The First Scar
The house was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Zaren sat on the floor, small and unmoving. Maki stood nearby, unsure where to put her hands, her eyes drifting through the room as if searching for something that no longer existed.
"…I'll stay," she said softly, her voice trembling.
She knelt in front of him, lowering herself to his level, trying to catch his gaze.
"You don't have to say anything," she said. "I'm here."
Zaren didn't respond.
That night, he lay awake, eyes open, staring into the darkness.
He didn't sleep.
Fragments surfaced without warning—his mother's smile, the shadow in the doorway, the words that cut deeper than sound.
You're too weak…
Morning came.
Maki placed food near him and waited.
"Just a little," she said gently. "Okay?"
Zaren didn't touch it.
Days passed.
Outside, Zaren ran.
He fell. He got back up. He ran again.
No one told him to.
His hands were scraped and bruised. He clenched them until they hurt.
From a distance, Maki watched. Worried. Silent.
At school, laughter filled the yard. Children gathered in groups, talking, playing.
Zaren stood apart.
Someone bumped into him.
"Watch it!"
Zaren didn't react.
Teachers rushed in before anything else could happen.
Later, he sat alone, breathing hard—not from regret, not from anger.
Just confusion.
That night, he read.
Old books lay open in front of him—muscles, joints, the human body laid bare in diagrams and labels.
His eyes traced arms and legs carefully.
If I move faster…
CHAPTER 1 — PART 3: The First Scar
Zaren trained alone.
Push-ups.
Holding planks.
Punching the air.
Clumsy. Repetitive.
Late at night, Maki watched him from a distance.
…He's too young for this.
Zaren paused mid-training. Sweat dripped down his face. His breathing was uneven.
I won't be weak.
Time moved forward.
Years passed.
Zaren stood at ten years old now—lean, quiet, focused.
His eyes held no fear.
Only resolve.
Under the night sky, he stood alone.
This was only the beginning.