The sun shone high in the sky, spilling its golden light over the city as if it were a perfect day. Shadows stretched sharply across the ground, the blue sky looked clean and inviting—yet the air carried a lingering cold, almost biting. One of those strange days when the light promised warmth, but the wind whispered the opposite, slipping through the streets and seeping beneath clothes and thoughts alike.
Across the gray sidewalk, breaking the monotony of the urban scenery, a young man was running.
His body moved with precision and lightness, dodging cracks in the concrete and lampposts long forgotten by time, as if every step had already been calculated before his foot ever touched the ground. A dark coat wrapped around him completely, heavy enough to hide his silhouette, while the raised hood concealed nearly all of his face. The fabric fluttered with the rapid rhythm of his run, producing a low, muffled sound, blending with the boy's controlled breathing.
From what could be seen beneath the shadow of the hood, only his lips stood out—dry, slightly parted, marked by an X-shaped scar on the lower lip. An old, raw mark that contrasted sharply with the evident youth of its owner. There was no panic in what little of his expression was visible—only focus. A tense calm, sharp as a blade.
He kept running.
He turned a corner abruptly and, without hesitation, slipped into a narrow alley squeezed between tall, weathered buildings. The concrete walls were stained with moisture and faded graffiti, while the uneven ground held shallow puddles that reflected distorted fragments of the sunny sky above.
That was when he stopped.
His footsteps ceased suddenly, and the silence that followed felt unbearably heavy. The young man slowly turned, staring at the end of the alley—a solid wall, no doors, no windows, no possible escape.
A dead end.
Before he could move again, footsteps echoed behind him.
One. Two. Several.
Men began to emerge from the mouth of the alley, filling the space with threatening presences. There were ten of them. Some carried worn, stained wooden bats; others held brass knuckles that gleamed faintly under the sunlight barely reaching the alley's interior. There were knives too—thin, sharp blades catching cold flashes of light with every small movement of the hands that wielded them.
They advanced slowly, spreading out with calculated intent, completely blocking the exit. There was no rush in their steps—only the cruel certainty of men who already believed they had won. Their faces bore crooked smiles, eyes hungry for violence, like predators that had finally cornered their prey.
The hooded young man was surrounded.
On one side, the merciless wall. On the other, ten armed men closing in, the space shrinking, the air growing heavier. Sunlight barely touched the ground between them, creating a brutal contrast between the beautiful day outside and the suffocating shadow that ruled that forgotten alley.
Still, the boy didn't move.
Beneath the hood, his eyes—hidden from the men—took everything in. Every step. Every weapon. Every uneven breath of his opponents. The cold of the day no longer seemed to reach him. The world had narrowed to that tight space, that suspended moment, where ten armed men faced a single young figure wrapped in shadows.
And the silence, thick with tension, was only a warning of what was about to come.
The young man's voice finally broke the heavy stillness of the alley.
"What do you want with me?" he asked, his tone steady despite the situation. His breathing remained controlled, almost cold. "I didn't mess with anyone from your crew."
His words echoed between the narrow walls, mixing with the distant drip of water and the rustle of wind that barely reached that place. For a brief moment, the men just stared at him, as if measuring the nerve of someone who, even cornered, still dared to ask questions.
Then one of them stepped forward.
He was a broad-built man, jaw clenched, eyes narrow, holding a knife whose blade looked far too clean for a place so filthy. The metal flashed as he raised his hand, pointing it straight at the boy.
"You're marked for death, kid!" he shouted, his voice rough, thick with rage and contempt. "You messed with one of our suppliers!"
The shout ricocheted through the alley, vibrating against the concrete, as if the place itself amplified the threat. Some of the others grinned; others tightened their grip on their weapons, already anticipating the inevitable outcome.
But the young man didn't react as expected.
Under the hood, his body relaxed slightly—almost imperceptibly. His head tilted to the side, and his dry lips moved, forming an expression of genuine confusion. Even without seeing his full face, doubt radiated from his posture.
"Me?" he said, disbelief lacing his voice. "Man… you must be confusing me with my brother."
For a second, something shifted in the air.
A few of the men exchanged quick, silent glances. The hesitation was brief, fragile—like a flame about to go out. The man with the knife let out a short, dry laugh filled with scorn and took another step forward.
"Doesn't matter," he spat. "Someone wants a head. And yours will do just fine."
The trap snapped shut.
The ten men advanced again, their bodies forming a living wall between the young man and the only exit. The sound of footsteps against concrete echoed in near-perfect sync. The gleam of knives, the weight of bats, the cold metal of brass knuckles—everything converged toward a single point.
At the center of that narrow alley, beneath the distant sunlight and wrapped in the shadows cast by the tall walls, the hooded boy remained still. The X-shaped scar on his lips seemed more pronounced now, defined by the subtle tension of someone who understood, at that exact moment, that words no longer meant anything.
The decision had already been made.
And the alley, a silent witness, waited for what would come next.
For a brief, almost ironic instant, a thought crossed the young man's mind.
What a hell of a way to end school vacation…
The thought was light, completely out of place against the brutal reality in front of him, as if his mind were seeking refuge in the absurdity of it all. The contrast between the mundane memory and the looming threat only deepened the strangeness of the moment.
Then, they moved in.
The ten men lunged forward almost at the same time, shattering the silence with heavy, hurried footsteps. The alley—far too narrow for that much movement—filled with the scrape of soles against concrete, harsh breathing, and the rustle of thick clothing. Weapons were raised: bats ready to swing down, knives pointed forward, brass knuckles clenched tight.
The boy reacted the instant he sensed something was wrong.
They were fast.
Too fast.
His eyes widened beneath the hood, and his body moved before his mind could fully piece together a plan. In a sharp motion, he turned and sprinted toward the back of the alley. His coat flared behind him as his feet struck the ground hard, dodging puddles and debris almost on instinct.
The wall rose in front of him in seconds.
No way out.
He skidded to a sudden stop, his heart pounding harder now, and spun on his heels, his eyes sweeping the space frantically. The tall walls seemed to close in, stained with mold, rust, and old graffiti. Crushed cans, broken planks, and torn trash bags littered the ground. The smell of dampness mixed with rust and stale filth.
Behind him, the men closed in, confident—certain the prey had nowhere left to run.
The boy breathed fast, scanning every detail, every shadow, every crack in the concrete. His gaze climbed the walls, dropped again, darted across the ground—until it stopped.
Something caught his eye.
Amid forgotten debris and remnants of old construction, there was an object partially hidden near the side wall of the alley. Metal caught the sunlight in a faint glint, subtle but unmistakable amid the chaos.
The boy's eyes lit up.
Not with relief.
But with recognition.
As the footsteps of the ten men echoed closer, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his dry lips, brushing the X-shaped scar.
Maybe this school break wouldn't end so boring after all.
Without hesitation, the boy threw himself forward.
His body slid low across the rough concrete in a sharp, controlled motion, his hand shooting out toward the object that had caught his attention. His fingers closed firmly around the cold metal—a long, heavy piece torn from an old, forgotten signpost, flaking paint and rust still clinging to its ends. As he rose, the weight of it settled naturally into his hands, like something he already knew how to wield.
And then, he charged.
The boy ran straight at the ten men, metal raised, posture aggressive and resolute. For a split second, even they hesitated. Eyes widened, steps slowed just a fraction, startled by the seemingly suicidal move of someone who, moments ago, had been cornered.
"This kid's lost his mind…" one of them muttered.
But no one backed down.
With rough shouts and weapons ready, the men surged to meet him. Bats lifted to block, knives shifted their angles, brass knuckles tightened for impact. The alley seemed to compress in that instant, every movement heavy with violent expectation.
The boy raised the metal as if to strike head-on.
His arms moved, his body twisted slightly, muscles coiling—everything screamed imminent attack.
Then he stopped.
At the very last second, the blow changed direction.
With a sharp, calculated motion, the boy yanked the metal aside and hurled it with full force into a pipe running along the alley wall. The impact rang out loud—a dry, metallic crack that echoed between the buildings, vibrating through the concrete.
CRANG!
The pipe burst violently.
For a brief instant, there was silence.
Then came a furious hiss, like an enraged whistle. Thick white vapor exploded from the ruptured pipe, flooding the alley in seconds. It crawled along the ground, climbed the walls, swallowed shapes and silhouettes, dissolving everything into an opaque, choking veil.
"What the hell is this?!" someone shouted, their voice already warped by the rising fog.
It was an air-conditioning gas line.
The vapor spread rapidly, stealing visibility, burning eyes and throats, making every breath a struggle. The men's shadows turned into blurred smears, their movements clumsy and disoriented. Footsteps misfired as coughing and curses echoed through the sudden chaos.
Within the white cloud, the boy vanished.
His attack had never been meant to injure anyone.
This had been the goal from the very start.
And now, in the heart of that smoke-filled alley, the hunt had just flipped on its head.
Using the chaos to his advantage, the boy moved.
He deliberately let his footsteps echo louder, scraping his shoes against the wet ground as he bolted toward the alley's exit, cutting through the white curtain like a fleeing shadow. The sound alone was enough.
"He's getting away!" someone yelled, voice muffled by coughing.
The men reacted instantly.
Weapons clattered, heavy footsteps charged blindly forward, confused silhouettes pushed through the fog, trying to catch him. The gas kept pouring from the broken pipe with no sign of slowing, turning the alley into a white, suffocating maze.
But the boy was no longer on the ground.
The moment he slipped out of their sight, he changed direction. His feet hit the side wall, his hands catching the rusted edge of a low window. With fast, silent movements, he pulled himself up onto the narrow ledge. The glass was shattered, edges jagged—but he didn't hesitate.
He climbed.
Window by window, using old grates, concrete ledges, and exposed pipes as handholds. His body moved with striking fluidity, every motion precise, trained. The dark coat blended into the shadows, the hood staying firm, his face hidden as he climbed upward, ignoring the cold biting into his fingers.
Below, the men burst out of the alley.
The smoke finally forced them back, driving them into the open amid coughing and shouted curses. They spread into the narrow street, splitting into groups—some running one way, others the opposite—scanning side alleys, corners, anywhere the boy might have escaped.
"Spread out!" one of them barked. "He couldn't have gone far!"
Above them, the boy reached the last window.
With one final push, he grabbed the edge of the roof and pulled himself up, rolling silently onto the cold surface. Old tiles creaked under his weight, but the strong wind swallowed any suspicious sound. He rose slowly and moved toward the edge, where he could see everything.
Down below, the ten men moved like disoriented ants.
Some pointed their weapons, others argued, all of them looking ahead, to the sides, into the distance. Not one of them looked up. Not one suspected anything beyond a desperate escape on foot.
The boy remained still on the rooftop, his silhouette cut sharply against the cold blue sky of that sunny day. Smoke still drifted up from the alley, rising slowly and fading into the air—the last trace of the trick that had fooled them.
His target was right above them.
And they had no idea.
On the cold rooftop, the boy finally let his body relax.
He stretched slowly, raising his arms over his head, arching his back. A dry crack ran through his bones, followed by smaller ones, muffled by the wind slipping between the buildings. The tension packed into his muscles protested, but he ignored it, taking a deep breath as the sun partially lit his hooded figure.
For a moment, everything felt under control.
He turned, ready to run in the opposite direction of the chaos below, leaving those "ants" behind. His feet were already setting for the push when a voice froze him in place.
"We lost the kid… what are our orders, Central?"
The word hit like an invisible punch.
The boy stopped completely.
His eyes—hidden until then—went wide beneath the hood's shadow. His heart spiked violently, almost painfully. Central? That didn't add up. This wasn't just a street ambush. It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment revenge hit.
This was organized.
Far more than he'd imagined.
The wind suddenly felt colder.
He edged closer to the rooftop ledge, just enough to hear better. Down below, one of the men stood apart from the others, a radio pressed to his ear, posture stiff.
The reply came warped through static.
"Understood, sir…" the man said after a few seconds of silence. "We'll kill the brothers."
The boy's world stopped.
For a moment that stretched too long, there was no thought at all—just a heavy void forming in his chest. His fingers curled tight, nails biting into the cold metal of the roof. His breathing turned uneven.
So that was it.
It didn't matter who screwed up.
It didn't matter what the truth was.
To them, one mistake was reason enough to erase both.
The boy stayed perfectly still, wrapped in absolute silence. No movement. No sound. Just the wind tugging at his coat and the sun lighting a face that no longer held confusion—only something harder. Sharper. Dangerous.
"Fine…" he muttered to himself, voice low, barely there. "I'll handle it."
And then he ran.
His feet struck the rooftop with force and precision, launching him forward. He leapt from surface to surface, cutting across rooftops like a moving shadow. Tiles groaned under his weight, but he barely slowed. The wind sliced across his face, cold biting at exposed skin, while the city stretched ahead like a chaotic game board.
As he moved, his mind raced.
This wasn't just about getting away anymore.
It was about staying alive.
It was about protecting someone.
The threat had escalated, and he knew it better than anyone. This wasn't a simple hunt now—it was a sentence.
And if he misstepped even once from here on out…
It wouldn't just be his blood hitting the asphalt.
The boy kept running across rooftops for long minutes, jumping from building to building, until the scenery began to change. The structures grew lower, older, and the movement in the streets below picked up. He slowed only when he recognized the place he was looking for.
With one last controlled jump, he dropped into a narrow alley.
Unlike the last one, this alley was alive. Trash bags were piled high, wooden crates stacked unevenly, torn posters plastered along the walls. The distant noise of conversations and passing cars drifted in from the main street ahead. The smell of food mixed with oil and dust. Without drawing attention, he slipped out of the alley and blended into the crowd.
Seconds later, he pushed open the glass door of a cosmetics store.
A bell chimed overhead.
The interior was brightly lit—almost aggressively colorful. Shelves packed with products, mirrors everywhere, posters of perfectly made-up faces smiling artificially. The contrast with his hooded, dust-covered figure was jarring. Some people glanced at him. Others stared longer than they should have.
He said nothing.
He walked straight to a shelf, eyes scanning the products quickly. He picked up small, discreet packages: sealed colored eye lenses, easy to hide. Then he grabbed a can of blonde hair spray, giving it a light shake before dropping it into a basket. Finally, he passed through the hygiene aisle and took a simple white disposable face mask.
His hood stayed up.
The looks around him grew sharper—some suspicious, others merely curious. A woman whispered something to her friend. A man pretended to examine a lipstick, watching him through the mirror's reflection. He ignored them all.
He went to the counter.
The cashier studied him from head to toe, lingering a second too long. Her eyes paused on the coat, the hood, the hands marked with small scratches. Still, she said nothing. She rang up the items, gave the total, and waited.
The boy paid without hesitation.
He took the bag and walked out, the bell chiming again as he left behind the bright colors and silent stares.
Without breaking stride, he stepped into the shop next door.
A regular clothing store—dim lighting, the smell of new fabric and dust. Racks filled with T-shirts, pants, hoodies. He moved through the aisles quickly, brushing fabrics, judging colors and cuts with trained eyes. He chose simple, neutral clothes—nothing eye-catching: different pants, a plain shirt, a jacket that didn't demand attention.
He paid.
Minutes later, he left the stores like anyone else on the street, carrying plain shopping bags in his hands. The sun was still shining, the cold wind still blowing, and no one around had any idea that, beneath that ordinary appearance, someone had just vanished.
After finishing the adjustments, the boy was no longer the same.
In a discreet bathroom, far from curious eyes, he applied the products with almost methodical care. The spray hissed softly as his dark hair lost its original color, strand by strand coated in an artificial blond—clearly fake up close, but convincing enough at a distance. He ran his hand through his hair a few times, spreading the product, watching his reflection in the stained mirror until he was sure no trace of the old look remained.
The lenses came next.
With steady, precise movements, he fitted the contact films into place. A brief sting, his eyes watering for a moment, until the change settled. The brown vanished, replaced by a bright, striking blue that almost glowed under the harsh white light. A completely different gaze stared back from the mirror now—foreign, distant, unrecognizable.
Finally, the face mask.
The elastic stretched around his ears, covering his nose and mouth, hiding not just part of his face, but also the X-shaped scar that would give him away in any detailed description. That simple mask became the final barrier between who he was… and who he needed to be right now.
He stepped back outside.
On the street, he stopped beside a public trash bin. Without hesitation, he pulled off the old dark coat and shoved it inside, crushing it between garbage bags and cardboard scraps. No attachment. Just necessity. He'd buy another one some other time. There was always another time.
Now, his appearance was almost provocatively different.
He wore beach clothes—far too light for the cold of that sunny day. A red shirt, open at the chest, patterned with pink flowers that clashed against his pale skin. Short, casual shorts, ordinary enough not to stand out. Over it all, a small jacket—simple, discreet.
After all, he loved jackets.
Even when he didn't really need one.
Blending into the crowd, with fake blond hair, false blue eyes, and half his face hidden behind a mask, the boy walked like any other young guy enjoying the day. No stare lingered too long. No suspicion took shape.
The boy was gone.
And in his place, someone new walked through the city—while somewhere else, the hunt went on… unaware that the target was already several steps ahead.
With few options left, the boy made a simple decision.
He couldn't go home.
Not now.
The image flashed through his mind: men watching the building, pretending to be ordinary passersby. Central wouldn't make such a basic mistake. If they'd lost him, the logical next move would be to lock down anything that might lead back there.
So, he would wait.
And disappearing in plain sight was, ironically, one of the best ways to do it.
He boarded a crowded bus, blending in among tourists, street vendors, and noisy families. The smell of sunscreen and salt filled the air before the ocean even came into view. When he got off, the beach opened up in pale tones—white sand, the blue of the sea stretching as far as the eye could see, and the sun slowly beginning to lose its strength in the sky.
The wind there felt different.
Lighter. Freer.
He walked along the shoreline with no rush, watching colorful stands, kids running, couples arguing over where to sit. No one looked twice at a blond guy in a floral shirt with a mask on. Masks were still common. Tourists always overdid it.
He bought a beach umbrella from an insistent vendor, paying more than he should have. He knew it the moment the bills changed hands, but he didn't argue. Then he bought a cold coconut, cracked open on the spot with a quick swing of a machete.
Too expensive.
Too touristy.
Perfect.
He sat down on the sand, planting the umbrella carefully, adjusting it until the shade covered his body. He took off the jacket for a moment, letting the cold wind brush his skin while the remaining warmth of the sun lingered. He took a long drink from the coconut, the cold water sliding down his throat—refreshing enough to draw a quiet sigh.
Around him: laughter. Distant music. The constant rhythm of waves crashing.
For a few minutes… he looked like just another guy.
But even there, relaxed on the outside, his eyes—now blue—never stopped moving. Watching reflections in sunglasses, movements that repeated too often, people who lingered too long. Every shadow was assessed. Every approach logged.
His body rested.
His mind didn't.
The sun began to sink, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Evening crept in, bringing that false sense of normalcy with it.
The boy smiled behind the mask and took another sip of coconut water.
If he had to hide…
Might as well do it in broad daylight.
He was actually enjoying himself.
Sitting beneath the umbrella, with the steady sound of waves and the sky slowly turning orange, he almost managed to forget. Almost. The wind gently tugged at the floral shirt, the coconut was already half empty, and for a few minutes his breathing had slowed.
Then the phone vibrated.
The sound felt far too loud in his ears.
He moved his hand toward his pocket slowly, as if the gesture alone might give him away. On the screen, a name that made his stomach tighten.
His brother.
The boy froze. The noise of the beach faded, muffled. He stared at the blinking name, his mind racing too fast. Answering was dangerous. Not answering… was too.
He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
He answered.
"How are you?" he asked quietly, forcing his voice to sound casual, pretending this was just another normal call.
A second of silence on the other end.
No breathing.
No reply.
Then the call dropped.
The screen went dark.
The boy's heart slammed violently in his chest.
He didn't need to think. He knew exactly what it meant.
Tracking.
They had his brother's phone. Somehow, they'd gotten access to it, and that call wasn't meant to talk—it was meant to locate. A ping. A dot on a map.
"Idiot…" he cursed himself in his head as he sprang to his feet. "Idiot, idiot, idiot…"
Without hesitation, he hurled the phone as far as he could, burying it in the wet sand near the water, and started running. He sprinted past seated people, past children playing, dodging chairs and bags, shoving bodies aside without apology. The beach umbrella was left behind. The coconut dropped into the sand.
He ran as fast as he could.
His chest burned, air tearing at his lungs, his mind screaming possibilities—alleys, crowded streets, anywhere. Anywhere far from there.
That was when he felt it.
Something punched straight through him.
There was no immediate pain. Just a blunt, brutal impact, like the air had been ripped out of his body. His strength vanished all at once, his legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees before tipping sideways onto the cold sand.
The world spun.
A sharp crack echoed across the beach—a dry, terrifying report.
For a second, there was silence.
Then—screams.
Tourists started yelling, people ran in every direction, chairs toppled, children cried. Someone screamed for help. Someone else yelled for everyone to get down. Chaos spread like fire.
The boy lay sprawled on the sand, the orange sky above him dissolving into blurred smears. The sound of waves mixed with screams, frantic footsteps, collective panic.
His eyes—still blue—remained open, staring into nothing.
He had made a mistake.
And that mistake had just come to collect.
His consciousness wavered, drifting in and out like the waves breaking a few meters away.
He felt the weight first.
Something cold, rigid, pressing against the top of his head, flattening the artificial blond hair against his skull. He didn't need to open his eyes or move a muscle to know what it was. The shape, the pressure, the quiet threat—unmistakable.
The barrel of a gun.
Ready.
Around him, the beach had become a scene of pure chaos. Hysterical screams tore through the air, people running without direction, sand being kicked up, belongings abandoned. The waves were still there, indifferent, cruelly constant, blending with human panic as if none of it mattered.
The boy struggled to breathe.
Every inhale felt too heavy, his chest refusing to cooperate. The world was blurred, but his mind—strangely—was clear. Too clear.
Amid the shouting, the crying, the rushing footsteps, one voice stood out.
Cold.
Controlled.
Close.
"Target acquired."
The words cut into his head like blades. There was no urgency in them. No emotion. Just a report.
A brief pause followed.
Long enough for the gun to press a little harder. Long enough for the boy to understand there was no escape left—no tricks, no crowd that could hide him now.
Then another voice replied, distorted, likely coming through a communicator.
"Mercy shot."
The world seemed to shrink in that instant.
The orange sky, the cold sand beneath his body, the distant sound of the sea—everything pulled away, as if he were being dragged inward. The boy stayed still, eyes open, his body too heavy to react.
There were no words.
There was no time.
The gun remained there—steady, silent.
And the end felt one trigger pull away.
The last thought came heavy, bitter, almost ironic.
How stupid I was…
Not anger. Not fear. Just a late, brutal realization. He'd calculated routes, fooled armed men, vanished into the city—and still tripped over the simplest mistake of all.
Trust.
And yet, deep down, something in him refused to fully bow.
At least…
at least I was never the scum they said I was.
The cold sand pressed against his cheek. The sounds of the beach felt distant now, muffled, like they were coming from underwater. His body barely responded anymore—too heavy, too wrong. The gun barrel was still there. Firm. Final.
He drew one last, shallow breath.
And then, almost as a reflex, almost like a joke whispered to himself at the worst possible moment, his lips moved.
"You really are an idiot… Rodrigo…"
The words came out weak, broken, barely more than a whisper lost in the chaos.
There was no time for anything else.
The world went dark.
Black.
.
.
.
…But then, Rodrigo began to hear again.
First, the sound.
A constant, irregular whistling, striking against something nearby. The wind. He felt the wind brush against his face, cold and abrasive, as if it carried invisible particles with it. That alone was wrong.
Wind?
His mind took a few seconds to react, as if submerged in thick mud. The last memory was far too clear to be a dream: the sand, the sharp crack, the gun pressed against his head, the absolute black.
He shouldn't be feeling anything.
— …How…? — he thought, without a voice.
With effort, he opened his eyes.
His vision was swallowed by green.
Not the urban green of parks or scattered trees, but something dense, crushing. Enormous trunks rose around him, covered in dark moss and twisted roots that tore through the ground like exposed veins. The forest felt too alive, suffocating, with broad leaves overlapping one another, blocking any sense of distance.
The sky.
Rodrigo lifted his gaze—and his stomach dropped.
The sky was red.
Not the soft red of a sunset, but a deep, violent hue, like embers scattered across the entire firmament. Dark clouds dragged themselves slowly along, like thick smoke. And at the center of it all, where the sun should have been…
There was darkness.
An absolute black disc occupied the place of light, devouring the glow around it, as if the very day were being consumed. No warmth came from it. No brightness. Only an oppressive presence, impossible to ignore.
Rodrigo's heart began to race.
— N-no… — his body trembled, and he felt the air leave his lungs. — This… this is hell?
To say he was panicking would be a grotesque understatement.
He tried to move, and that was when he noticed something wrong with himself. Very wrong.
Rodrigo clenched his hands tightly, trying to anchor himself to his own existence—and froze.
The fabric.
He was wearing his coat again.
The same familiar weight on his shoulders, the same feel of the material against his body. It should have been comforting… but it wasn't. His gaze dropped quickly, and the relief lasted less than a second.
His right arm was different.
Wrapped around it was some kind of red cloth, wound tightly, almost ritualistically, covering it from the shoulder down to near the wrist. The fabric didn't seem ordinary—it wasn't cotton or anything synthetic. It had a strange texture, slightly opaque, like treated leather or cloth soaked in something ancient.
The only exposed part was the fingers.
And they… didn't seem to belong to him.
The arm was larger. Thicker. The muscles stood out even at rest, dense, far too defined for the body Rodrigo knew. It wasn't just strength—it was a different structure, as if that limb had been shaped for something beyond human.
He swallowed hard.
— This… — his breathing turned uneven. — This arm… isn't mine…
Rodrigo tried to move it.
The arm responded immediately, with terrifying ease, as if it had always been there. The movement was far too natural. Far too precise. That only made the sense of intrusion worse.
The forest around him remained silent for a moment, as if it were watching. The wind began to blow again between the trees, making the leaves creak, and the red sky seemed to pulse faintly, almost imperceptibly.
Rodrigo was alive.
But clearly… he was no longer in the same world.