Three years later.
The world had learned to live without sunlight. Cities hid under synthetic skies — domes of glass and lies. People called them "Safe Zones." But Bright knew better. He had seen the Wall breathe. He had heard it whisper.
Every morning, he still woke up from the same dream — the church burning, his father praying to a god that never answered.
He brushed his hair aside and stared at the reflection on his window. The neon lights outside painted his face in shades of crimson. The mark under his left eye shimmered faintly — proof of the thing inside him.
"Still pretending to be human," he muttered.
Then came the sound.
A distant boom, followed by the sirens — those same mechanical screams he once thought had died. The ground trembled, and the air twisted.
He grabbed the katana from its stand. The dark metal pulsed once, as if alive.
"Looks like the Wall finally woke up," Bright said, eyes cold as the dead sky.
And without looking back, he stepped into the storm.