SIMULATION SWARM || ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ

003. NEVER-ENDING CYCLE

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐀
plane before Hydra. Now, the hum of the engines and the cold steel beneath her bare feet were all too familiar. She sat in the cargo hold, her wrists and ankles shackled to the metal seat, the dim light casting a pale glow on her bruised skin. Two Hydra agents stood near the back, silent as ever, their masked faces turned forward. There were no words, no explanation needed. This was a transfer—nothing more.

The Red Room awaited her.

Her small body trembled, but not from fear. Fear had been broken out of her, replaced with a cold numbness. Still, every fiber of her being dreaded what was to come. The Red Room, the training, the drills, the instructors—the last time she was there, they had nearly killed her. But she hadn't been strong enough yet, they said. Not yet.

Now, she was being sent back to finish the job.

The plane jerked as it began its descent, the landing gear screeching as it touched down on the hidden runway, far from any prying eyes. The Red Room's airfield was as secret as it was silent, deep within the Russian wilderness. There was no escape, no one to hear you scream.

As the door hissed open, Verinah squinted against the cold gust of air that blew in, her breath misting in the chill. The agents unshackled her without a word and dragged her down the ramp, their hands rough on her small arms. She didn't resist—there was no point.

At the end of the runway, a line of black vehicles waited, their glossy surfaces gleaming under the pale light of the moon. Standing in front of them was General Dreykov himself. His presence made the air seem heavier, more oppressive. He was an imposing figure, his face set in a cold, calculating expression, his eyes void of empathy. Next to him stood the instructors—women who had long ago passed through the Red Room and emerged as its deadliest graduates.

Dreykov's gaze flickered to Verinah, assessing her with the same detached interest he reserved for all the Red Room candidates. He saw no child, no person—only potential, only a tool to be sharpened.

"She's small," he remarked, his voice thick with a Russian accent, though his tone was as indifferent as ever. "But Hydra says she has promise."

The agent in charge gave a stiff nod. "They believe she could be useful. If not, she'll be disposed of."

Dreykov smirked at that, but his eyes didn't leave Verinah. "They all have promise, until they break."

The Red Room instructors approached, their faces expressionless, masks of cold discipline. One of them, tall and sharp-featured with severe blonde hair tied tightly back, took Verinah by the arm. Her grip was firm, like iron, but she didn't speak. In this place, there was no need for words. Only obedience.

Verinah was marched past Dreykov and the vehicles toward the looming facility that stood just beyond the airstrip. The building was enormous, cold, and lifeless—an architectural manifestation of the Red Room's purpose. From the outside, it appeared like any other high-security installation, but Verinah knew what lay within. The screams, the constant drills, the unrelenting pressure to become something more than human, something less than human.

They led her through the thick, metallic doors and into the heart of the Red Room. The cold fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as they passed sterile hallways lined with locked doors. Inside some of those rooms, she could hear faint echoes of pain—cries quickly stifled, followed by harsh orders barked by instructors. There were always more girls, more subjects.

Finally, they stopped in front of a narrow door and shoved her inside. The room was small, bare, and oppressive, with only a simple bed against the far wall. Verinah stood silently in the center, her feet heavy, her mind numb. The instructor who had brought her stood at the door, eyes narrowed.

"Get some rest," the woman said coldly, her Russian accent thick, but her tone sharp as a blade. "Training starts tomorrow. If you're weak, you won't survive."

And with that, the door clanged shut, locking her inside.

Verinah sat on the edge of the bed, her body aching from days of travel and the constant wear and tear of Hydra's experiments. But the worst was yet to come. She had been through the Red Room before, just enough to know that this place didn't care about who you were. It only cared about what it could make you.

The following morning came too soon. The door to her room burst open, and two of the instructors stormed in, yanking her from the bed without ceremony. They dragged her through the halls toward the training grounds—an enormous room filled with equipment, weapons, and other girls her age. Some were older, their faces hardened by years of brutality, but most were as small and terrified as Verinah.

They were all dressed the same: black training uniforms, plain and tight, as though their individuality had already been stripped from them. The instructors moved among them, coldly assessing, shouting commands.

Dreykov watched from the observation room above, his eyes scanning the sea of potential assassins. Verinah could feel his presence like a weight pressing down on her, even from across the room.

"You will run," one of the instructors shouted, her voice echoing through the chamber. "Until you collapse. You will not stop. You will not falter. This is your life now—either you survive, or you disappear."

Verinah's feet moved before her mind registered the command. She ran, alongside the others, her heart pounding in her chest, her legs already burning from exhaustion. But she didn't stop. No one stopped. They knew what happened if you fell behind.

Hours passed. The air in the room grew thick with sweat and pain. Some of the girls stumbled, collapsing to the floor, only to be kicked to their feet by the instructors, who showed no mercy. The message was clear: if you wanted to survive, you couldn't be weak.

By the end of the day, Verinah could barely stand, her body aching, her muscles quivering. But the day wasn't over yet. There were still combat drills, weapons training, and conditioning—each designed to strip away the last vestiges of weakness.

As she stood in line, waiting for the next exercise, Dreykov descended from the observation room. His steps echoed ominously across the floor as he approached. The girls froze, standing at attention as he passed by, his cold gaze drifting over each of them.

When he reached Verinah, he stopped, his sharp eyes boring into hers.

"You," he said quietly, but his voice was filled with menace. "They say you've been in the program before. Hydra sent you here again to see if we can make something useful of you."

Verinah's throat felt dry, but she nodded, too afraid to speak.

"Good," Dreykov continued, his smile a sinister twist of his lips. "Because if you fail this time... there won't be another."

He turned sharply, walking away without another word, and the drills resumed. The training was relentless—sparring, knife work, agility tests. Verinah's small frame was pushed to its breaking point, but she kept moving, kept fighting, because the alternative was worse.

In the evening, as they returned her to her cell-like room, Verinah collapsed onto the hard mattress, her body battered and bruised. She could hear the sounds of other girls sobbing through the walls, their cries echoing through the cold corridors of the Red Room. But Verinah didn't cry. Not anymore.

In this place, there was no room for tears. Only survival. Only the mission.

She had to become what they wanted, or she would disappear. But there was always one person, one person who understood, one person she missed more than ever right now, James.