The morning was unnaturally clear. No clouds marred the sky; a light, biting chill lingered in the air. Sunlight struck the building walls with such unforgiving sharpness that the bloodstains pooled on the pavement could no longer hide.
Iren stood on the rooftop. He didn't look down. He didn't have to—he already knew he wasn't alone anymore.
Silent Pressure
Five military vehicles sat below. No sirens, no flashing lights. Just open doors and silent engines. The soldiers stood perfectly still, waiting.
This kind of silence was worse than screaming.
Iren's body went rigid. It wasn't just fear; it was that familiar, visceral pull in his chest—the instinct that hissed: Stay here and die. He knew they hadn't come to capture him yet. They had come to observe.
"Child of Devil."
The name still hovered in the air like a ghost. People didn't dare say it, but their eyes shouted it. Iren took a step back, then stopped. There was no way out. Not forward, not backward. The roof was wide open, and the snipers were already in position. This wasn't a siege; it was an exhibition.
The Army: Observing the Unknown
Below, muffled voices drifted up.
"Is that really just a boy?"
"No... a boy wouldn't stand like that. Not in front of rifles."
"Blood Cult?"
"Unlikely. There are no marks. No ritual signs."
There was a long pause. "Then... what is it?"
No one answered. No one was certain if they were looking at a human or a new kind of catastrophe.
The Trap Tightens
Iren felt the hollow lightness returning to his limbs. The hunger was back. Soul Hunger. There were people everywhere—targets. But he knew that if he lunged now, there would be no survival. Right then, a black screen flickered behind his eyelids. No sound. No commands. Only a singular notification:
[Deviation Detected]
Iren's face remained a mask of stone. He lowered his head, and then—he moved.
The Escape: Instinct, Not Power
He didn't run. He didn't jump. He simply fell.
He pitched himself over the railing with deliberate calculatedness. For a split second, the soldiers below thought he had broken, that he had given up. That second of confusion was all he needed.
His small frame caught the rusted drainpipe running down the side of the building. Iron slammed into bone; a sharp, white-hot pain flared in his shoulder, stealing his breath. But he didn't let go. He slid down, hand over hand, skin tearing against the metal.
He never looked up. He knew that if he looked back, the fear would catch him.
Fifteen minutes later, the roof was empty. But the city was buzzing.
"He escaped."
"No... he showed us what he can do."
The name of the Blood Cult was whispered again, but the fear was now concentrated on the boy.
Night: The Push That Wasn't a Hand
Night fell, bringing with it the scent of wet iron, old blood, and damp concrete. Iren didn't stop moving. He realized that this night was no longer his hunt. He was walking, and the city was breathing around him, rhythmically, as if someone was intentionally pushing him forward without ever touching him.
The black screen stayed dark. No questions. This absolute silence from the Doll was the most alien feeling of all. It was watching. It wasn't interfering.
The Stage Is Prepared
He didn't see the soldiers at the intersection until the light hit him. Then came the sound—the rhythmic thud of combat boots.
"You've broken the night curfew."
The voice held no fear, only readiness. Iren stopped. That was his first mistake.
Floodlights roared to life from every direction, chasing away the shadows of the alley. The city finally saw him. Someone whispered from a window, "There... that's him."
Child of Devil.
The name hung in the air, unspoken but felt. Iren realized the setting was too perfect. Too open. Too bright. It was as if someone had designed this moment so everyone could bear witness.
The Clash
There was no gunfire at first. Only a question.
"Why are you here?"
Iren didn't answer. If he had an answer, this moment wouldn't exist. One second. Two seconds. Then—movement.
Iren blurred. He was a small shadow moving at impossible angles with unnatural speed. He didn't strike to kill; he moved to survive, weaving through the light and out of their line of sight.
The city watched in stunned silence as a child bypassed four trained soldiers with terrifying grace. A soldier was shoved aside; another tripped, crashing into the pavement. Blood was spilled. Someone screamed.
Iren didn't stop. Inside him, the thing wasn't whispering anymore—it was roaring.
"SOUL."
He knew this wasn't his fight. This wasn't his place. He had been steered here. Forced onto this stage.
Escape Into Dark
A sprint. A sharp turn. Another. The darkness finally swallowed him again, leaving behind the shouts, the orders, and the lingering scent of terror.
He climbed onto a secluded rooftop and collapsed, gasping for air. His shoulder was bleeding; his hands were shaking. Only then did the black screen appear. No sound. No pulse. Just a single line:
[You survived.]
Iren didn't smile. He didn't cry. He looked down at the city lights and the shifting shadows below. Somewhere, far away, someone was surely watching, taking notes on whether their experiment had worked.
Chapter End Hook
That very night, the Blood Cult realized—the Child of Devil could be turned into the ultimate prey... but only if he was forced into the spotlight first.