At that cursed moment, Adam heard the heavy thud of footsteps approaching slowly, punctuated by the soft scrape of metal against metal. One of the Organized was closing in, its weapon aimed directly at the spot where he and Zeif were hiding. Adam's heart pounded like war drums, and sweat streamed down his forehead despite the chill in the air, soaking his neck and back.
He spotted his weapon lying nearby. Grabbing it quietly, he held his breath and waited. When the enemy came within ten meters, Adam burst from behind the rusted cover and opened fire without hesitation. Bullets tore through the Organized's body, bringing it down within seconds—but Adam didn't stop. He kept firing until sparks erupted from the machine's chest, the whir of damaged circuits sputtering in protest.
Then it hit him—Organized units self-destruct after termination.
He realized it too late.
Without thinking, Adam hoisted Zeif over his shoulder and ran like his life depended on it—because it did. He didn't know where the strength came from. His back screamed in pain, his arm was bleeding, but fear and adrenaline gave him something close to superhuman power.
He dashed through the dense forest, dodging tangled branches and fallen trunks. Rain began to fall, thin at first, then heavier—cold, relentless, and unwelcome. The earth turned slick and treacherous. As he pushed forward, he slipped over a slanted root and fell hard, both he and Zeif crashing into the mud. He turned, bracing for an explosion… but there was nothing. No fire, no sound. Just silence.
Breathing heavily, he dragged Zeif again, stumbling over roots and soggy leaves. The rain poured harder now, the wind picking up. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and something else—metallic, sour, faintly burnt. It smelled like pain.
He didn't know where he was going. He just needed shelter. Any shelter.
Then, through the trees, he saw it—a small wooden cabin, worn down by time, likely abandoned long ago by hunters or tourists. He didn't hesitate.
He shoved the creaky door open, stumbled inside, and laid Zeif on the single bed. Then Adam collapsed beside him onto the floor, gasping like his lungs were burning. Between the wounds, the exhaustion, the cold, and the panic, his body was close to shutting down.
He sat there, trying to catch his breath, staring at Zeif's face—pale, unmoving, cold as ice. Adam didn't know what to do. He looked up at the cracked wooden ceiling, eyes stinging with fatigue. Then… darkness.
Sleep took him.
In the dream, he found himself in a hospital room. A woman in her fifties sat on the bed, short gray hair framing a tired but gentle face. Adam—fifteen years old again—stepped closer and placed his hands on the edge of the bed, voice shaking, raw with buried sorrow.
"Do you remember me, Mom?"
His eyes were full of tears, pleading, desperate. The woman tilted her head, confusion in her expression. Her face was dim, blurred—as if the dream itself struggled to recall her clearly.
Before she could answer, a sound shattered the stillness. Metal scraping. Heavy footsteps.
Adam jolted awake, his heart slamming against his ribs. That sound—he knew it too well.
He ran to the window.
And froze.
Dozens of Organized units were surrounding the cabin. Forming a perfect circle. No gaps. No escape.
His face went pale. There was no way out.
He turned to Zeif, grabbed his trembling hand, and whispered:
"No time… No time… But I'm not leaving you."
And just like that, the nightmare began again.