He barely thought the word as he dragged one foot after the other, the limp in his step betraying the pain he tried to hide.

That's how far he'd fallen—

About the height of a diving board at an Olympic pool. Only, there was no crowd holding its breath.

No water to break his fall.

Just air.

Then concrete—

Not the kind of fall that knocks the wind out of you.

The kind that buries it.

He'd hit the ground like a discarded puppet, his limbs bending the wrong way, his ribs collapsing inwards like paper. For a moment, the world didn't sound like rain, or wind, or distant noise. It sounded like a heart that had stopped.

His eyes stayed open, blank and unmoving, through the haze. Everything was dark; smeared rain, a pale sky bruised with storm clouds, and the sharp taste of copper in his mouth. Water streamed down the Foundation walls like veins, pooling around his broken body. His cheek was pressed to the street like something meant to die,

and left behind.

He should have stayed down.

But pain had never been the enemy.

  

The real enemy…

was remembering what it felt like not to be in pain.

Beneath torn flesh, something happened. Muscles quivered, his tendons clenched. Cracked bones shifted, grinding against each other as they slowly snapped back into place with horrible resolve. Bullets, once lodged deep in his side, began to push out, one by one. As if the body was rejecting death itself.

He tasted blood again.

Breathed smoke.

And blinked.

It should have killed him.

Rain, bullets, gravity; all of it conspired to end him right there.

By every law of man and nature, he should've been nothing more than a body. Even the rain seemed determined to wash him away.

But he wasn't natural.

He never had been.

Born small. Weak. Sick. Passed over by doctors, teachers, even his own parents. A mistake that kept breathing. The kind of kid people forgot to pick up after school. The one who sat in the nurse's office while the others ran.

He gritted his teeth.

Maybe that's why it chose him.

What better vessel for ruin... than something already broken.

Then—like someone had pressed the Pause button—the world around him froze. Even the rain hung in the air like suspended tears.

No, not quite.

It hadn't stopped.

It had just slowed. Slowed so much that it felt like time had given up.

The droplets were still falling. Just… unbearably slow.

That's when it happened. Tttiring...

A black web formed across his vision, like cracks spidering through a mirror.

The numbers hovered in front of his eyes like a heads-up display. It was like something from a game. A digital overlay only he could see. Only, this was no game. This was survival… or something pretending to offer it.

The articulate voice of a young female followed, cutting through the thoughts in his head.

The words made his stomach turn. That name. The Requiem Protocol.

It sounded… cold. Too clean. Too precise. The kind of thing they write on reports.

He never called it that. 

Calling it that made it sound official. Made it sound permanent.

No.

He called it The System.

Because if he said that name enough times, then maybe, just maybe, it would start to sound less like a parasite and more like a tool.

But even lies start to sound like truth when you whisper them long enough inside your own head.

He exhaled sharply, a humorless huff.

Now that things had spiraled this far, with the system fully active and devouring what little he had left, what difference did it make anymore?

 He didn't need to speak. The thought alone was enough. Even then, the voice continued on regardless.

"...."

He should've felt comfort. Relief. Something.

But all he felt was hollow.

The System didn't care about him. It never had. It only cared that the meat kept moving.

And now… it did.

His arms straightened. His legs locked into place. Not because he wanted them to but because they were told to.

His forehead must've split open from the fall because blood ran into his eyes, turning the world into a smeared haze of red. The wound had already sealed itself with a soft hiss, the skin knitting together in seconds. But the damage was done. The blood clung to his lashes, blurred his sight. He couldn't see far. Just shadows. Just movement. 

That was when he saw it on the ground. An inscription scrawled in trembling strokes:

The words were written in dark red. Still wet. Still brave.

He saw the blood on his fingers. His own, no doubt. Dirt packed beneath his nails. His skin was torn. But he hadn't written it.

That, he was certain.

Someone—or something—must've taken control.

Moved his hands. Etched the message.

And left him with the question burning in his mind:

Why?

A plea. A command. Maybe a promise.

He stared at it like it was scripture.

Something inside him clawed to the surface.

It was not strength.

Because if someone still believed he was worth saving… why didn't he?

Steam hissed from the wounds across his chest as they closed, sealing like old secrets. Rain dripped from his fingertips like blood. And as his senses sharpened, the pain faded into something less noticeable.

He swallowed.

Not words.

Doubt.

Of a question he didn't want answered.

His fingers curled into the dirt.

The world around him faded. No footsteps, no shouts, no color.

Just the voice.

The cold, constant hum of something deeper than thought.

He should've screamed. Should've cried. Should've remembered who he was.

But maybe... there was nothing left to remember.

No boy. No name.

Just—

The System. A corpse in motion.

"....?!"

That word again. Candidate.

Like a label stamped on a coffin I never built. As if this were a promotion.

As if becoming a weapon had been a choice.

His visor cap glowed, pulling him back from the memory. But his eyes — if they were still his — refused to follow.

"Is this me now?" he wondered, not aloud, but in the aching silence between his heartbeats.

"Or is this just what's left?"

He remembered what it felt like to be afraid. He just didn't know if he still could be.

What he knew was this: he didn't die.

Not because he survived. But because something else decided he should.

And now, he had to live with that.

Because there's no fear more suffocating,

no terror more complete,

than knowing your fate rests in someone else's hands—

utterly at their mercy…

or their wrath.

Necessary, he whispered.

Again.

And again.

And again. And again. And again.

Like a prayer offered to a god made of wires and bone.

But even then…

He wasn't sure he believed it anymore.