Rain poured like broken glass over the city, blurring the lines between heaven and asphalt. Headlights cut through the storm—too bright, too fast—and then came the sound. A sickening crack. Flesh meeting metal.
Eighteen-year-old Nathan hit the ground with the weight of finality. His breath hitched, sharp and wet, as the world around him dimmed into a haze of distorted color and muffled noise. Blood pooled beneath him, warm against the cold street. Somewhere, distant voices shouted. But Nathan heard none of it. His thoughts—his dying mind—had already begun to wander backward.
Back to where it all began.
---------
The stench of mold and cheap disinfectant filled the hallways of St. Dovecott Orphanage, a place that pretended to nurture but reeked of exploitation. Its gray walls hid the cries of children, the bruises beneath their sleeves, and the broken dreams buried under piles of paperwork.
Nathan remembered the day he realized what the orphanage truly was—not a sanctuary, but a factory, producing obedient minds and willing hands. Children were not raised there; they were cultivated, trained to serve, to profit those who held the keys.
And he… he was the prized specimen.
By age six, he could read advanced scientific journals. By ten, he was fixing the orphanage's outdated computer systems. By twelve, he was writing algorithms that the director sold to local businesses for quick cash. Nathan's intellect was a currency—one that bought him better meals, cleaner clothes, and, most importantly, false affection.
"Remember, Nathan, you're our shining star. Our future. You'll make us proud."
The director would say with that honeyed tone, resting a hand on his shoulder but "us" never included him. It never meant you'll make yourself proud. It meant you'll make us rich.
---
Nathan's memories flickered—like old film reels stuttering in a broken projector.
A younger version of him, sitting in a dimly lit dorm room, sketching blueprints for a mechanical prosthetic out of salvaged parts. The other kids watched him with awe and resentment. They called him "the director's pet." He called himself "a survivor."
There was no family, no comfort. Just expectations. Every success he achieved became another chain around his neck. Every failure was punished—not with pain, but with withdrawal. Silence. Isolation.
The director had a way of twisting kindness into manipulation through not only his words but also his actions.
"You're special, Nathan. You owe it to us to be great."
These were some of the words the director would whisper into his ears whenever they were alone, and those words echoed through Nathan's life like a curse.
---
"Cough!!'
A cough rattled through Nathan's chest. He tasted iron. Somewhere above him, a red traffic light glowed through the rain—a cruel imitation of the sun he never got to bask under freely.
His mind wandered again.
He remembered the nights he spent on the orphanage rooftop, staring at the stars. That was his only sanctuary. The sky didn't demand anything from him. It didn't ask for results, or obedience, or proof. Up there, he could imagine a world beyond the walls. A world where his brilliance didn't belong to anyone but himself.
And yet, he never escaped.
The system that raised him was built to keep him contained. Every opportunity dangled before him came with invisible strings attached. When universities began noticing his work, the orphanage made sure they were listed as his legal guardians. Every scholarship, every donation—it flowed through their hands first.
He was a puppet with a mind sharper than his masters, but still caged by circumstance.
The rain grew heavier. The cold seeped into his bones.
Nathan's vision blurred, but memories burned brighter than the city lights, and through the flashes of memories, he saw Amelia, the only person who ever treated him like a person. Another orphan, two years younger, with a limp and a laugh that defied the gloom. She used to sneak him extra bread from the kitchen, even though she'd get punished if caught.
"You think too much. You should learn to dream instead."
She'd tell him with a grin. He remembered the night she disappeared—taken away, supposedly "adopted." The director's lie was transparent, but Nathan was too afraid to confront him. For months, he couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. That was the first time he realized how powerless even his intellect was.
RUMBLE!...
As Nathan laid motionless on the cold asphalt, a flash of lightning streaked across the stormy sky following that was a pulse of pain and then darkness.
In that darkness, he saw the faces of the children left behind. Their hollow eyes, their trembling hands clutching hope that never came.
He wondered if any of them had made it out.
He wondered if he had done enough.
The rise and fall of Nathan's chest slowed down as his breathing slowed. The rain began to sound softer—like a lullaby whispered by the universe.
For the first time, Nathan didn't think about what he could have invented, discovered, or achieved. He thought about freedom. About what it would feel like to live without being owned.
"I never wanted to be special, I just wanted to be… free."
A very small smile formed on Nathan's lips cracked his bloodied lips as he thought weakly. Maybe in death, he would finally be.
As the last light drained from his eyes, the world seemed to pause. The city's noise dulled. The rain stilled. And in that brief, impossible silence—something stirred within him.
A faint warmth bloomed in his chest. Not from his fading heartbeat, but from somewhere deeper. Something dormant… awakening.
The storm outside raged on, but Nathan's body began to hum with a quiet, unfamiliar energy—like the first spark of a star about to ignite.
Everything was supposed to end here for Nathan; however, as if the very universe sympathizes with him, Nathan's soul didn't go to the afterlife; it departed from the physical plane and instead entered an entirely different realm where an entirely new life was waiting to begin.
#################
[November, 1st, 1981]
[Malibu, California. USA]
The delivery ward was alive with motion, yet strangely self-contained, its walls muffling the outside world. Bright overhead lights washed the room in stark white, their sterile glow bouncing off the stainless steel trays and neatly lined instruments. The air smelled of antiseptic—sharp, clinical, unyielding—mixed faintly with the warmth of sweat and the sterile chill of air-conditioning.
A beautiful young woman with a curvaceous figure—tall and slim, with fair skin, blue eyes, and long and natural platinum-blonde hair that lay messily around her as she lay on the adjustable hospital bed, the sheets tangled beneath her restless body. Her face was damp, some of her hair plastered to her temples, every muscle straining as waves of pain seized her.
"Aghhh!!..."
She clutched the metal side rails, knuckles pale, teeth clenched, until another contraction forced a raw cry from her throat. Her hospital gown clung to her skin, soaked through at the back, and a thin plastic bracelet cut lightly into her wrist each time she shifted.
BEEP!!...
Machines stood sentinel around her, the steady beeping of the fetal heart monitor, the faint hiss of oxygen at the ready, the rhythmic drip of an IV feeding fluids into her arm. A green line danced across the monitor screen, spiking with every contraction, its jagged rhythm in sync with her cries.
Beside her, a nurse adjusted the blood pressure cuff, eyes darting from screen to patient, calm but brisk. Another stood at the foot of the bed, gloved hands poised, murmuring to the obstetrician who had just stepped in, gown and mask rustling as he pulled on fresh gloves. The staff moved with a rehearsed urgency—efficient, purposeful—yet their voices softened when they spoke to her, grounding her in the storm of pain.
"Almost there... One more push, Miss Clarke. You can do this!"
In a steady and controlled tone, the female doctor urged her as she helped adjust the baby in her womb.
The room narrowed to the bed, the woman, and the rising urgency of birth. She bore down with a guttural cry, her body trembling, her breath shuddering in gasps. The monitor shrilled for a moment, then steadied. And then, suddenly—an infant's cry pierced the air. Thin but commanding, fragile yet undeniable.
"WAAAAH! WAAAAH!"
The newborn's wail cut through everything—the beeping, the bustle, the mother's own sobs. Relief rippled across the room.
"We've got a healthy baby."
The tension fractured instantly as the soft voice of the doctor echoed throughout the ward and almost immediately, the woman or Eva Clarke collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing with exhaustion and relief, while the nurses moved swiftly, wrapping the baby in a soft blanket, checking vitals with practiced speed, and a moment later, the newborn was placed on her chest.
"... M, My son!"
With trembling hands as she gathered the small, wriggling body of her newly born son close, Eva pressed her lips against his damp hair as tears of joy trickled down her cheeks.
The sterile room, with all its machines, lights, and instruments, seemed to fade into the background. All that remained was the warmth of skin against skin, the rhythm of two heartbeats meeting for the first time, and the soft cries of a life just beginning.
The newborn squirmed against her, skin slick and warm, tiny fists trembling in the chill of the room.
"Waaaah—waaah—"
The cry softened now, less desperate, more rhythmic, as though reassured by the steady beat of his mother's heart beneath her cheek.
Tears streamed freely down Eva's cheeks as she kissed the damp crown of the child's head, her lips trembling.
"Oh… oh my God,"
Eva whispered between sobs, her voice cracked from screaming but filled with awe. Her chest heaved with exhaustion, every muscle aching, yet in that fragile bundle on her chest, all the pain seemed to dissolve.