The Birth of Rex D. Kane
Fifteen miles northeast of Memphis, nestled in a forgotten patch of Tennessee known as Skull Valley, a child was born under a bruised sky. His name was Rex D. Kane.
The boy came into the world amid chaos, surrounded not by love but by the cracked whispers of broken promises and glass. Raised by grandparents twisted by the weight of addiction, Rex's early years were marked by survival—not joy.
By the time he was four, Rex was sharper than most kids twice his age. He could recite his left from his right with confidence, count backward from one hundred, and even solve basic equations with ease. His eyes sparkled not with innocence, but with something older. Something ancient. Wisdom—or perhaps wariness.
It was just before his fifth birthday when he saw her: the woman who barely looked at him, who carried herself like a stranger. But deep in his core, Rex knew. This was his mother.
Desperate for her attention, he tried everything—math tricks, directional games, jokes. But she looked right through him, her hand resting gently on her stomach. Pregnant. With another child. A replacement. Rex understood what that meant far more deeply than any four-year-old should.
It didn't break him. Not entirely. But it planted something inside him—a fracture he would carry forever.