Kenjo stood in the middle of the barren street, his breath visible in the cold night air. The district was silent now, nothing but the distant hum of neon signs and the occasional crackle of a broken streetlight. This place—once his home—was nothing more than a ruin of memories, ghosts of the past whispering from every alleyway.
He ran his hand through his spiky blond hair, his fingers brushing against an old scar on his temple. It had been years since he last set foot here, but the weight of his past hadn't faded. He could still hear the laughter of his childhood, the voices of people he once cared about people who were no longer here.
He stepped forward, his boots crunching against the shattered glass of a storefront. The name on the broken sign above it was barely legible, but he didn't need to read it. He knew.
Kenjo clenched his fists. This was where it had all begun. Where he and the others had been raised, trained, used. He remembered the cold discipline, the harsh lessons, the way they were told they were "special"—but never why. He and the others had no pasts, no families, only numbers. He had been "Subject No. 07."
A gust of wind swept through the street, carrying with it the faint scent of burnt metal and ozone. His mind flashed back to that night—the fire, the screams, the chaos. The day he had escaped.
A voice echoed in his head. "Run, Kenjo! Don't look back!"
He hadn't looked back. Not then. Not until now.
The memories came rushing in—the experiments, the drills, the way they had pushed him and the others beyond their limits. And the eyes. Those red, glowing eyes that had haunted him in every reflection, every nightmare. The scientists had called it a gift. Kenjo had called it a curse.
He exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the thoughts. He wasn't that scared kid anymore. He had survived, but survival wasn't enough. He needed answers. He needed to know why he had been created, why they had hunted him for years.
A soft rustle behind him snapped him out of his thoughts. Instinct kicked in. He spun around, his crimson eyes flaring to life, scanning the shadows. Someone was there.
A figure stepped forward—a woman in a dark cloak, her face hidden beneath the hood. But the moment she spoke, Kenjo's blood ran cold.
"It's been a long time, No. 07."
His heart pounded. He knew that voice. He knew what it meant.
The past wasn't done with him yet.
To be continued…