Ficool

Chapter 5 - Chapter 5

Nemor walked slowly, body still not recovered from the exhaustion he felt. The beach was left behind. The water and waves became distant sounds, until they disappeared completely.

The sun gradually disappeared on the horizon, giving way to the stars that began to dot the darkened sky. The crescent moon emerged timidly between scattered clouds.

He continued walking, going slowly from one place to another. Each step was effort. Each movement hurt. The way home had never been as distant as today.

His steps were heavy as lead. Taxis occasionally passed, honking for possible passengers. But he had no way to take one. He didn't have a single bill of money in his empty pockets.

After several corners being crossed, muscles protesting with every movement, he finally reached his small house in a completely humble neighborhood. Simple houses aligned side by side. Narrow streets. Old cars parked.

Upon opening that creaking wooden door and entering the living room, something hit him immediately. The smell of well-prepared food hung throughout the entire house. Each particle of air carried the aroma of seasoned meat, fresh rice, homemade spices.

When he looked at the table that was right in the center of the room, he swallowed hard. Never, on any day, had he found that amount of food in his house. Seeing as his parents worked in an agriculture field that paid little, very little.

He took two hesitant steps inside.

At that moment, two people came out of the kitchen. An elderly lady with white hair tied in a simple bun, with a kitchen apron hanging on her, came carrying a bowl of still steaming rice to add to the already abundant table. It was Mrs. Wan.

Beside her was a gentleman in clothes worn by time and constant use. Patched in some spots, but they still managed to serve their purpose. Callused hands of someone who works under the sun every day.

It was then that Mr. Yeager saw his son standing there. He said with genuine excitement: "Don't you think you're a little late, champ?"

Nemor kept his feet planted on the ground to avoid wavering and falling from weakness. He held his own head, seeming to disguise something, but his eyes didn't waver from that full table.

Mrs. Wan placed the bowl on the table and then approached him. She held his cheeks with both hands, rough calluses but gentle touch. She said with clear concern: "Why didn't you answer your phone? I was worried, son."

She looked more closely at his face. She frowned. "Why is your face like that? Don't tell me you've been getting into fights?"

Nemor swallowed hard once more.

Sasha's voice echoed in his mind, apologetic tone: "I'm sorry, sir. I forgot to completely heal your bruises after the nightmare."

He clenched his teeth discreetly. He said to his mother, stuttering slightly: "It was nothing, Mom. I just ended up tripping when getting into a taxi."

He tried to make the lady believe those words, forcing the most casual tone possible.

Mrs. Wan narrowed her eyes. "And where did you get money to take a taxi?"

The words were as direct as a knife. Nemor tried to process some convincing answer, brain working in overdrive.

But then Mr. Yeager intervened: "Enough interrogation. I was the one who gave him the money." He looked at Nemor with complicity. "And apparently you made good use of it, to not be late for dinner."

Nemor looked at his father's face. It was then he thought, no words needed – it was already obvious. Yeager said those words to save him from Mrs. Wan's arms, who was completely worried about her son.

Yeager clapped once. "Let's eat before the food gets cold."

Mrs. Wan sighed, but agreed: "You're right."

When they finally sat around the table, Nemor's eyes still remained fixed on the absurd amount of food. He said with genuine confusion: "But this is so much food. How did you get all this?"

Wan smiled with maternal pride. "We're working hard, so it's good to spoil our baby."

Nemor turned red to his ears. "Mom! How many times do I have to say? I'm already an adult!"

Mr. Yeager laughed, deep and affectionate sound. "Well, to us you're still our baby."

Nemor took a deep breath. There was no way to argue back. The conversation would only drag on even more if he insisted.

But Mr. Yeager continued, tone becoming more serious: "We've been saving up some money. And your mother and I thought about putting you in school." He held his own chin, trying to remember. "What's the name of the school again?"

Wan completed the word immediately: "Amister. We want you to study there."

Nemor said, voice coming out too serious: "I can't accept."

Yeager frowned. "What do you mean you won't accept?"

Mrs. Wan leaned forward. "But son, this would be a good start for you. A real opportunity."

Nemor said, voice loaded with emotion he struggled to control: "You've worked so hard. And I understand you want the best for me."

He stopped. Took a deep breath.

"But what about the house? What about you?" He continued, voice becoming more sentimental with each word. "If you spend so much money on me, there would be nothing left, or very little, for what you wear, or for you to stop working and finally rest."

Mrs. Wan felt the weight of those words. She saw her son almost shedding tears, trying to hold them back with willpower.

Mr. Yeager placed his heavy hand on the table. "We'll continue this conversation tomorrow. For now..." He smiled. "Bon appétit to everyone."

Mrs. Wan served them both, including herself. The smell of food still hung strong in the air, making Nemor's stomach growl even through the emotion.

While eating, Nemor tasted the homemade food. It was so good he could barely stop. Each forkful was a blessing. Each piece of seasoned meat melted in his mouth. Each spoonful of warm rice warmed his chest.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, only the sound of cutlery against plates.

When they finished eating, Nemor got up, holding his full stomach. "I think I'm going to lie down. I'm so full I can barely move."

Mrs. Wan said automatically: "Make sure you don't forget to shower before sleeping, okay?"

Nemor smiled slightly. "Okay, Mom."

He climbed the wooden stairs that creaked under his feet, each step protesting with familiar sound. Reaching his room, he had no ceremony. He simply threw himself on the bed, body sinking into the soft mattress. His muscles finally relaxed after hours of tension.

Sasha's voice emerged gently in his mind: "Aren't you going to do what your mother recommended?"

He responded without opening his eyes, exhaustion weighing on every word: "Don't be a pain. I'm completely exhausted."

He remained silent for a few seconds, breathing slowly. Then curiosity returned, that question that had been hammering his mind since the beach.

"Speaking of which... what exactly does 'the Extermination' mean?"

Sasha responded after brief consideration: "Good question, sir. I don't know exactly. From what I could understand, she's not an into. The energy she carries seems to be something unique, different from anything I've ever seen."

He frowned, processing that. "Unique? What do you mean unique?"

"It means nothing like this has existed before, sir. For now, that's all I know."

He took a deep breath, trying to assemble the mental puzzle. "So she's not an into, but has powers? Interesting..." He paused. "It makes sense why those guys want her so badly. But still, it doesn't make any sense. Why exactly the word 'Extermination'? It sounds so... definitive. Threatening."

"I'd love to help with more details, sir. But I really don't know anything more about it at the moment."

He placed his head on the soft pillow, sinking into it. He closed his eyes. "Whatever."

Silence dominated the room like a living presence. Only distant sounds – cars passing on the street outside, the occasional creak of the old house settling, the gentle wind hitting the curtain and making it dance. His own breathing, slow and deep.

But his mind didn't rest. Instead of thinking about Hana, about the Extermination, about the men in suits or the nightmare, he thought about something completely different. That moment at dinner in the living room. The genuine smile his parents showed. The abundant table, fruit of so much sacrifice. That affectionate word – "baby" – a nickname he was constantly called, even though he was already an adult. The way they looked at him with love so unconditional it hurt in his chest.

Sasha's voice emerged gently, breaking his thoughts: "Sir, I detected a wave of intense emotion coming from you." Delicate pause. "Would you like to spend more time with your parents?"

He didn't respond immediately.

She continued, tone becoming more serious: "While the nightmare exists, you'll still be forced to enter every twelve hours. There's no escaping that."

Something inside him broke. He clenched his fists so tight his nails dug painfully into his palms, leaving crescent marks. His voice came out hoarse, loaded with desperate determination:

"So what?! I just have to survive! I won't lose anyone! I won't lose any of them!"

But then it came. That voice that wasn't Sasha's. That cursed memory he couldn't forget, no matter how much he tried to bury it in the depths of his mind. It echoed like a cruel ghost:

"Poor boy..."

"I heard his parents were murdered by a gang of delinquents."

"In that deplorable state. Who in their right mind would put a child like that inside their house?"

The images returned in violent flash. Dirty street. Penetrating cold in his bones. Absolute loneliness. Looks of pity and disgust. The pain of being six years old and completely alone in the world.

He got up from the bed in abrupt movement, almost violent. Tears already flowed from his eyes without control, running down his cheeks in warm trails and dripping onto the sheet below, staining the fabric.

He clenched his fists so tight they trembled. His voice came out broken, torn by raw emotion:

"I won't lose anyone! I won't lose my parents!"

Breathing came in spasms now. Tears didn't stop.

Voice dropped to a whisper loaded with old, deep pain, from an entire other life: "Like I lost... in my past life."

The words hung suspended in the room's air. Heavy. Real. Carrying decades of trauma from a previous existence, where everything he loved had been brutally ripped from him. Where he was left alone, rejected, forgotten.

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't just absence of sound. It was oppressive presence of memories, of unhealed pain, of visceral fear of repeating the same fate.

For long seconds, only his irregular breathing broke the silence. He tried to compose himself, wiping the tears with the back of his hand in a rough, almost aggressive manner.

But then Sasha cut through the moment. Neutral voice, professional, bringing him back to cruel reality:

"I'm sorry to interrupt, sir. Twelve hours have passed since the last nightmare."

A pause that seemed to last an eternity.

"Four seconds remaining to enter again."

Nemor looked at his own trembling hands. Four seconds. Only four seconds before being ripped from here again. Before having to fight for survival once more. Before risking never returning to this house, to this bed, to that dinner table.

To his parents.

He closed his eyes.

Three seconds.

Two.

One.

**END OF CHAPTER 5**

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