The metal tool rested in Ethan's hand, its surface cold and unyielding against his skin.
He didn't grip it tightly. He didn't need to. Its presence alone was enough—a quiet reminder of the choice he had made, and the path that choice had begun to shape.
The guard led him down another corridor, one he had not seen before. The air here felt heavier. Not physically, but in a way his body recognized without explanation. The silence was deeper. More deliberate.
They stopped at a door.
It opened.
"Inside," the guard said.
Ethan stepped forward.
The room was larger than his own. The walls were smooth and unmarked, the lighting softer but no less artificial. There were no cameras visible, but he knew better than to assume they weren't there.
Someone stood near the far wall.
A man.
His back was turned, his posture relaxed, his hands resting loosely at his sides. He didn't react immediately. He didn't turn.
He already knew Ethan was there.
After a moment, the man turned slowly.
His eyes met Ethan's.
And something inside Ethan reacted.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't instinct.
It was recognition without memory.
The man's gaze was calm, but it carried weight—an invisible pressure that settled against Ethan's body, forcing stillness without force. His breathing slowed. His muscles tensed slightly, responding to something his mind could not yet name.
The man noticed.
"You chose the tool," he said.
His voice was quiet. Certain.
Ethan didn't answer.
The man stepped closer, his movements controlled, effortless.
"You didn't choose the bread," he continued. "You didn't choose the water."
He stopped a few steps away.
"You chose control."
The word lingered in the space between them.
Ethan observed him carefully.
The way he stood. Balanced. Unexposed.
The way he breathed. Slow. Efficient.
The way the air itself seemed to belong to him.
And suddenly—
A memory surfaced.
Not clearly.
Not completely.
But enough.
The warehouse.
The gunfire.
The chaos.
And then—
The silence.
It had ended too quickly.
Too cleanly.
His father had been strong. Experienced. Careful. The others had been the same. They had survived too long to be careless.
They wouldn't have been erased in seconds.
Not by another gang.
Not without resistance.
Unless it hadn't been a gang at all.
Unless it had been someone else.
Someone faster.
Someone precise.
Someone beyond normal.
The realization came without effort.
Hunter.
The word existed in his mind with quiet certainty.
He didn't know how he knew it.
He only knew it was true.
The man in front of him watched him, his eyes sharp, observant.
As if he had seen the moment the thought formed.
"Tell me," the man said calmly. "What do you remember?"
Ethan remained silent.
Because the answer was no longer simple.
He remembered the blood.
He remembered surviving.
But he also remembered things that didn't belong to this life.
Fragments of another world.
A world where Hunters existed.
Where power wasn't limited to strength or weapons.
Where something else existed beneath the surface of reality.
Nen.
The word surfaced naturally.
Familiar.
Impossible.
The man's gaze didn't change, but his attention deepened.
"You feel it," he said quietly.
Not a question.
A conclusion.
He turned and walked toward the door.
"You'll begin soon."
The door opened.
He paused briefly before stepping through.
"This world does not forgive those who remain ignorant."
Then he left.
The door closed behind him.
Ethan stood alone.
The silence returned.
But it was different now.
He looked down at the metal tool in his hand.
If a Hunter had destroyed the gang…
Then this wasn't just another world.
It was their world.
A world where Hunters existed.
A world where power followed different rules.
A world he already understood—somehow.
Ethan closed his hand slowly around the tool.
He didn't know why he was here.
He didn't know what would come next.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
He would survive.
No matter what this world demanded of him.