10: Leukaemia and The Past.
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The air smelled of ash and dust, clinging to Johan's throat as he landed with a quiet thud, Dead Star's invisible pressure absorbing the impact. He straightened slowly, his boots grinding against the dirt as if he had meant to land there in some deliberate, theatrical fashion. Rosaria leapt from his back, light on her feet despite the exhaustion hanging on her body.
But what she ran toward wasn't a house.
Not anymore.
Johan's sharp eyes caught it instantly: a wall — broken, crumbling inwards, eaten away by years of neglect and decay. A shallow roof sagged above it like a crooked jaw threatening to collapse. The structure was less of a shelter and more of a wound in the earth.
Johan muttered under his breath, voice cold,
"So this is what you call home?"
Rosaria didn't answer. She darted inside, her single arm pushing debris aside. Johan followed at a slower pace, the soles of his shoes crunching over broken glass and scattered stones.
The inside was worse.
A floor littered with dirt, bloodstains baked into the wooden planks. Shreds of clothing piled in the corners like forgotten relics. The air was heavy with the smell of iron — old blood — mixed with damp rot. Johan's gaze sharpened as he stepped deeper, the shadows clinging to the walls like they had life of their own.
And then he saw her.
Rosaria's sister.
The girl lay slumped against the splintered wall, her body trembling faintly with each shallow breath. Blood smeared her lips and chin, her dress soaked crimson at the chest. Her skin was pale, waxen, almost corpse-like. And her eyes—
Johan's own widened despite himself.
Her eyes were hollow, empty spheres that seemed to look past everything, refusing to anchor to life itself. The stare of someone who had already been halfway claimed by death.
Rosaria knelt beside her, frantic. "Sister—Sister! I'm back, I'm here!" Her voice cracked as she reached with her single hand, fumbling.
Johan's teeth clenched. His chest tightened at the sight, though his face gave nothing away. He slipped the strap of his bag off his shoulder and extended it toward Rosaria without a word.
"Food. Water."
Her head snapped toward him, desperate gratitude in her eyes. She seized the bag but quickly realized her problem — she couldn't hold both her sister and the supplies at once. Her one hand shook as she tried to open a bottle. The plastic slipped, rolled from her palm.
"Damn it…" she whispered, tears welling.
Johan's sigh was low, irritated but restrained. His boots echoed softly as he crossed the ruined floor and crouched beside them. He took the bottle, twisted the cap with an easy motion, and gently tilted it toward the sick girl's lips.
"Drink," Johan said simply.
At first, the girl's jaw didn't move. Her hollow eyes didn't even recognize him. But after a tense second, a faint swallow. Then another. Water dribbled down her chin, soaking her neck. Johan steadied her head with one hand, his grip uncharacteristically careful.
Rosaria's voice broke again. "Thank you…"
Johan ignored her, reaching into the bag again. He broke a piece of bread, soft and white, and pressed it lightly against the girl's lips. She chewed weakly, barely managing. Every bite looked like a battle.
Only then did Johan lean back, expression unreadable, and say quietly,
"What happened to her?"
Rosaria froze. Her eyes darted to the ground, lips trembling as if the question itself cut her open. She held her sister tighter, brushing a strand of blood-stained hair from her forehead.
Finally, in a voice so small it nearly vanished into the stagnant air, she said,
"She's been diagnosed… with leukemia."
The word hung heavy in the broken house.
Johan's pupils contracted. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. But inside, the word echoed like a curse. Leukemia. Death not by blade, not by Stand, but by the betrayal of one's own blood.
He looked at the sister again — the hollow eyes, the wasted body — and a muscle in his jaw twitched.
Rosaria's head sank lower, her voice breaking. "There's no medicine. No doctors who'll even see us. No one cares about kids like us. We've been abandoned. Left to rot."
Johan didn't respond immediately. He just stared at the girl's fragile body, at the way life barely clung to her. His silence was sharp, cutting, until he finally asked:
"And you? How did this—" his eyes flicked to her empty sleeve, the scarred stump where her arm should be— "happen to you?"
Rosaria's breath hitched. For a moment she didn't answer. Then, slowly, she lowered her gaze, shoulders trembling.
Her lips parted.
"Mine is a different story. It's all because of those damn policemen…"
Johan's eyes narrowed.
"Policemen?" His voice was low, dangerous, like the edge of a blade. "They actually came here?"
Rosaria's jaw trembled. She dug her nails into her shoulder, face contorting into an expression that no child should ever wear.
"Yes," she hissed. "They came."
---
Three Months Ago
The streets reeked of piss, smoke, and the stink of corpses that had never been properly buried. Rats scattered at every step.
Ten figures moved through the ruins, black uniforms blending into the shadows. Gas masks covered their faces, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. They looked like an occupying army more than law enforcement.
"What the fuck, man?" one of them muttered, his voice muffled by the mask. "This place is a graveyard. Why the hell is the government even wasting time here?"
"Orders are orders," another grunted, tightening his grip on his rifle. "Something about 'abnormal activity.' Like that's new."
A third spat to the side, his voice dripping with contempt. "Bottom of the food chain, that's what we are. Ten of us, sent into this dump, when the brass knows damn well it's a black hole. If something kills us here, nobody'll even report it."
Laughter broke out among them.
And then came him.
The one with the triangular nose, freckled face, and yellowed teeth. His voice was oily, filled with cruelty.
"Heh. Look at this place. Nobody cares. If I grabbed a girl here and fucked her in the dirt, who'd stop me? Nobody would even notice."
The others laughed, though uneasily.
It was then that they heard the sound.
A soft voice, trembling but clear.
"You… you're policemen, right?"
The squad froze.
From behind the broken wall, a small figure stepped out. A girl — thin, bruised, her clothes torn from poverty. Rosaria. She couldn't have been more than eleven.
Her voice cracked as she stammered,
"I-I need help. Please."
The freckled man's lips stretched into a grotesque grin. His tongue slid across his teeth, animalistic.
"A girl?" he hissed. "Oh-ho… boys, looks like our patrol just got a lot more interesting."
To be Continued →
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[A/N: From now on, this is going to be graphical, to the readers, from next Chapter, be cautious.]