Raising The SSS-Risk Beast That Only Pretends To Be Tame Chapter 02

Raising The SSS-Risk Beast That Only Pretends To Be Tame Chapter 02

I got this job last week.

Ms. Lane, the HR coordinator, said, “Chloe Hayes, congratulations. You were one in a thousand.”

“Your blood markers are a near-perfect match with Subject-17. That’ll make him feel a natural closeness to you. And in this position, closeness means… leverage. Control.”

I pressed, “Is it dangerous?”

She gave a polite smile. “There are minor risks, nothing too serious. We have a full safety protocol in place to protect your life as much as possible.”

“What kind of minor risks?”

“Like getting pushed. Scratched. Accidentally bumped into.”

Then she laughed a little.

“Relax. He’s gorgeous. You’ll like him. Trust me.”

I followed her down the corridor. We passed through four biometric security checkpoints.

When the last door opened, I smelled it—sharp, sterile, stinging. Disinfectant.

And then I saw him.

Subject-17.

He sat inside a transparent containment pod.

Gorgeous didn’t cover it.

He looked like an angel and a demon stitched into one body.

His skin was almost transparent, pale as bone. His eyes were pure black—dull, blank, but cold underneath. His lips were pushed out slightly, a vivid, bloody red.

And all around him, a large pool of red liquid was spreading slowly.

Blood?

Seventeen had his head down, squeezing a sponge in his hands. It was soaked through with the red stuff. Every time he squeezed, liquid dripped through his fingers and ran down his pale wrists.

My heart clenched. “Is that blood?!” I gasped.

“Not blood,” Ms. Lane said. “Subject-17 spilled his strawberry-colored paint.”

Right then, a robot descended from the ceiling. Ten seconds later, the red liquid was gone.

“You can go in now.”

The pod door slid open.

I stepped inside.

No smell of blood. Just that sharp disinfectant.

Seventeen turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine. Then his red lips curled into a smile.

Pure. Unfiltered.

Happy.

I smiled back.

He seemed encouraged. He stood up, shaky, took three steps, wobbled, took two more, and finally made it to me.

He was half a head taller than me, but his posture was looking up.

Like a tree that had grown crooked, leaning toward the light.

He raised his hand and held out the dirty sponge.

“Play.”

It hit me like a punch to the chest.

He was so… good. So obedient.

I was about to take the squeeze toy when Ms. Lane grabbed my arm—her hand was trembling—and yanked me back, and said, “You’ll have plenty of time.”

I looked back.

Seventeen hadn’t moved. His eyes—those black, empty eyes—were locked on me, unblinking. Then he smiled. A smile full of expectation.

So I took the job. His guide.

Seventeen was sweet. Soft. Clingy.

He learned slowly, but he tried hard.

A single word took dozens of repetitions to get right. When he finally said it correctly, he looked up at me with bright eyes, like he was waiting for praise.

When I praised him, he shook his head side to side, making his restraints clatter.

When he got it wrong, I tugged his little ear.

That was the harshest punishment I could bring myself to give.

The lab had given me an electro-whip. One crack of that thing could shatter stone.

I hung it on the hook by the door of Containment Unit 7. I never took it down once.

Because I didn’t think I’d ever need it.

I felt sorry for him. Really sorry. His wrists and ankles were bound in restraints. His world was no bigger than ten square meters. Every day, the same routine—learning words, practicing sounds, squeezing his toy, waiting for me to show up.

Sometimes I wondered: what was he really?

Was that strawberry-colored paint actually paint?

In that one week, I saw the red paint three times.

Twice, there were leftovers.

Things that looked like fur. Or shredded cloth. Or flakes of skin shed from some animal.

I asked Dr. Cole.

He said, “Subject-17 is an experiment. He’s curious about the world. We provide experimental materials for him to explore.”

I’d signed an NDA. So I didn’t ask again.

Until today, everything had gone smoothly.

Seventeen had never hurt me.

I thought it would stay that way.

Until today—when he squeezed my ear hard enough to almost break it.

I sat in the medical bay. They’d changed the gauze on my ear once.

The doctor gave me instructions and left.

I was alone in the room.

My ear throbbed, numb and aching.

[Be careful, girl. If he can break your ear, he can break your neck.]

[That’s terrifying. His strength is on a whole other level. Tons.]

I touched my own neck.

It was thin.

One hand could wrap around it easily.

I was scared. But then I remembered something.

Dr. Cole had said that even though Seventeen looked slow, his senses were incredibly sharp.

Could he have sensed it—that I was afraid of him? Is that why he hurt me?

After all, I’d seen the live chat. I’d been startled. I couldn’t hide my fear of him.