"BLARRR!"
A fist slammed into the boy's face. His messy hair flew back, his dead-fish eyes staring blankly as fresh blood sprayed from his nose and splattered across the cold steel floor.
Two men in black uniforms stood over him, their bodies massive, their expressions flat as stone.
"Again," one of them muttered, yanking the boy's head back by the hair. "This brat's hiding something."
Great. At this rate, I'll lose all my teeth, Max grumbled in his head. His lips twisted into a crooked smile, even as blood dripped down his chin.
"If you're gonna kill me, then kill me," his voice rasped, sounding more like a cough. "Or do you guys just enjoy punching kids for fun?"
Another fist hammered into his gut. Max doubled over, coughing blood. The iron chair he was tied to screeched against the floor as the flickering neon light above cast jagged shadows across the gray walls.
His stomach burned, but the pain didn't last. The dried blood at his mouth flaked off. The cut on his temple slowly sealed, the skin knitting back together as if it had never been split.
One of the guards snorted. "Look at that. Damn Immunis. Can't beat 'em, can't break 'em." The other sneered. "Yeah, but they don't heal this fast. Normal Immunis take hours. This brat? Seconds. That's not human."
Max bared his bloody teeth in a grin. Not human, huh? That's exactly what scares you.
The iron door creaked open.
A man in a long black coat stepped inside. His footsteps echoed with heavy authority, each strike of his polished shoes louder than a punch. At a glance from him, the two guards immediately stepped aside.
"That's enough." His voice was calm—too calm. It cut sharper than any blow.
He crouched until his eyes were level with Max's battered face. Cold, dark eyes that seemed to peel back skin and bone, searching for whatever lay underneath.
"Immunis are tough, sure. But you…" His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You're different. Wounds that heal in seconds? That isn't a human gift."
Max let out a hoarse laugh, choking on his own blood. "So what? Should I feel proud… or scared?"
The man didn't laugh. His gaze narrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was low, poisonous. "There's a rumor out there. About a boy who walked out of a Dead District—alone. A place no human should've survived." He leaned closer, until his breath brushed Max's cheek. "And you… fit the description perfectly."
Max held his breath, then spat. Blood and spit stained the man's polished shoes.
"Rumors are just stories," he said with a crooked grin. "Believe them, and you're just as stupid as your dogs."
The man straightened slowly, his face unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with something sharp and cold. "You can play dumb, Max. But we'll find out the truth. And if the rumors are real…" He paused, letting the silence press down like a weight. "You're not just dangerous. You're a threat to every last one of us."
The lights dimmed. The man left, the door slamming shut behind him.
Max sat there in the chair, chest heaving, blood drying on his lips. His eyes burned—not with fear, but with the stubborn fire of someone who refused to die.
Let them wonder. Let them fear. The more they fear me… the longer I live.