2. Boy With No Name <2>
The man looked down at the boy's battered body and delivered a brutal kick to his side as a finisher. A sharp cry escaped the boy's lips as he lurched forward, a thick red liquid spilling from his mouth and onto the filthy floor. His ribs screamed in agony, but he barely reacted beyond a ragged wheeze.
"A beating is what an animal like you needs," the man boomed, his voice dripping with contempt.
The boy exhaled slowly, waiting for the pain to dull as it always did. It was a skill he had honed over the years— an unnatural ability to numb himself to the torment. There were moments when the pain would simply fade, leaving behind only a distant ache. At first, he thought it was a sign that death was creeping closer. Other times, he believed his body had simply adapted, like a scar that no longer felt the blade. Either way, he welcomed the numbness.
A warm trickle of blood ran from his nose, pooling at his lips. He was not afraid of death. He had long since accepted that there was nothing in this world worth fearing. Only those with families, those with something to lose, feared death. But he had nothing— no name, no past, no future.
Out on the streets of the dystopian human citadel, survival was the only law. There was no place for weakness, no mercy for the desperate. That was the only reason he was still alive— because he had refused to die, not because he had anything to live for.
He alone would decide when he would die and what he died for. He alone would choose who lived and who perished for him.
There had been fights before— slum rats like him, desperate and ruthless, clawing for scraps of power or food. He had barely survived some of those battles, teetering on the edge of death more times than he could count. There were moments when he could have won, moments when he could have slit a throat, watched the life drain from someone's eyes.
But he never had.
Not because of morality. That concept was foreign to him. No, the reason was simple.
The first man he killed would be his father.
The boy lay still, watching as the man strutted back to the ragged couch, collapsing into it with the laziness of a man too drunk to care. The television flickered in the dim light, casting erratic shadows across the peeling walls. His father muttered curses under his breath, already forgetting the son he had left bleeding on the floor.
Normally, the boy would wait. He would let his dulled senses return before dragging himself to his corner of the room. But tonight was different.
Tonight, he would do it.
His fingers dug into the floor as he gritted his teeth, forcing his broken body to move. Pain flared through his limbs, a white-hot agony that threatened to pull him back down, but he refused to submit. He pushed himself forward, inch by inch, ignoring the blood dripping from his cut lip.
Reaching the far side of the room, he felt around the heap of rags he called a bed. Beneath the layers of filth— cartons, nylon wrappers, cigarette butts— there was something hidden. A weapon. A small kitchen knife he had stolen from another slum rat in a fight.
His father never let him into the kitchen, he kept the door locked at all times. This knife was all he had.
His fingers trembled as they reached under the rags. He knew exactly where it was. He had hidden it carefully, memorized the feel of it beneath his makeshift bedding.
But when his hand closed around empty space, his heart stopped in that instant.
At first, he thought he had misplaced it. He even considered overturning the rags, but deep down, he knew. There was no way he had misplaced something like that.
His breath hitched.
Slowly, he turned his head over his shoulder.
His father sat exactly where he had before, his broad back facing the boy, his attention fixed on the television. But in his hand, something glinted under the flickering light.
The knife.
The boy's throat went dry. His heartbeat pounded against his ribcage like a war drum. Sweat threatened to form on his face.
His father twirled the blade between his thick fingers, the movement almost lazy. Then, without looking away from the screen, he spoke.
"Looking for this, you little prick?"
The voice was laced with something dark. Something far worse than rage.