The city never truly sleeps, even in the quieter streets of my neighborhood. Neon signs flickered in the distance, buses rattled past, and somewhere a dog barked at the wrong time. Yet none of it could drown out the emptiness I felt that day, the day my parents vanished.
I was ten. Ten and suddenly alone. Gone without a trace—no screams, no signs of struggle, just… nothing. The neighbors whispered theories: maybe they'd left, maybe they were caught up in something beyond our understanding. I didn't have time for theories back then. I had to survive.
That's when she appeared—my step-sister, barely eight at the time, bouncing into my life like a pocket of sunlight. "Big brother!" she cried, throwing herself at me with unrestrained affection. She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't care that the house felt hollow, that the cupboards were emptier than usual, that the world suddenly seemed hostile. She only cared that I was there.
Her laughter echoed off the walls, a small shield against the crushing weight of reality. "Come on, big bro! Let's make breakfast! Or maybe we can play a game! Or—" She paused, considering, "—you can teach me how to fight like you someday!"
I swallowed a lump in my throat. Teaching her to fight? To survive? Maybe that would be our life now. Protecting each other, day by day, street by street, building a fortress out of nothing but routines and trust.
I didn't cry then. I couldn't. Survival had been drilled into me long before I understood what loss meant. But I remembered every detail: the way her hair bounced as she tugged at mine, the sound of her tiny footsteps following me everywhere, the way she insisted on carrying my books, even when they were far too heavy for her.
Years passed. The city grew around us, sprawling taller buildings and wider streets. I grew stronger, faster, sharper. Alone in thought, but never entirely alone. She became my anchor, my reminder that someone relied on me, someone I could not fail.
Yet… there were moments I couldn't ignore. Strange coincidences, faces that seemed familiar from nowhere, fleeting glimpses of something impossible. I brushed them off as chance, as imagination, but they were always there—like whispers at the edges of my awareness.
And I knew… I had survived this world for eighteen years without a system, without a miracle, only by relying on instinct and determination. Yet even I couldn't shake the feeling that something far greater than ordinary life was creeping closer. Something that would test everything I had built…
Something that would not forgive hesitation.