A long road stretched downward toward a small open garden, filled with a variety of trees and flowers. In front of an apple tree stood two young girls, no older than five, watching as a boy, also around their age, climbed the tree, attempting to pluck a large, ripe apple.
The boy shifted his feet slightly, doing his best to reach the apple. His hand was just inches away, but every time he touched it, the apple seemed to move farther, as if it didn't want to be picked. Still, the boy was determined. He inched forward, stretching his arm further, intent on grabbing the apple so he could share it with his two friends.
But then, his foot slipped. He lost his balance and tumbled from the top of the tree, crashing through branches on his way down. He hit the ground hard, groaning in pain, and his left leg twisted unnaturally as bones broke through the skin.
"Uche!" the girls screamed, rushing to his side. Tears welled in their eyes as they took in the gruesome sight—his leg was twisted in a zigzag pattern, with bones jutting out from the skin.
"Uche, are you okay?" one of the girls asked, tears streaming down her cheeks as she knelt beside him, desperately trying to assess the damage.
Then, something strange happened. The bones that had pierced his skin began to shift, slowly moving back into place. Uche let out a scream of agony as his leg straightened and healed, with tiny blood-like tendrils wrapping around the wound, closing it up.
The girls stumbled back, fear replacing their concern. One of them started trembling.
Moments later, Uche stood up, his leg completely healed, as if nothing had happened. The bones had disappeared back into his body, leaving no trace of the horrific injury. His confused expression was matched only by the terror on his friends' faces.
He took a step toward them, but one of the girls screamed in panic.
"Don't come closer!" she yelled.
"Monster," the other whispered, before they both ran off, leaving Uche standing alone, bewildered.
---
"You bastard! Stop right there!"
Seven students in white uniforms were chasing a young boy, no older than five, who wore the same uniform. The boy had curly black hair, an oval-shaped face, and a slender build. Though younger and smaller than his pursuers, he was much faster, putting a significant distance between himself and the older boys, who were already gasping for breath.
"We need to catch him! He's the only one who saw us. He can't get away!" one of them panted.
The boy darted through several hallways, making sharp turns until he burst onto an open street. The main road loomed ahead, and he made a decision.
"If I can cross and catch a bus, they'll lose me," he thought.
Without slowing down, he sprinted toward the road, intending to cross. But just as he got onto the main road, he was hit head on by a speeding Ferrari. The impact sent him flying back onto the curb, his body skidding across the pavement.
The group chasing him came to a sudden halt, staring in shock.
"Is he dead?" one of them whispered, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
"That scumbag hit him and didn't even stop," another muttered, his voice trembling.
"What should we do now?" one asked, panic rising.
"We run, obviously," another answered quickly. "We act like nothing happened."
"But we were chasing him! People saw us," another objected, his voice full of guilt and fear.
"It's not our fault! The car hit him, not us!" came the defensive reply. "We had nothing to do with his death."
"But we were chasing him. We're involved," one insisted, looking stricken.
"So what should we do, go to the cops and tell them what happened? And get locked up? No, I'm not doing that."
The other said as he was about to start walking off, looking around cautiously.
"Guys, look!" one of them suddenly shouted, pointing toward the curb where the boy had landed.
The seven turned their gaze in disbelief. The boy they had been chasing—the same boy who had just been hit by a speeding Ferrari—was now walking toward them. He was completely unscathed, save for a few streaks of blood on his face and uniform. His limbs moved normally, and there were no visible injuries.
"What the hell?" one of them muttered, stepping back.
"He's fine… he's completely fine."
"Monster! He's a monster!" one screamed, and without another word, they all turned and ran, shouting in terror.
---
On an open field, a young boy stood trembling, blood covering his white uniform. His curly black hair was tousled, and flecks of blood dotted his oval-shaped face. Despite the blood, he was uninjured, but his body shook uncontrollably as stones rained down on him from behind.
A group of students, keeping their distance, continued pelting him with stones, chanting in unison.
"Monster! Monster! Monster! We don't want you in our school anymore! Go away, monster!"
The boy suddenly spun around, his tear-filled eyes blazing with desperation. His sudden movement caused the mob to freeze in place, their fear evident on their faces.
"I am not a monster!" he screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Still in the same school, on the hallway of a four-story building, two men in black overcoats watched the scene unfold from a window above, their faces devoid of emotion.
"So, the boy's a Connect," one said, his voice indifferent.
"Keep an eye on him. Make sure the students don't spread the word about a kid who can heal himself," the other man replied, his tone cold.
"It could cause a lot problem."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the other to continue watching.
---
Uche burst into his grandmother's room, tears streaming down his face, frustration evident in his voice.
"Granny!" he shouted.
The elderly woman, sitting in her wheelchair, looked at him with a warm smile.
"Yes, my lovely boy?" she responded gently.
"This is the last time I'll ask this, and if you give me the same answer as before, I swear it will be the last time you ever see me," Uche said, his voice shaking with emotion.
Her smile faltered slightly as she listened.
"Why am I different from everyone else? Why does my body heal itself when I get hurt? Why do you always cook me meat when I'm starving after an injury? Why does everyone call me a monster? Why are my friends scared of me? Who were my parents?" he demanded, his words filled with pain.
The older woman's smile slowly returned, and she gestured for him to sit, though he refused.
"You're just like your father—stubborn and always true to your word," she said softly. "And as for your questions, the answer will always be the same until you grow strong enough to protect yourself."
Without another word, Uche turned and walked out, tears still streaming down his face.
"I'll always be waiting for you, whenever you decide to come back," his grandmother whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.
---
In a bustling workshop filled with the sounds of grinding and hammering, five workers toiled away. The room was lined with shelves stocked with tools, equipment, and bundles of raw metal.
An old man with a hunched back and white hair worked alongside two middle-aged men and a younger man in his late twenties. The youngest of them all, a boy barely 17, stood at a large cutting table, sorting metal scraps and carefully organizing them into bins.
He wore safety goggles and a dust mask, his gloved hands moving methodically as he worked near the circular saw that was cutting through thick steel plates. The other workers guided the saw with expertise, while the boy cleared the scraps when the saw was idle.
As the boy bent down to clear the table, a long, sharp saber suddenly flew toward him with incredible speed. He didn't have time to react. The saber struck his shoulder, severing his arm completely.
A scream of agony filled the workshop as his arm hit the floor, blood pouring from the wound. The workers froze in horror, their eyes wide with shock.