It felt like he was drowning.

His breathing hitched, small gasps escaping his parted lips while his heart beat wildly against his chest.

Unfamiliar faces surrounded him as they circled around and talked about him as if he didn't exist. They blocked out the light as if his eyes were closed.

He heard their voices as ringing in his ears, heavy and intense. The room held no warmth, only the frigid stares of those he would never remember. The humans before him were deciding his life, where he would go and who he would become.

He was no-one special, a person who wasn't a person. He had distinct features, a name solely for him, and someone's blood rushing through his veins, but he was a nobody. His kind could not dream or become someone important.

He lifted his hands in front of his face and watched as they trembled. Feelings yet to be placed overwhelmed him. Fear? Anger? Nervousness? He was too young to comprehend the situation, but he knew something wasn't right.

His throat, dry and unable to hold down a cup of water that they handed to him earlier, let out a raspy cough. The perspiration from the glass wet his palm. If it slid from his grasp and shattered, would they pay attention to him then? If only his emotions would reach them. Even he knew it was unlikely they would listen to a tool, a being who wasn't allowed to want for anything. It went against his existence, his purpose.

Suddenly, someone called out to him. He refused to answer. They didn't care about what he had to say.

His thoughts scattered.

They continued to call him, yet all his ears picked up was white noise.

Even though he didn't have a family, he could still be considered a human. Right?

At the facility where he grew up, there had been someone like a father to him. That man had said to him before he passed, "someday, you will become important to someone."

It was ironic, considering he was useful for only one thing.

Giving his life. His body.

His existence had no meaning.

"Keon?" a man said.

Dark figures surrounded the boy, and he couldn't see who called out to him. The weight of their stares crushed him. His eyes squinted in the darkness, heart pounding in anticipation of what was to come.

A figure put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him away, fingers digging into his pale skin.

The hands of time continued to move forward, whether or not he moved with it. It was time to live a life for someone other than himself.

After all, he was only a puppet. His existence was fleeting.

At the tender age of ten, he knew what the future held.

A slow, meaningless life.

What set him apart from humans? What made him different?

A man knelt down and whispered into his ear. The words spoken became ones he would carry with him into adulthood: "a clone has no voice."