The memory surfaced—unwelcome and vivid.
Blake lay on the filthy bathroom floor, his body curled tight, shaking. The cracked tiles scraped against his skin, cold and dirty beneath him.
Three older boys stood over him, fists slamming down without pause. Their kicks struck his stomach, his ribs, his back—each blow harder than the last.
Laughter echoed around the cramped room, mixing with the sound of his labored breathing.
Bully #1 (grinning):"Get up, weakling!"
He grabs Blake by the collar, yanks him to his feet—then slams him against the toilet stall door with a hard THUD. Blake gasps, coughing blood.
Bully #2 (drops a glass bottle. It shatters across the floor.)
Bully #2 (coldly):"Wanna prove you're tough? Punch it."
Blake stares at the broken shards, terrified. His hands tremble as they shove him down, knees to the floor, inches from the glass.
Bully #3 (mocking):"C'mon. Show us that strength."
Blake shakes his head, whispering through tears.
Blake (weak):"Please… don't make me..."
A slap. Loud. Sharp.
Bully #1:"DO IT!"
The boys cheer, laughing cruelly.
Blake closes his eyes. Breathes once. Then—
CRACK.
His fist slams into the glass.
He cries out in pain — blood instantly pouring from his knuckles. He hesitates…
Bully #2 (stepping back):"What the hell..."
Then Blake punches again. And again. Glass crunching. Skin splitting. Blood splashing on the walls. His face is soaked in tears. But he doesn't stop.
The bullies back away, faces pale.
Bully #1 (trembling):"What a freak… No wonder his father left him."
They flee. Fast. Leaving Blake behind — bloodied, broken, alone.
He drops to the ground, breathing hard, fists turned to bloody pulp. His body trembles. His eyes overflow.
Later that evening, the soft glow of a single lamp lit the small living room.
Blake sat on the couch, his hands wrapped in fresh bandages. Faint blood stains had already seeped through the cloth, dark and persistent.
His mother sat beside him, cradling his injured hands in hers. Her eyes were heavy with worry, but her voice remained calm, warm—a quiet comfort against the pain.
Blake's mother (softly):"You don't have to prove anything to anyone. But one day… you'll have to be stronger than this world expects."
Blake stays quiet, tears slipping down his cheek. He leans into her shoulder.
Blake's mother (smiling faintly):"Your heart is bigger than their hatred, and that makes you special. And I know... you carry more than most, mwanangu."
She hums a quiet melody, rocking him gently.
[Back to present]
It was still dark when Blake stepped into the kitchen.
The room is quiet. Faint moonlight spills through the window, casting pale shadows across the kitchen floor. The sound of a faucet dripping echoes like a ticking clock.
Blake stumbles in, shirt damp with sweat, his breath shaky. His eyes are heavy. Dark circles beneath them. He moves like someone who's just escaped a war, not a dream.
He grabs a glass with trembling hands and gulps water like he's been choking.
Behind him, a soft creak...
Babu enters, dressed in a light robe, eyes filled with concern.
Babu (gently):"Blake... what happened? You're trembling."
Blake freezes, still facing the sink. His knuckles are white against the glass.
He takes a slow breath... then turns around.
His face is tired, but calm. He gives a small, reassuring smile, too calm for someone who was just panicking.
Blake (softly):"It's nothing, Babu. Just a bad dream. You don't need to worry."
He places the glass down with care.
Blake steps forward and gently rests a hand on Babu's shoulder. The old man looks at him, unsure, eyes scanning him for the truth.
Babu (quietly, more to himself):"Dreams don't shake walls... or make a boy forget how to breathe."
Blake says nothing. He simply gives a half smile and starts guiding Babu out of the kitchen.
They walk together down the dim hallway.
In Seoul, deep within the military command Centre, the room was dimly lit, bathed in the cold blue glow of dozens of monitors. Holographic maps flickered over the central table, casting shifting lights across the steel walls. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the reinforced glass windows, a soft rhythm against the silence.
At the head of the room sat General Chae-won. She was alone, her posture sharp, her expression unreadable. She didn't speak—she didn't have to. Her mere presence made the air feel colder than the machines humming around her.
Techs murmur, officers work quickly, then one screen flashes red. A long, sharp beep echoes across the room.
(Computer alerts):"Unstable energy signature detected. Origin: East Africa."
One of the officers freezes, staring at the data flooding in.
Officer #1 (startled):"General... something just lit up on the global grid. The reading is massive, unstable but focused. It's not a mindless. It's not an Awakened either. It's…"
(Pauses, voice trembling):"It looks like..."
General Chae-won (without turning):"I see." Her voice is cold. Flat. Disgusted. The room goes silent.
She slowly stands. Her silhouette casts a long shadow across the glowing map of Africa.
General Chae-won (quietly, to herself): "This is going to be so much fun"
Back Street | Late Afternoon
The sun is high. The streets are alive with noise—vendors calling, radios playing, soldiers patrolling. Blake walks silently, hood up, a plastic bag in hand from the market. He keeps his head down as he weaves through the crowd. He turns a corner into a narrow alley, a shortcut home.
Across the alley, laughter echoes. Familiar.
Three men lean near a wall, smoking. Older now, taller—but their voices haven't changed.
Blake stops.
[CAMERA FLASHBACK – QUICK CUT]
School bathroom. Glass. Blood.
"Freak... no wonder his father left…"
Their faces—young then. Now, same eyes.
[Back to present]
Blake's breath catches. He turns, hoping to pass quietly. Too late.
Bully #1 (grinning): "No way. Is that who I think it is?"
Bully #2: "Look at him… still walking like he's afraid of air."
They step forward.
Blake freezes. His grip on the plastic bag tightens.
Bully #3 (chuckling): "You remember us, right? We gave you those free lessons in school."
He flicks the bag from Blake's hand. It hits the ground. Tomatoes roll into the dirt.
Blake doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
Bully #1 (mocking): "You deaf now? Or just still useless?"
He steps in. Without warning—
SWING.
A hard punch—right across Blake's face.
SMACK.
Blake's head jerks slightly to the side.
But he doesn't fall. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't raise a hand.
He stands there, completely still.
A thin line of blood trails from his nose. He blinks once.
His breathing… calm.
His eyes stay empty. No tears. No fear. No pain.
Blake slowly reaches down, picks up the tomatoes one by one. Dirt sticks to his hands. His fingers shake slightly—not from fear, but something else.
Bully #1 (confused): "Wh… What?"
Blake looks up at them. Calm. Dead calm. He stands, quietly walks away.
The bullies stand frozen. Watching.
Back home, Blake stood in the small washroom.
Dim lights flicker in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. The room is silent except for the soft hiss of running water.
Blake stands shirtless, hunched over the sink. His nose is bloodied. Dried streaks across his chin. His face is blank. Still.
He gently dabs his nose with a wet cloth. The water turns red.
He lifts his head. Stares into the depth of his own eyes.
Blake (voice-over, quiet thought):"I didn't feel it. The punch… Nothing."
He leans in closer to the mirror. His breath fogs the glass slightly.
Blake (voice-over):"I wasn't scared either. Not really. Why?"
His eyes scan his own reflection, tracing his collarbone, his chest, and his arms. The muscles are more defined than he remembers.
Blake (voice-over):"My body... It's different."
He exhales, nervous. A half-smile creeps onto his face, like he's trying to laugh it off.
Blake (muttering aloud):"Guess those side gigs are finally paying off..."
He lets out a soft chuckle. But it fades quickly. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
Suddenly—the bathroom light flickers.
The mirror hums faintly. The faucet vibrates, just for a second. Blake flinches.
Looks around. Silence again.
His reflection stares back… longer than it should.
He wipes the last of the blood from his nose. Turns off the tap. But his eyes linger on his reflection...
Ext. Burnt-Out Village – Outskirts | Late Evening
The wind carries ash and heat. Broken homes stand silent like ghosts. Fields are empty, animals long gone. The sky burns orange behind dark clouds.
In the Centre of the road, a Mindless boy, not older than 9, shivers violently. His skin is pale and cracked. Jagged Datium claws protrude from his arms. His eyes glow faintly, lost and glistening.
His mother stands in front of him, arms wide, breathing hard. Her body shakes, but she refuses to step aside. Tears pour down her face.
From the smoke emerge four robed figures. Black fabric consumes their forms, leaving only white bone faces staring back. Their robes shimmer faintly with symbols drawn in Datium ash.
These are Purists. Believers in Datium as divine judgment. And they do not carry guns. They carry blades of stone, etched with scripture.
Purist 1 (serene, calm):"He is touched. A vessel of the Crown. You stand between him… and his purpose."
Mother (crying, defiant):"He's just a boy! He's sick, my baby…"
Purist 2 (gentle, smiling):"No, my child. He is no longer yours. He belongs to the Judgment."
The boy groans. His claws twitch. A soft moan escapes his throat, confused, broken.
He lowers his head behind his mother. She whispers without turning.
Mother (softly):"It's okay baby… Mama's here... Just listen to my voice..."
SHLUNK.
Her body stiffens. A jagged claw pierces straight through her back, sliding out of her chest.
Blood sprays onto the ground.
Her mouth opens in shock, red drips from her lips. But she doesn't scream.
She stays standing. Arms still wide. Still shielding him.
Purist 1 (awed):"Even now... she protects the vessel?"
The boy retracts the claw. His small body trembles.
Boy (barely audible):"…ma... ma…"
She falls to her knees. Arms wrap around him as she collapses. Her final breath, a whisper only he can hear. Blood pools beneath them.
The Purists watch—not with horror, but reverence. One of them steps forward and gently pulls the mother's corpse away.
The boy doesn't move. His face soaked in tears.
Boy (whispers):"P-please… I don't want to die…"
A dark silhouette steps forward—calm, composed, cruel.
The Purist. No emotion in his eyes. No hesitation in his step.
The boy tries to crawl away, but the Purist's gloved hand grips his hair and yanks his head back with effortless power.
The Purist (coldly):"You were born broken. I'm just fixing the mistake."
A flash of silver. A whisper of steel slicing through flesh.
SHHHHLKT!
The boy's throat splits open in a smooth, precise line. For a split second, silence. Then a spray of blood bursts from the wound, painting the floor, the walls, the Purist's face.
The boy's hands clutch at his neck, eyes wide in horror as his body crumples. Gurgling. Twitching. Still.
The Purist stands over him, unfazed, wiping the blade clean on the boy's own shirt.
The Purist:"One less impurity."
The group begins to chant, slowly, rhythmically, a prayer in an unknown tongue.