Well, saying that something was wrong with him was a bit of a stretch.
It was just how people talked about his peculiarity when he was a kid, and lacking a better explanation for it, he had thought like them despite himself.
When enough people told you that there was something wrong with you, no matter how tough you were, you were bound to be affected in one way or another; it just depended on the individual.
In truth, he was just somewhat different from most people.
And now, that difference could very well be his only shot to get out of this place in one piece.
Looking at the prowess of Hector or the strange pressure of the jailer, they back up the fact that they aren't exactly common folk either.
So trying to understand his peculiarity seemed like the way to go.
It's just that... Gil didn't even know where to start.
"That" wasn't something new.
Not really.
He had seen and felt things before; just not fully or clearly enough.
As far back as he could remember, even as a child—
He could sense people's moods.
He knew when people were lying to him.
He knew when something felt wrong or when danger was near.
Sometimes, he could even guess what people thought of him, among other things.
To the young Gil, it was both confusing and fascinating.
But people noticed; they always do...
The looks changed first.
Then came the whispers, followed by distance.
Soon, he found himself isolated. It was then that he became aware that others couldn't do what he could.
People fear what they don't understand. Even his parents...
Gil's fingers tightened at the memory.
They had tried to help, at least.
But they were "normal parents," and they did what all "normal parents" would have done. Without knowing it, they added to his troubles.
They sent him to a psychologist for "help."
Though it didn't help, Gil learned.
To hide.
To play dumb.
To blend in.
To be "normal."
To survive.
For a time, everything was fine. His parents were happy; he was too.
Then came the war.
And one day—he felt it. That feeling—it was screaming at him like never before.
An omen.
A warning.
Gil was a little over seven years old then. He didn't know what it meant, nor how to handle it.
But instinctively, he knew he had to act.
So he did. He cried, begged, and threw a tantrum. Anything to make his parents believe him.
To convince them by hook or by crook that they should leave—that they must leave.
Alas... they took it as the whims of a child, or thought their own anxiety about the war was making him nervous.
So, after coaxing him a bit, they left it at that and stayed.
Gil could remember tiring out his then too-young body trying to make them understand.
He had even tried running away from home to make them search for him; that way, they would all be safe, he had thought naively.
But he didn't go far before he got caught by a well-meaning acquaintance of his parents and brought back home.
After a harsh scolding and punishment, he was locked into his room for the rest of the day, where he fell into an agitated slumber, exhausted from all his efforts that day.
The next day—fire rained from the sky.
The rest... he didn't want to remember.
From that day on, whenever something triggered "that," he always did his best to run far away from it.
But this time, he couldn't.
His gaze sharpened.
Now, locked down here, it had become his best chance to turn things around.
But again, what was he to do? He had no control over it.
It had always happened on its own.
Even his faculty to read the feelings of people came to him more by instinct than by conscious effort.
The closest thing that came to mind was the beating he had taken from Hector.
Back then, looking at the chains coming from the man, he could predict the man's moves.
But thinking about it now, he didn't seem to be able to see the chains anymore.
Holding onto that thought, Gil sat up straighter.
What were they even... those chains?
Thinking about it for a while, now cool-headed, Gil finally noted the strangeness of the event.
Though he could do many strange things, seeing things wasn't amongst them... at least until now, apparently.
But since only he seemed to see them, yet they reacted to Hector, Gil got an idea of what they were.
Or at least what they meant.
Tentatively, he decided to name them: Intent.
Back then—though he called it a fight—it was painfully obvious that his kidnapper wasn't even serious. At least, not until towards the end. During the confrontation, and even before that, the man always wanted one thing: to take him away.
That's not all, Gil thought, his mind growing clearer and sharper.
Towards the end, he said something about my eyes...
Gil brought his hands to his face, but he couldn't feel anything different about his eyes. He couldn't see in the dark, nor did he see anything like the chains now.
He wondered if Hector had been mistaken, before quickly dismissing the idea. Though he resented the man, he recognized his prowess. And if someone like that said there was something, then there was something.
Perhaps I should try it on someone ?
Looking toward the nearest person in the dark, Gil fixed his attention on a silhouette and tried to focus.
He strained his eyes, staring for a long while, but... nothing.
It didn't work.
Though a bit disappointed, he didn't get discouraged.
He stopped to think, confused.
Why didn't it work?
Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind, then opened them again and focused intensely on that particular silhouette.
Forgetting his hunger, the faint smell of blood coming from the remnants of the rash captive, and the hushed whispers around him, everything seemed to fade away as he grew more and more focused on that silhouette.
He invoked the memories of his bout with Hector.
The pressure.
What he had done.
What he had felt.
His breathing became longer and slower, and finally, his eyes, staring at the same silhouette, finally saw something... more than earlier.
At first, there was still nothing.
But this time, he felt there was something to see. He couldn't quite place it, so he continued to stare ahead.
Then, little by little, he saw it.
Like it was conjured from the void.
Above the silhouette, a heavy, grey cloud hung.
The cloud kept flashing in and out of existence unstably, like a mirage.
He didn't know how he could be sure it was grey in this darkness; he just knew.
More importantly, it was growing in size, getting bigger as time passed, as if feeding on something...
It worked!
A faint, proud smile appeared on his lips—only to vanish the next second. A lapse in his focus made him lose sight of the cloud.
"Dammit..." he cursed.
Undeterred, he gathered his focus again and looked around.
One person.
Then another.
Clouds.
Everywhere.
Heavy and oppressive.
Most people were like the first one he had experimented with, with heavy clouds hanging above their heads.
Some were darker than others.
Then—something else.
On some silhouettes, there was no cloud.
Instead, something clung to them like distorted shadows, but darker.
Skulls.
Pitch black, hanging over their shoulders, watching in silence.
Gil's breath hitched. "...What the hell?"
Then he saw another one.
Different.
A faint glow surrounded a thin silhouette.
It was red—a red like a blend of fire and blood.
And it burned, slowly... quietly.
Taken aback, Gil instinctively leaned forward, wanting to look closer, when—
"—Hng!"
A sharp spike of pain suddenly pierced the area behind his eyes. He shut them instantly, clutching his head. His vision turned black, his breath ragged.
"What... was that?"