My OC’s character sheet, and down below her lore/backstory/ability awakening: ⬇️
Silva was ten years old when her ability awakened,
Just ten—and she’d been happy that morning. Her scarf was red, her fingers a little numb from the cold, and she’d stolen a piece of chocolate from the kitchen for her little sister Shizu. She was supposed to go straight home.
But she wandered.
The abandoned docks were quiet, gray, littered with broken bottles and rusted chains. She liked the silence. Until it broke.
They surrounded her.
Six—no, seven men. Adults. Ability users. Scarred, twitching, high on something. Their eyes gleamed with something unclean. Predatory. Hungry.
“What’s a pretty little girl like you doing out here?” one crooned, stepping closer. His hands glowed faintly red—heat user. Another crackled with static. One had black eyes and claws.
She froze. The air thickened. Her legs refused to move
She didn’t know there was a world of supernatural powers, but now she does.
“Don’t scream,” another said. “It won’t help.”
She screamed anyway.
It didn’t help.
They were on her. Rough hands. One slammed her face into the concrete. Another tore her coat away. She felt the blade before she saw it—cold metal sliding across her back, slicing skin, over and over. She choked on her own sobs, her fingers clawing uselessly at the ground. Her blood ran hot down her spine.
“Still breathing?” a voice sneered, just before the knife slashed across her left eye.
Agony. Blinding, searing agony.
She couldn’t hear. She couldn’t see. Only pain.
But then—something else.
A low, pulsing sound beneath her skin. Like a heartbeat—but not her own.
The blood stopped falling. It started rising.
It listened.
The pain vanished. Not gone—replaced. By rage. A monstrous, pure kind of fury that took her tiny, broken body and twisted it into something new.
Her eye—burned red. The other glowed green like wildfire.
Then the screaming started.
Not hers. Theirs.
She didn’t move. She didn’t have to.
The blood flowed up—hers, theirs—turning into jagged tendrils, barbed blades, sickle-sharp whips. One man was torn in half before he could blink. Another’s chest caved in as a spear of blood impaled him through the sternum and burst out the other side. They tried to run. Their feet slipped in gore. One tripped and was dragged back by a crimson leash around his throat, flailing, clawing at air, before his body exploded into meat.
Her expression didn’t change.
She watched them die like it was a lullaby.
One man begged. “Please—please, stop! You’re just a kid, please—”
Her blood slashed his jaw off mid-sentence.
When it was over, the docks were painted red.
Three escaped. Broken, bleeding, screaming about a monster with one glowing eye and blood that moved like it had a mind of its own.
Silva stood in the center, her back a lattice of torn flesh, her eye a ruined mess of blood and tears. But she wasn’t crying anymore.
Her body trembled. Her hands were slick with gore. She looked down at her fingers, then at the shredded corpses twitching around her.
She didn’t understand what she’d done.
She just knew one thing:
She had become something terrifying.
And she would never be prey again.
That meant she had to hunt down and locate the rest that got away.
At fifteen, while her classmates obsessed over crushes and celebrity gossip, Silva was tearing through encrypted firewalls designed by military contractors. While they learned algebra, she was reverse-engineering black-budget surveillance software from four governments and rewriting it in six hours—better, sleeker, impossible to trace.
She had no formal training. She didn’t need it. Her brain devoured information. It wasn’t just intelligence—it was something else. Something unnatural.
Patterns glowed for her. Systems spoke. The moment she laid eyes on a network, she saw the architecture behind it, the cracks, the pressure points. Like blood vessels waiting to be pierced. And she did. Effortlessly.
They called it a gift. The psychologists, the government recruiters, even the hackers online who traded secrets with her and never knew they were talking to a teenage girl with one ruined eye and scars down her back. But Silva didn’t feel gifted. She felt haunted.
The attack when she was ten never left her.
She still heard the screams.
Still felt the blade.
And so, she controlled what she could.
She built her own systems from scratch. Modified keyboards to fit the speed of her thought. She wrote code like it was poetry—fluid, instinctive, laced with venom. Her personal rig had no brand. No OS. It was hers and hers alone. And it was alive with her blood.
Yes—blood.
Her ability had evolved. She could now interface directly with machines using thin strands of her own blood, magnetized and refined through years of brutal experimentation. Wires were clumsy. Silva’s veins were cleaner.
At sixteen, she hacked an underground weapons ring trafficking in children. She leaked everything to Interpol—after burning their funds and publicly doxing their leaders. Three suicides followed.
At seventeen, she took down a private mercenary company’s communications grid during a covert operation in Syria. No one ever knew how it failed. Only that it failed catastrophically.
Her files were ghosts. Her online identities were labyrinths. Even the best white-hat teams could only conclude she was either a government AI or a demon in human skin.
But inside, she was still that girl on the dock, bleeding, shaking, trembling with a power she barely understood.
She didn’t go to parties. She didn’t trust people.
She trusted data. Control. Isolation.
And still—her body was not done changing. Her blood whispered. It wanted to grow. Sometimes her skin would split during stress and release threads that slithered along the floor, searching. Curious. Hungry.
But she never let it loose again. Not fully. Not since that day.
Not until she met him, by fate, years later.
The man who would unravel everything, Fyodor Dostoevesky.
Silva Koch also graduated at sixteen.
Officially, it was with highest honors, top of her class. Unofficially, she had already outgrown the curriculum by the time she was twelve.
By then, she’d rewritten portions of her school’s outdated network infrastructure just because the lag irritated her. She exposed a hidden surveillance subroutine planted in students’ laptops—by the school board—and dismantled it, anonymously dropping a report to the national press.
When she sat for her exams, the proctor swore he’d never seen a teenager answer higher-level math problems in seconds, without a calculator, while simultaneously reading from a law textbook and re-coding her own testing interface to be more efficient.
She was bored.
She completed four university degrees online before she could legally drink:
•Cybersecurity and Forensic Cryptology
•Applied Mathematics
•Political Science (focus: covert policy and digital warfare)
•Linguistics, because she liked pattern-mapping phonemes
She never showed up for classes. Never turned on her camera.
Her professors feared her.
Some respected her.
Most didn’t even realize she was a teenager until the national spotlight hit.
“NEMESIS” Appears in NATO Leak—World Governments Scramble to Identify Source
At seventeen, Silva—under the handle Nemesis01—intercepted a shadow op that would have used a social media algorithm to sway an election in a small Baltic country. Funded by two superpowers. Sloppy, arrogant.
She didn’t just expose it.
She hijacked the code.
She weaponized it to undo years of digital disinformation, and wrote a 94-page dossier analyzing the psy-op’s structure, weaknesses, and funding lines.
She sent it to NATO, Interpol, and the UN.
Not with her name. With a blood-red insignia: a single eye.
The world panicked.
Hackers tried to trace her. Blackhats and whitehats both. No one could.
Governments issued quiet invites.
Only a few got responses.
Germany got her first.
The Bundesnachrichtendienst recruited her under strict anonymity—not as an agent, but as a consultant.
She worked behind mirrored glass and biometric vaults, never in person. She built systems that could detect cyberwarfare attempts before the first packet even arrived. She predicted a data breach three months before it happened—down to the day. She corrected it with six lines of code.
She worked with the EU. With Japan. Even a few secret joint operations with the CIA’s cyber division—though she made it very clear she found their encryption practices embarrassing.
She never just took payments in cash.
Her fees were data. Access. Leverage.
Control.
By eighteen, she was untouchable.
They called her “The Blood Witch of Code.”
The “Ghost Cipher.”
“Red Nemesis.”
No one knew what she looked like.
Only that she was young, brilliant, and not entirely human.
And behind the digital veil, her blood still whispered—itching for something more.
For a purpose no system, no government, no firewall could satisfy.
Not until they found one another.
Not until fate brought them together.
But that wouldn’t be for another three years.