The desert has no name.
It was not recorded on any map, it was not recognized by any law, and it was not remembered by anyone who made it out of it alive. The ground cracked like the skin of a world that had endured suffering for too long. The whispering wind carries hot sand, like the voice of a spirit that was never buried.
The sky stretched out mercilessly — empty, vast, and cruel.
In the middle of that void, something lay.
A man.
His body was half buried in the sand, as if the desert itself was trying to slowly swallow him. His coat was torn, dusty, and stained with blood that had dried to a dull black color. His skin was sunburned, his lips were chapped, his breathing was... almost non-existent.
Wyatt McCarty isn't dead.
But the world seems to have decided that he should die.
The wind blew harder.
The sand shifts.
And beneath the layer of dust covering his back — something moved.
Not an ordinary wound.
Not ordinary whip marks.
Instead, it was purplish black lines that pulsed faintly, like living veins beyond the control of the human body. The pattern forms something unnatural — a sign.
A Mark.
But Mark was unstable.
It pulsed, hardened, then faded — like it was trying to rise, but was being held back by something deeper. Darker.
Older.
Footsteps could be heard in the distance.
Heavy. Slow. Regular.
Someone approaches.
A shadow appeared over Wyatt's body — the silhouette of an old man in a long coat and wide hat. His face was covered in shadow, only his eyes were visible, sharp like an old knife that had not yet been dulled.
He stopped.
Staring.
There was silence for a long time, as if he was weighing whether the man in front of him was worth saving... or being left to become another skeleton in this nameless desert.
Finally, he spoke.
"If you're still breathing… then you're not done yet."
No answer.
Just the sound of the wind.
The man took a soft breath, then knelt down. His hands were rough, covered in old scars — the hands of someone who had lived long enough to see too much death.
He turned Wyatt's body slowly.
The moment Wyatt's face came into view —
the old man's eyes narrowed.
Not because the face is special.
But because of his expression.
Even in his half-dead state, Wyatt's jaw tightened. As if he refused to die. It was as if he was still fighting something, even when his body had given up.
"...You're one of them, huh."
The voice was low.
Not judgmental.
Not full of sympathy either.
Just… recognize.
Dark.
No sound.
No light.
Just a memory.
And those memories don't come as complete memories — but fragments.
Blow.
Scream.
Chain sound.
And the smell of blood.
A boy knelt on the cold wooden ground. His hands were shaking. His back was covered in wounds.
"Get up!"
The whip hit.
The small body fell again.
"You're mine! Did you hear?!"
Rough laugh.
The shoe hit him in the stomach.
The world shook.
The boy tried to get up.
Fail.
Try again.
Failed again.
But he didn't cry.
His eyes were empty.
Not because I don't feel pain.
But because he had felt it too many times.
And that's when —
something appeared.
On his back.
First black line.
Thin.
But alive.
Wyatt gasped.
His eyes opened suddenly.
His breath was ragged, like someone who had just been pulled out of a drowning.
The desert sky greeted him again.
Cruel as before.
But now — he realized.
"...You're finally back."
That voice.
Wyatt turned his head slowly. The world was spinning, blurry, but he saw the figure—an old man with sharp eyes.
"...I'm… not dead yet?"
His voice was hoarse. More like a whisper than words.
The old man smiled faintly.
"Unfortunately, not yet."
Wyatt fell silent.
Several seconds passed before he spoke again.
"...I should have died."
There is no emotion in that sentence.
Just the facts.
The old man stared at him longer this time.
"If that's what you want, this desert is the right place."
Silence.
The wind whispered again.
"But if you're still breathing..." the man continued, his voice deeper,
"...means there is something unfinished."
Wyatt looked up at the sky.
His eyes were empty.
But deep inside — something was moving.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But… something refuses to go out.
"...I don't remember."
"What?"
"...Why am I still alive."
The old man stood up slowly.
Facing towards the horizon.
"People like us rarely have the answers to that."
He took a few steps away, then stopped.
"But usually..."
He turned his head slightly.
"...it has to do with unfinished wounds."
Wyatt tried to get up.
His body refused.
But he insisted.
Trembling hands pressed against the sand, knees trembled, muscles screamed — but he stood.
Not upright.
Not strong.
But stand up.
And at that time —
The mark on his back throbbed again.
Stronger than before.
Deeper.
As if responding to something.
Or someone.
The old man saw it.
And for the first time —
his expression changed.
A little.
Only a few.
"...So it's true."
He muttered softly.
"New problem."
The desert remains nameless.
But that day —
he got a new witness.
A man who should have died.
A man with a living wound.
A man who doesn't know yet —
that the world will soon hunt him down.
And that freedom —
comes at a price far greater than death.