Chapter 1 - Prologue – Dreams of the past
There are two kinds of nightmares. The ones you wake up from—and the ones that follow you even after you open your eyes.
I stopped counting which kind of nightmare this was a long time ago.
The closet was too small for both of us, the air thick with the scent of sweat and fear. I didn't dare breathe too loudly. My fingers dug into my dear twin sister, Clementine's arm, gripping so tightly I could feel the sharp angles of her bones. But she didn't flinch. She was as frozen as I was.
Outside, the world was ending.
Screams clawed through the wooden walls. The heavy stomp of boots shook the floor beneath us, followed by voices—sharp, foreign, searching. The smell of blood burned my nose, thick and metallic.
Then, my mother's voice.
"Run!"
A single word, Cut short.
I barely had time to suck in a breath before Clementine's hand clamped over my mouth. A mistake, A single sound meant death. So we stayed still Silent and Listening.
Blades cutting through flesh, Bodies hitting the ground... One and Two... the other body must've been father
The air turned cold.
Death had settled in.
Then, something shifted in the darkness
A hand, maybe a shadow moving where it shouldn't. The floor beneath me vanished.
And suddenly—I was falling.
I woke up with a gasp.
The dream clung to me like a second skin, suffocating. My fingers curled into the sheets, still half-expecting Clementine's trembling form to be next to me. But there was no closet. No blood. Just the faint smell of damp wood and the lingering smoke from last night's candle.
A dream, No... a memory. One that never faded.
I ran a hand through my hair, pushing it back as I exhaled. The room was dimly lit, early morning light slipping through the gaps in the curtains. Outside, the city murmured—faint mechanical whirs, distant engines, the low hum of something too industrial to be called life.
I already knew what time it was.
Somewhere across the city, in another small apartment, Clementine was waking up too. No doubt with the same ghosts clawing at her throat.
We had survived, We had rebuilt.
But the past never truly leaves you, it never does
I exhaled slowly. The world had taken everything from us. But we were still here.
And as long as we were, the world had something to fear...
"is what I'd like to think but I'm not even that strong... not yet at least"
I said as the morning light cut through the window, casting sharp angles of gold across the wooden floor. The air was damp, the city still waking.
I swung my legs over the bed, the cold biting at my bare feet. My apartment was small—barely furnished. A bed, a table, a dresser. The essentials. No distractions. No luxury.
I stretched my body groaning in protest. A sharp crack echoed from my spine. Proof that I was still human. In most ways.
My gaze flicked to the corner of the room.
The punching bag hung there like a silent opponent, leather worn and cracked from use overtime.
I didn't bother warming up.
One. Two. Three.
The impact sent vibrations up my arms, sharp and familiar. A rhythm. A ritual. Left, right, left again. Each strike landed clean, precise.
The past didn't die. But it could be beaten into submission.
I kept going, the bag swinging wildly. The sting of sweat hit my eyes, my breath sharp. Somewhere far away, I thought I heard laughter... Clementine, probably.
A final punch. The bag swung once, then stilled.
I stood there, hands on my knees, heartbeat pounding against my ribs. It still wasn't enough.
I turned to the weights next. The dumbbells felt natural in my hands, muscle stretching and contracting. It wasn't about strength. It was about endurance.
When my body finally ached enough to remind me I was alive, I stopped.
Then a sharp clink against the glass.
A rock hit the window.
I didn't have to look. I already knew who it was.
I sighed, wiping the sweat from my brow.
"…Sister. Always so damn early."