The city moved with a relentless chaos. Traffic roared through the streets, horns blaring, tires screeching. One careless moment was all it would take for disaster. Towering buildings reflected the fading orange of the sunset, their glass facades catching the last dying light. Street lamps flickered on, casting long yellow pools over cracked asphalt, where litter and puddles collected in disarray. The stench of rotting garbage mingled with the acrid scent of exhaust smoke, pressing down like an invisible weight, heavy enough to make one gag if inhaled for too long.
Between two massive towers lay a narrow alley, barely wide enough for a single person. Trash drums lined its edges, overflowing with filth and festering with the stench of decay. Broken bottles and scattered scraps of paper crunched underfoot, discouraging any lingering presence. Darkness and odor combined to make the place unbearable, a forgotten corner of the city where no official dared to tread, and no one in their right mind lingered.
Amid the grime crouched a small figure. A child—or what appeared to be one. Perhaps ten or twelve, frail and starved, skin stretched tight over protruding bones. His torso was bare, revealing ribs that showed the harsh reality of starvation. Torn half-pants clung loosely to his thin legs, stained and worn. Leaning against a trash drum, he exhaled a slow, ragged breath, his chest rising unevenly. Exhaustion weighed on him like lead, yet he remained eerily still, eyes half-lidded yet observant.
A passing car's headlights briefly illuminated his face: sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, skin taut like parchment. There was something unnatural in those eyes, something older than childhood, older than human suffering should allow. A flicker of awareness, a spark of something not fully human, shone in them. He exhaled slowly. Exhaustion weighed on him like lead, yet he remained still. Leaning against the drum, he observed the alley with a vacant detachment.
Shadows moved at the alley's mouth. Figures emerged, cigarette smoke curling from their lips, casual menace in every step. One hissed, "Hurry. Dump the body before anyone sees. If someone's here, kill them too." The figures' eyes swept the alley, and landed on the small child. For a heartbeat, even hardened hearts hesitated. One whispered, "Boss… what about the kid?"
The leader's cold voice answered: "Kid. Move. Now. Or your miserable little life ends here." The boy did not flinch. His gaze remained detached, almost bored.
"You've got guts," another voice said. "Shame the boss's mercy doesn't last forever."
Still, he did not move.
A gun appeared—a .38 caliber revolver. Two shots rang out, muted by the city's din. Blood blossomed across his chest. Pain tore through him, yet it was not pain alone that consumed him. Something deeper, something older, stirred beneath the threshold of mortal flesh.
Memories surfaced unbidden, like shadows creeping into the light. A garbage bin. Rescue hands from an orphanage. Cold nights, empty stomachs, cruel words, harsh lashes. Days spent scavenging scraps, hiding from men who would take his little earnings. Hunger, fear, betrayal. The memory of being five—food laced with sleeping drugs, children falling into deep sleep, a doctor in an apron removing one from the room—replayed in fragments. Footsteps receded. Silence returned. And yet, he had survived.
The darkness stretched, his body sagging against the drum as his eyes closed. But even in death, a spark remained. A fragment of awareness, old and dangerous, stirred within him. Not a human feeling, not strength, not revenge—something else entirely. Something patient. Something that waited.
The men who had fired the shots stepped closer. One whispered, "Should we finish him?"
The leader's voice cut through the shadows. "No. Leave him. Not worth the trouble."
And just like that, they vanished into the dusk. His chest rose and fell unevenly. The world blurred—the hum of traffic, flickering street lamps, the lingering stench. Death had come, but had not fully claimed him. The spark remained, flickering like a candle in a storm.
Inside it lay something forbidden. Dangerous. Potential beyond mortal understanding.
Something that knew the cruelty of the world and would not forget it. Survival was no longer merely instinct—it was a beginning.
Footsteps echoed again. A figure in a dark coat approached, revolver glinting faintly under the dim light. He stopped near the drum, observing the small form with a measured curiosity.
"You're brave," the man said. "That bravery will carry you into shadows you cannot imagine."
Two more shots rang out. Pain tore through him again, but clarity followed. Flashes of memory—other lives, other sufferings—merged into a single understanding. Survival was not enough.
Learning, observing, absorbing—this would be the way. Understanding the cruelty of men, the indifference of gods, the void of humanity.
The boy's eyes closed fully. Blood pooled beneath him, mixing with grime. Yet the spark inside him remained alive. A whisper echoed in the darkness. Something ancient and unyielding stirred. A fragment of awareness that had never belonged to this world was now conscious. Observing. Learning. Waiting.
The city carried on, indifferent. Horns blared, cars passed, neon flickered. A life had ended. And yet, something had begun. A seed had been planted—a consciousness that would not rest. Something that would rise slowly, patiently, over time.
Something the world would one day feel, though not yet.
Somewhere deep inside, a fragment of memory twisted with a nascent awareness. Pain, hunger, terror—they were no longer mere afflictions. They were lessons. A foundation. The boy—or whatever consciousness had begun to inhabit that fragile body—knew it. The world had never shown mercy. It had never offered kindness. Yet it had left him with a choice: to endure. To awaken. To become more than flesh.
And though no name had yet been spoken, the first threads of destiny had been woven. A slow, deliberate rhythm pulsed inside him, echoing beyond the feeble reach of mortal understanding. This was no ordinary child. This was no ordinary death.