immediate transfer to his team," Konstantin continued, his tone measured. "He convinced me that your training would be best completed in the field, alongside him. While there's much you can learn from a man of his caliber, understand that each step you take beyond this facility will place your life at constant risk."
"My life exists for the peace of humanity," Dmitry declared, his voice unwavering, a testament to his indoctrination.
Konstantin's blue eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Your life matters to your brothers, your sisters, and to me, as the head of your new family—the OCK," he replied firmly. "Now, go. Send my regards to Andrei."