UK, London—15/11/1987, 9:45 p.m.
9 Hartland Road, London, NW1 8DB / 2A Hartland Road, Reading, RG2 8BN
A gunshot cracked through the night.
Jonthen staggered, then collapsed.
Maya's scream split the air—another shot cut her short. Her pearl necklace snapped as she fell, the beads skittering across the rain-slick pavement like scattered stars.
Eren froze. His world ruptured in a single breath. Then came the silence—heavy, unnatural—broken only by the steady patter of rain as it washed over the still forms of his parents.
He dropped to his knees between them, small hands shaking as he reached instinctively for the pearls lying cold in the water. The world around him felt distant, blurred—not from tears, but from shock so complete it numbed everything.
The mugger, suddenly aware of what he'd done, staggered back to flee.
Eren lifted his head. His face was soaked with rain, his breath coming in quick, uneven pulls. His voice, thin and breaking, trembled out of him:
"You… you killed them. You killed them."
The mugger faltered—just one misstep, one moment of hesitation.
Something inside Eren broke open.
A raw, guttural roar tore from his throat. His eyes ignited with an otherworldly blue glow, a shimmering aura wrapping around his small body like living light. The air hummed—charged, dangerous.
With a final, wrenching cry, a bolt of blue energy exploded from him.
The mugger saw it coming. For a split second, he understood he wasn't running from a child. He didn't understand what he faced—there was no time to. The lightning struck him squarely, engulfing him in blinding brilliance. When the light faded, nothing remained but a dark smear of ash.
And then Eren collapsed.
His small body hit the wet road with a dull thud—whether from overwhelming grief or the violent surge of power, no one could say.
Rain thickened into a downpour, drumming against the pavement as if the sky itself mourned. It washed the blood into thin red tributaries and washed the last traces of the mugger into the gutter. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing nearer—police cars slicing through the storm toward the scene that would change everything.
UK, London—16/11/1987
2:45 a.m., St. Thomas' Hospital
Darkness pressed in around him—soft, weightless, almost warm. Somewhere in the distance, machines hummed, muffled and far away. And then the memories began.
At first, a little boy—five, maybe six—sat alone in the corner of an orphanage library. His legs were too short for the chair, his feet dangling as he worked through a thousand-piece puzzle meant for teenagers. The other kids whispered behind him, giggling at the "weird" boy who preferred cardboard pieces to people.
He ignored them.
The puzzle made sense. People didn't.
When he finished in under an hour, the caretaker didn't praise him. She accused him of cheating. That night, while everyone slept, he quietly broke the puzzle apart and solved it again—piece by piece—to remind himself what he already knew: he wasn't wrong. The world was.
But as the memory faded, the boy's edges blurred, like mist thinning under morning light. He looked up at him—hope bright in his eyes, desperate to be seen—before dissolving.
Another memory took its place.
The same boy, older now—eight, maybe nine. Rain hammered the tin roof of the orphanage as he rummaged through the trash pile behind it. His hands stopped on an old, broken wall clock. The glass was shattered, gears rusted. But something about it called to him.
He smuggled it into his room, hiding it beneath loose floorboards. Weeks passed as he worked in secret—paper clips bent into makeshift tools, wires scavenged from old radios. When the clock finally ticked again, he didn't show anyone. He simply hung it above his bed, a quiet rebellion against a chaotic world.
There was hope in his eyes then too—hope that someday things might change, that he might matter.
Time shifted again.
The boy disappeared, replaced by a slightly older version of himself. Ten. Eleven. Sneaking through the orphanage at night. The headmistress kept a locked cabinet full of forbidden books—philosophy, science, history, and fantasy. He picked the lock using a bent spoon and a hairpin. The door clicked open like it had been waiting for him.
Every night he read beneath his blanket, flashlight trembling in his hand. He didn't understand every word, but he understood the feeling: knowledge could be a door. Knowledge could be freedom. Curiosity flashed in his eyes like something alive, chained only by circumstance.
That memory dissolved too.
The next one hit harder.
He was fourteen or fifteen now, standing on a stage, accepting a city-wide academic scholarship—first place, top of his class. A moment that should have felt triumphant.
Instead, he heard the whispers:
"Isn't he from that orphanage?"
"He probably cheated."
"Kids like that always find a way."
The applause was polite but cold. That night he tore the certificate into shreds and flushed it away. Better gone than tainted.
More memories came—sharp, rapid, unforgiving.
Age 15—The Locker Incident.
"FREAK" painted across his locker. Books shredded. Notes destroyed. When he reported it, the principal didn't even look up.
"Maybe if you tried to fit in more…"
No investigation. No justice. Just a warning not to "provoke" others. After that, he stopped bringing books. He memorized everything instead.
Age 16—The Job Interview.
The repair shop owner was impressed—until he read the address. The man slid the resume back without a glance.
"Orphanage kids are trouble. Try the fast food joints."
He walked out with his head held high, but blood welled beneath his fingernails from how tightly he clenched his fists.
Age 17—The Debate Club Betrayal.
He was the best speaker the school had—precise, cutting, and brilliant. But when the regional finals came, the team benched him.
"You're too intense."
"You make people uncomfortable."
They chose charm over skill. He watched from the audience as they lost in the first round. No one met his eyes.
Age 18—The Riot.
A crowd gathered outside the orphanage gates, shouting for the place to be shut down.
"They're a drain on the city!"
"Thieves and beggars, all of them!"
He watched from behind barred windows as strangers condemned children for existing. Something inside him cracked—not fear, not sadness, but a slow, simmering resolve:
If the world wouldn't accept him, he'd reshape it. Piece by piece.
The memory faded into rain and darkness.
Then the last one arrived—clearer, sharper, almost painfully real.
He was nineteen, maybe twenty. A rainy evening. A narrow alley behind a community shelter where he volunteered as a quiet tech assistant. He was heading home when he heard shouting.
A family—a mother clutching a terrified child, a father trying to shield them from two armed men demanding money and the groceries they'd just received from the shelter.
He stepped forward.
"Take the money," he said softly.and "Leave the family."
One of the men barked a laugh. "Who are you supposed to be? A hero?"
"I'm nobody," he said. "But I'm not letting you hurt them."
The fight was quick and frantic. He managed to disarm one attacker, but the second man's knife flashed in the rain and sank deep into his side. The family escaped. He collapsed onto the wet pavement, vision dimming, rain mixing with the blood on his hands.
The child looked back at him—terrified, grateful—as the darkness closed in.
His final thought was simple, quiet, and steady:
Let him grow up in a better world than mine.
And in the hospital bed, lost between life and death, the echo of that memory washed over him. Not the pain. Not the fear.
Just the warmth of the child's hug.
The mother whispered, "Thank you."
And, for the first time, pride.
The pride of being seen—finally—as something more than a freak.
As a protector.
Inside St. Thomas' Hospital—Patient Room
The boy jolted awake with a sharp gasp, as if pulled violently from a nightmare. For a second he didn't know where he was—white ceiling, dim hospital lights, the faint smell of disinfectant. Then the memories hit him.
And the tears came.
They slid down his cheeks without restraint, warm and constant, like tiny pearls slipping free. He didn't even sob—his body just shook, helpless, overwhelmed.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway.
A doctor and a nurse rushed in, both slightly breathless, eyes wide.
"Mr. Lancaster?" the doctor said gently, stepping closer. "Can you hear me? Are you with me?"
Eren blinked up at him, vision blurred with tears. His voice came out cracked and trembling.
"I… I can hear you, Doctor. I know you're asking me things, but… I can't—" His breath hitched. "I lost my parents. I can't control it. I can't stop."
The doctor's expression softened into something quiet and respectful. For a long moment, he didn't speak—just nodded once, slowly. Then he turned to the nurse.
"Let him grieve."
They both stayed there, standing near the bed, their faces marked with that same helpless look adults wear when they wish they could fix something they can't.
Eren wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, though it didn't do much.
"In the orphanage," he whispered, barely audible, "I always controlled my tears…"
"I understand your grief, Mr. Lancaster," the doctor said carefully. "But you need rest. You'll be staying in the hospital for a week. After that, the authorities will come to take your statement. They want to make sure justice is served for your parents."
Eren swallowed hard. "Okay, Doctor…"
The doctor nodded, exchanged a brief glance with the nurse, then administered a light sedative to help him rest. They left quietly afterward, the door clicking softly behind them.
And the room was silent again.
The moment they were gone, Eren felt the tight hold on his emotions slip. The tears returned—slow at first, then steady, unstoppable.
He curled slightly on his side, staring at nothing, letting the grief pour out.
He could still see his mother's smile.
He could still hear his father's laugh.
He remembered them—so vividly it hurt.
And now he had lost them all over again.
After a while, the room began to tilt—not physically, but in that strange, distant way that comes when exhaustion finally smothers grief. My limbs felt like they were sinking into the mattress, too heavy to lift, too numb to fight.
A cold wave swept through me, followed by a hollow weakness that made my fingers tremble. I tried to sit up, or at least wipe my eyes again, but even that felt impossible.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears, slow and uneven.
I can't… keep my eyes open…
The edges of the room blurred. The ceiling lights softened into a hazy glow. My breaths came shallow, each one weaker than the last.
"I… can't control… my body," I whispered to no one. "It… feels so weak…"
A shiver ran through me, and for a brief second I panicked—was something wrong? Was I dying too? Had losing my parents broken something deeper inside?
But I didn't have the strength to think anymore.
A heavy wave of darkness washed over me, warm and quiet, pulling me under. My consciousness slipped like water through cupped hands.
And once again, I drifted into unconsciousness.
Three Days Later—St. Thomas' Hospital, Corridor
The hallway outside Eren's room was quiet, the kind of quiet that hospitals wear like a uniform. A doctor stood with two police officers, his expression tight with worry.
"He's not in any condition to answer questions," the doctor said, voice low but firm. "Severe trauma. He witnessed both parents' deaths right in front of him. He hasn't spoken to anyone in three days."
One of the officers—a man with a stern face but tired eyes—shifted uncomfortably. "I understand, Doctor. I'll just… meet the boy. I won't force him to speak."
The doctor hesitated, then nodded. "All right. But be gentle."
Inside the Room
Detective Steve Smith stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. His footsteps were quiet and respectful. Eren sat propped up against the pillows, a thin blanket pulled around him, staring at nothing in particular. His eyes didn't have the glassy shock from before, but they still didn't look alive.
"Hello, Mr. Lancaster," the detective said gently. "Would you be willing to answer a few questions?"
Eren swallowed. "Yes… sir."
"I'm Detective Steve Smith," he continued, pulling up a chair. "I'm handling your parents' case. I know this is difficult, but whatever you can tell me will help."
Eren nodded faintly. "You… you can ask."
The detective leaned forward, keeping his voice calm and even. "Can you tell me what happened that night?"
Eren's fingers twisted in the blanket. He tried to breathe steadily but failed. "We… we were going home. After watching a movie. We walked onto that road, and… and a man came out of nowhere. Bigger than my dad. He pointed a gun at us and asked for money."
His voice cracked.
"My parents tried to give it to him. They were doing what he asked. But he still shot them. Both of them. I—" His throat closed. Tears rose again, sharp and uncontrollable. "I started crying. I couldn't stop. And then he ran away… like he was scared."
Detective Smith nodded slowly. "I understand, Mr. Lancaster. And I'm sorry you had to see that." He paused, choosing his words with care. "Did you hear anything else? A blast, maybe? Any loud sound near you?"
Eren shook his head. "No… officer. Just the gunshots."
"All right." The detective stood, smoothing the front of his coat. "Thank you. That's enough for today."
He hesitated at the door, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes that he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide.
"Mr. Lancaster… Once you're discharged, you'll be placed in an orphanage temporarily," he said gently. "I'll come back for you in three days to finalize everything."
Eren nodded, hollow. "Okay… officer."
Detective Smith gave him one last look—pity mixed with something else, maybe regret—then quietly left the room.
The door clicked shut.
And Eren was alone again.