Some time later, the sharp clink of glass shattered the stillness, followed by the hurried crunch of boots over broken shards. The sound snapped the young Kaiju from restless sleep, his eyes flying open in alarm. He heard them—steel-capped boots hammering up the stairwell, thundering down the corridor. A squad of black-clad mercenaries advanced like a storm, hefting a battering ram between them.
With a brutal swing, they shattered the door into a spray of wooden shrapnel.
But the boy had known they were coming. The makeshift alarm—the scattered glass—had warned him. Just in time.
Jolting upright on the rooftop where he'd been sleeping, he clapped trembling hands to his face, his breath hitching. Be calm. Be calm. The words echoed like a mantra. Think. Think fast—how to get out of this. C'mon, think!
Panic clawed at him. He hadn't expected to be found—not like this.
He scrambled to his feet, his mind racing, when another noise made him flinch—more rustling. They were trying the door below.
In desperation, he shoved a platform against it, buying precious seconds. Long-term plans? Fantasy. Against the Foundation's global reach, freedom was a myth. This life—running, hiding—was all he had left.
He pressed his palms to his temples, trembling. None of this is my fault, he told himself. Not really.
In another world, he would have failed. They would have stormed in, pinned him, jabbed a needle into his neck—and everything would fade. But not this time.
Not this reality.
Adrenaline surged through him. He bolted, racing down the fire escape, his heart hammering against his ribs, his feet barely skimming the rungs before he hit the ground. He melted into the shadows just as the soldiers stormed through the broken door.
"I thought I saw movement," one of them muttered.
"Must've been shadows. Contact command. We need clarification on the situation," barked the leader.
Situation? the Kaiju thought bitterly, crouched a block away. Am I the situation?
The realization struck. Someone must have seen him—reported him.
Of course. Why else would they deploy a full squad?
Fear tightened in his chest. He knew the Foundation's resolve. They never quit. He couldn't afford to rest too long, couldn't risk curious eyes or loose whispers. He moved constantly, stitching his existence together with caution and paranoia.
Under the cold light of the moon, he caught his reflection in a shallow puddle. Pale. Ghostly. It stirred a memory—five years ago, maybe more. Back when he had smiled. Laughed. Before survival turned cold.
That boy was gone.
Pulling up his hoodie, his fingers brushed the scar on his side—a bullet wound, still throbbing on nights like this.
He wandered the city like a ghost, searching for shelter. At last, he found a hollow where a fire might live. Two plastic cans, some kindling—he fed the tiny flame until it breathed and cracked.
And just as rain began to fall.
The graffiti-streaked walls told him the place was abandoned. If anyone came, he'd be ready. A loose brick lay nearby—just in case.
He huddled beside the fire, burying his head in his hands. How had it come to this?
He hadn't chosen this life. Or maybe he had—without realizing it. Fear and isolation were his only companions. He wrote in a scorched notebook—patrol routes, food sources, odd rumors overheard in the streets.
Food was always the hardest.
Today, he had dug through a dozen bins, searching for anything remotely edible. Even a half-rotten potato was a feast. Among the trash, he found a small animal's crushed bones. Forgotten. Decaying.
Poor thing was just trying to live... just like me.
He buried it in soft earth and prayed—to a god who maybe didn't care—but still, he prayed.
A cynical part of him asked: Why even bother writing anymore? What future? What hope for something like him?
No answer came.
Only the crackle of fire and the endless cold.
He hadn't wanted to escape containment. He couldn't even remember why he ran.
Sleep was a stranger. Dreams plagued him.
One nightmare stood above all:
Kaiju—his kind—chained, tortured, burned alive. Blood soaking the earth. He tried to flee, but chains clamped tight. He screamed, fought—but only tore his wrists and ankles open against the iron.
He woke drenched in sweat, shaking, heart racing.
There was no sleeping after that. Every whisper of wind could be their approach.
Three days blurred together—running, hiding, not sleeping. Fear gnawed at him.
By the fourth evening, he collapsed on a stranger's doorstep. Dust-covered. Half-starved. Eyes vacant.
Another day. Another night.
And nothing good had ever come of it.
You just had to mess with me, didn't you, fate?
Then—from the darkness—a peculiar sound.
He rose.
A white dog stumbled into the alley, growling weakly, its face torn and bloodied. Instinct surged through the Kaiju—an ancient, primal force.
A vivid blue pigmentation swirled across his irises, coalescing around the pupils. He bared a set of razor-sharp fangs, letting out a low, guttural snarl that split the night. The air vibrated with menace.
The dog yelped in terror and fled into the night.
As his eyes reverted to amber, confusion clouded his face. He panted, trembling. Unsure what he had done. But at least the noise had stopped.
He pulled his hoodie tighter, trying—and failing—to keep the wind from biting his skin.
I have to stop this nonsense. Tomorrow, I start fresh. No more dread-filled nights. No more distorted voices. Just faith. Rationality. Normalcy... if ever such a thing is possible.
He concentrated on breathing. Struggled through the raw pain. Cold. Hungry. Scared.
But he would be okay, he told himself.
One day at a time.
He was a survivor, after all.
Even if surviving felt like so much less than living.
The wind howled.
Exhausted, the Kaiju curled onto his side, pulling the thin hoodie tighter, and closed his eyes.
And, for a time, he forgot all his troubles.