The memory surfaced—unwelcome and vivid.
Blake lay on the filthy bathroom floor, his body curled tight, shaking. The cracked tiles scraped against his skin, cold and dirty beneath him.
Three older boys stood over him, fists slamming down without pause. Their kicks struck his stomach, his ribs, his back—each blow harder than the last.
Laughter echoed around the cramped room, mixing with the sound of his labored breathing.
Bully #1 (grinning):"Get up, weakling!"
He grabs Blake by the collar, yanks him to his feet—then slams him against the toilet stall door with a hard THUD. Blake gasps, coughing blood.
Bully #2 (drops a glass bottle. It shatters across the floor.)
Bully #2 (coldly):"Wanna prove you're tough? Punch it."
Blake stares at the broken shards, terrified. His hands tremble as they shove him down, knees to the floor, inches from the glass.
Bully #3 (mocking):"C'mon. Show us that strength."
Blake shakes his head, whispering through tears.
Blake (weak):"Please… don't make me..."
A slap. Loud. Sharp.
Bully #1:"DO IT!"
The boys cheer, laughing cruelly.
Blake closes his eyes. Breathes once. Then—
CRACK.
His fist slams into the glass.
He cries out in pain — blood instantly pouring from his knuckles. He hesitates…
Bully #2 (stepping back):"What the hell..."
Then Blake punches again. And again. Glass crunching. Skin splitting. Blood splashing on the walls. His face is soaked in tears. But he doesn't stop.
The bullies back away, faces pale.
Bully #1 (trembling):"What a freak… No wonder his father left him."
They flee. Fast. Leaving Blake behind — bloodied, broken, alone.
He drops to the ground, breathing hard, fists turned to bloody pulp. His body trembles. His eyes overflow.
Later that evening, the soft glow of a single lamp lit the small living room.
Blake sat on the couch, his hands wrapped in fresh bandages. Faint blood stains had already seeped through the cloth, dark and persistent.
His mother sat beside him, cradling his injured hands in hers. Her eyes were heavy with worry, but her voice remained calm, warm—a quiet comfort against the pain.
Blake's mother (softly):"You don't have to prove anything to anyone. But one day… you'll have to be stronger than this world expects."
Blake stays quiet, tears slipping down his cheek. He leans into her shoulder.
Blake's mother (smiling faintly):"Your heart is bigger than their hatred, and that makes you special. And I know... you carry more than most, mwanangu."
She hums a quiet melody, rocking him gently.
[Back to present]
It was still dark when Blake stepped into the kitchen.
The room is quiet. Faint moonlight spills through the window, casting pale shadows across the kitchen floor. The sound of a faucet dripping echoes like a ticking clock.
Blake stumbles in, shirt damp with sweat, his breath shaky. His eyes are heavy. Dark circles beneath them. He moves like someone who's just escaped a war, not a dream.
He grabs a glass with trembling hands and gulps water like he's been choking.
Behind him, a soft creak...
Babu enters, dressed in a light robe, eyes filled with concern.
Babu (gently):"Blake... what happened? You're trembling."
Blake freezes, still facing the sink. His knuckles are white against the glass.
He takes a slow breath... then turns around.
His face is tired, but calm. He gives a small, reassuring smile, too calm for someone who was just panicking.
Blake (softly):"It's nothing, Babu. Just a bad dream. You don't need to worry."
He places the glass down with care.
Blake steps forward and gently rests a hand on Babu's shoulder. The old man looks at him, unsure, eyes scanning him for the truth.
Babu (quietly, more to himself):"Dreams don't shake walls... or make a boy forget how to breathe."
Blake says nothing. He simply gives a half smile and starts guiding Babu out of the kitchen.
They walk together down the dim hallway.
In Seoul, deep within the military command Centre, the room was dimly lit, bathed in the cold blue glow of dozens of monitors. Holographic maps flickered over the central table, casting shifting lights across the steel walls. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the reinforced glass windows, a soft rhythm against the silence.
At the head of the room sat General Chae-won. She was alone, her posture sharp, her expression unreadable. She didn't speak—she didn't have to. Her mere presence made the air feel colder than the machines humming around her.
Techs murmur, officers work quickly, then one screen flashes red. A long, sharp beep echoes across the room.
(Computer alerts):"Unstable energy signature detected. Origin: East Africa."
One of the officers freezes, staring at the data flooding in.
Officer #1 (startled):"General... something just lit up on the global grid. The reading is massive, unstable but focused. It's not a mindless. It's not an Awakened either. It's…"
(Pauses, voice trembling):"It looks like..."
General Chae-won (without turning):"I see." Her voice is cold. Flat. Disgusted. The room goes silent.
She slowly stands. Her silhouette casts a long shadow across the glowing map of Africa.
General Chae-won (quietly, to herself): "This is going to be so much fun"