The morning sun spilled through the cracked blinds of the kitchen window, painting the room gold. The smell of fried eggs and toasted bread drifted lazily in the air. For one small family, this was the world safe, warm, untouched by the chaos that brewed beyond their doorstep.
"Starling! Sit before your food flies away," his father said, voice deep and carrying the weight of laughter.
The boy obeyed, still grinning, crumbs already clinging to his cheeks. He was wiry, full of restless energy, the kind of child who could never sit still for long. His mother set a plate in front of him and ruffled his hair.
"There," she said, "maybe food will tie your wings down for once."
They always called him that Starling.
He liked it. Birds were free. Birds didn't care about boundaries. Birds didn't need permission to fly.
The television in the corner hummed to life, a habit his father had: always the news, always the world before breakfast.
The anchor's voice was crisp, polished, but underneath it bled unease.
"...marking the tenth anniversary since the Treaty of Unity was signed between Humans and Humarites. While tensions remain, officials from Vail—the United Government, insist progress has been made. A spokesperson reaffirmed today that Humarites are recognized as full citizens under international law, despite recent protests from several anti-Humarite groups across Huropa..."
The screen cut to shaky footage: marches in the streets, signs lifted high, faces twisted in rage. "Humans First!" they chanted. Others shouted back: "Equal Rights for Nulls!"
Starling tilted his head, fork frozen in his hand.
"Papa… why are they yelling?"
His father hesitated, glancing at his wife. She looked back, lips pressed thin, then turned to her son with the kind of careful smile parents wear when the truth might be too heavy.
"They don't understand each other," she said softly. "And sometimes when people don't understand… they fight."
"But we're Humarites, aren't we?" Starling asked. His voice was small, curious.
Silence stretched. Then his father cleared his throat.
"Yes, we are. But that doesn't make us bad, Starling. Don't ever let anyone tell you it does."
The news droned on, words that the boy only half understood.
"...reports suggest Null manifestation rates continue to rise among Humarite children, with the XT bloodline showing exceptional potential. Some experts warn that without tighter regulation, these abilities could destabilize the balance of global power. Vail officials dismissed the claims as fearmongering..."
Footage shifted—blinding flashes of energy tearing through a city block. Soldiers firing weapons designed to pierce through even the strongest Null defenses. Screams.
Starling's fork clattered against the plate. "That won't happen here… right?"
His father's hand landed on his shoulder. Strong. Steady. "No. Not here. Not while I'm around."
But his eyes betrayed the words,haunted, wary.
Later that day, Starling chased his friends through the cracked streets near their neighborhood. They leapt across piles of scrap metal, daring each other to climb higher, run faster. Children's laughter filled the air, sharp against the distant hum of drones.
That was when it happened.
A group of older boys blocked the alleyway, smirking. Humans. Their uniforms were newer, shoes polished, hair neatly kept, the kind of detail that only mattered in a world where class lines cut deeper than skin.
One of them sneered. "Hey, bird-boy. Heard your family's tainted."
Starling frowned. "What?"
"Don't play dumb. Everyone knows. You're one of them. A Humarite."
The words stung, not because he understood the hatred but because of the way his friends suddenly grew quiet.
He puffed his chest anyway. "So what?"
The boy spat at the ground. "So stay away from us. We don't want freak blood mixing."
And just like that, the air shifted. His friends wouldn't meet his eyes. They mumbled excuses, scattered one by one, leaving him standing there alone.
Starling's hands curled into fists. He wanted to shout. To fight. To prove something. But he didn't even know what yet.
So instead, he ran.
That night, lying awake in bed, he whispered to the ceiling:
"Why do they hate us? Why can't they see we're the same?"
His mother, passing by his door, paused. For a moment, she thought to answer. But she didn't. Some questions had no good answers,only truths too cruel for children.
The next morning, the news played again.
"...breaking reports from the western provinces. Another Humarite settlement burned to the ground. Officials claim it was an accident caused by unstable Null activity, though survivors insist it was a targeted attack by anti-Humarite militias. Vail has declined to comment."
The anchor's voice faded. Starling didn't look away from the screen this time.
He was young, but something inside him shifted.
A seed planted.
Not yet hate. Not yet madness.
But the first fracture.