Gunpowder.
The smell hit first. Sharp, metallic, burnt. Then came blood—thick, sticky, clinging to walls, the floor, and the soles of shoes.
Ethan didn't move. Not a muscle. Not a blink. Not a breath deeper than survival demanded. If you wake up… don't let them know.
Cold concrete pressed against his cheek. Stone and debris. Broken glass cut his small hands.
When he dared to open his eyes, he saw chaos frozen in grotesque detail. Crates splintered, walls riddled with bullet holes, sparks from a shattered fluorescent light flickering above. And then… the bodies. Two familiar shapes. His parents. His older sister. All gone. Every bullet, every slash, every mark told the story clearly: the gang they had been part of—or allied with—was torn apart. He had wandered in at the wrong time.
He remembered the sequence fragment by fragment. Gunfire in the hallway, deafening and precise. Screams, then silence. A stray knife swung in desperation, narrowly missing him. His parents fighting desperately, throwing punches, knives, even bullets, but there were too many, too fast. Explosions from planted charges sent crates splintering everywhere. Dust and blood mixed in a choking cloud. He had fallen to the floor under a stack of debris and tried to stay still, breath caught in his chest.
The warehouse reeked of smoke, sweat, and coppery blood. And he was alone.
Footsteps approached. Slow. Controlled. Precise. Ethan froze, letting the chaos in the room speak for him. The men who entered were not ordinary gang members—they were too methodical, too quiet, too observant.
"Alive," said one, low, cold. A man with a long coat and sharp eyes knelt beside him.
"Who are you?"
"Ethan… Crowe," the boy whispered. His voice cracked, weak and tiny.
"Family?"
"…Dead," he managed. Not a lie.
The man didn't react. Instead, he signaled a woman behind him, holding a small notebook and pencil. Calm, precise, professional.
"You survived," she said softly. "That means you have… potential."
Ethan's brain recorded the words. Not comprehension. Just a fact. Survived. That was all that mattered.
Hours passed. Questions came—calm, calculated, psychological. They asked who had entered first, who had firearms, which crates were moved, if anyone had escaped. Ethan answered only what was necessary, hiding everything he didn't know or could not risk revealing. They observed him carefully, watching how his eyes tracked shadows, how his hands twitched, how his breathing adjusted to every sound, every scent. When a shadow moved past the shattered windows, they noted his awareness. When the smell of gunpowder stung his nose, they measured his reaction. When his small fists clenched and unclenched, they watched his patience. Tears didn't fall. He had no time for weakness.
By the end of the night, the man stood and nodded. "You're clever. Observant. Patient. That's rare at your age. You'll do well where we're taking you."
The warehouse remained in flames behind them, smoke drifting into the sky. The city outside flickered, unaware.
Ethan was moved carefully, every step measured, every word he said recorded. The "orphanage" was not what he imagined. It was a training facility under the gang's supervision, designed to break the weak, refine the survivors, and prepare new recruits for the merciless world outside. The walls were clean, the floor polished, but the air smelled of discipline and unspoken threats. Ethan studied it all—the guards' movements, patrol schedules, surveillance cameras hidden in corners. Every detail went into his memory. Every observation was another layer of protection.
He had nothing else. No powers. No miracles. Only observation, calculation, and patience.
Somewhere inside, a cold thought crystallized. If this world is cruel… then I will learn how to survive it. On my own terms.
His fists clenched. Not for vengeance. Not yet. For survival.