( third person)
He woke up with a breath that felt too real.
Not sharp.
Not panicked.
Just full.
The kind of breath that reached all the way down — past bone, past tension, past the nightmares echoing in the cracks of his ribs.
For a few seconds, he just lay there.
Eyes closed. Arms heavy.
And for the first time… the silence inside his head didn't feel like a scream.
He blinked.
The ceiling hadn't changed. Cracked paint. A spiderweb in the corner. His headphones still lay by the pillow, half-slipped off.
Then—
A faint warmth brushed against his cheek.
He turned his head.
Sunlight.
Actual, honest sunlight.
Pouring through the curtains he forgot to close.
Soft. Slow. Golden.
It touched the floor like it belonged here, and for a second, he didn't feel like he did.
He sat up slowly, every joint stiff like rusted hinges.
Two days.
> "Two days... I was out that long?"
The shard.
The vault.
The blood.
It all rushed back, but the sunlight didn't care.
It kept shining.
He stood up. His legs wobbled. His muscles ached in that quiet, lived-in kind of way — not the scream of pain, but the dull reminder of surviving something you weren't supposed to.
He stepped toward the window.
The city outside was still breathing.
Shops opened. Drones flew. Kids shouted in the far distance.
The world hadn't stopped for him.
He raised a hand to the light.
It filtered through his fingers, catching faint scars still etched into his palm.
Not healed.
Not erased.
Just… changed.
Like him.
He didn't smile. That part of him was still somewhere deep in the vault.
But he looked at the sun.
And he didn't flinch.
> "I'm still here."
____________________________________
(Nex's pov)
Waking up hazily i directly went straight to the bath room.
And for the first time felt the warm water trickling down my skin, no blood, no noises, just myself.
The fog on the mirror faded with my breath.
I wiped it clean and stared at the boy on the other side.
He was beautiful.
White curls draped over his forehead like soft frost. Skin pale, but unmarred. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes that glowed with something starborn — purple and gold, too deep, too still.
I tilted my head.
He did too.
I squinted.
"Well," I muttered, "that's one hell of a glow-up.
I look like a half-dead prince from some cursed kingdom.
Or a villain people simp for on the forums before he kills everyone."
My lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
I touched the mirror — the cool surface pressing back at me. The glass didn't lie.
I really looked like this now.
But it didn't feel like mine.
"I should feel proud or something," I whispered.
"Stronger. Better. Cooler. All those things people want."
"But I just feel… hollow."
I stared into my own eyes. That was the hardest part.
They didn't blink with warmth.
They just watched.
Void-touched. Emotionless. Still.
> "You know what's funny?" I said to my reflection.
"I can't even remember what my old laugh sounded like.
Not the fake one. The real one. The one that shook my shoulders."
Silence.
"I'm scared I'd laugh now and it wouldn't sound right."
I leaned closer. Whispered to myself like a secret.
"I think the part of me that would've cried about all this…
is sealed inside that damn Vault."
I closed my eyes for a second.
There was no sadness. No grief. Just this numb ache where my heart used to react.
"People say pain changes you," I said softly, to the boy in the mirror.
"But no one talks about what it takes away."
"I used to be a person.
Now I'm a memory with good bone structure."
Another short breath of a laugh. Without any feeling,
"At least I'm hot now."
The mirror didn't laugh back.
Just stared.
Still. Silent.
Exactly like me.
____________________________________
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
He stepped out—freshly dressed in a simple black shirt and fitted slacks, clean, restrained. The white curls still damp from the shower framed his face like a crown of pale fire. His eyes, that unnerving swirl of violet and gold, were quiet. Watchful.
He passed through the reception lounge without a word.
The woman behind the counter looked up casually—then froze.
Her eyes widened before she caught herself. She blinked. Once. Twice. Then very clearly adjusted her posture, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
> "...G-Good morning, sir," she managed, trying to sound professional. Her voice cracked slightly.
He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze.
A simple nod. Calm. Not flirtatious. Just polite. Measured. His eyes lingered for a moment too long—out of habit, not intention—and then he moved on.
The doors whispered closed behind him.
She exhaled a little too forcefully.
> "Okay, when did he turn into a damn myth?" she muttered, cheeks warm. "That's not the same kid from two days ago."
---
Training Room – Top Floor
The training room was empty. Silent.
Exactly what he needed.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the distant city skyline. Morning light poured in through filtered glass, soft and golden, like the world was still asleep.
He walked to the far rack and reached for the katana.
It wasn't anything ceremonial — just clean black steel, sheathed in a matte saya. Balanced. Waiting.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt and—
> There.
Something clicked. Like locking into place.
He drew the blade slowly. Shhh-click.
No flash. No aura flare. Just the sound of memory reawakening.
He stepped into an opening stance. Blade at his side. Knees slightly bent.
And his body moved on its own.
Right foot forward.
Elbow loose.
Pivot. Slash. Retract.
The blade sliced through air with purpose. No flourish. No wasted energy.
Like he'd done it a thousand times.
He shifted again—faster now.
Step. Cut. Turn. Backstep.
Every movement was exact.
Instinctual.
Etched into the muscle and bone that had been reforged by pain and power.
He paused after a clean diagonal slash. The tip of the blade hung in the air, trembling slightly.
> "I know this."
The thought came gently. Not from pride, not from confidence—just recognition.
He wasn't testing his strength.
He was remembering who he used to be.
Or maybe who he was always meant to be, before the shard rewrote him.
---
He slowly slid the katana back into its sheath. Click.
For a second, he stood there, eyes closed, letting his breath settle into rhythm with the silence.
No dramatic thoughts. No monologue.
Just him.
And the blade.