Everything is white.
A total white, blinding, filthy.
Not a wall. Not a sky. Just… nothing.
And that nothing swallows me.
I don't know where I am.
I don't even know if I am.
It feels like floating inside a dead thought.
Then it begins.
Black flames.
They burst from my arms, my legs, my back.
They crawl over me. Devour me.
But I feel no pain.
That's the worst part.
No heat. No scream. Just… a fire that does not consume me.
A fire that lives inside me.
And then
My forehead.
It pulls, it twists, as if something were pushing beneath my skin.
A pulse. A birth. A muffled cry inside the bone.
I bring my hand to my face.
And I feel it.
The curve.
The hardness.
The ridge of a horn.
I step back. No reflection. No echo.
Nothing to tell me if it's real… or if I'm becoming something else.
A demon?
I open my eyes.
No awakening.
My body has decided for me.
It runs on its own, without waiting for me, without asking my opinion. An internal clock, misaligned, but faithful. I let it work.
My mind, though, still drags somewhere.
In that strange blur between an erased dream and a reality I did not choose.
An in-between that smells of neither death nor life.
Just… waiting.
I stare at the ceiling.
White.
Immaculate.
Hostile.
Not a white of serenity.
A clinical white.
The white of hospitals, of cells, of places scrubbed clean so it's easier to forget they sheltered human beings.
I stay lying down. Arms folded behind my head.
Silence sticks to my skin.
Not an empty silence.
A silence that screams inward. The kind made of things we never said, never knew how to say.
Then I rise.
The floor bites my feet.
Cold. Raw. Honest.
I like that.
That kind of truth never lies.
I look at the bathroom mirror.
Same reflection.
Same face.
Same fatigue.
Brown skin. Neither light. Nor dark.
Another in-between.
A warm light trapped in a body that doesn't know how to shine.
Black hair. Alive.
It ripples. Refuses to fall.
Like nervous snakes clinging to my skull.
Storm-waves suspended.
Untamable.
Like me.
My eyes. Brown. Almost black.
Deep, yes.
But empty.
Not dead. Not sad.
Just… absent.
As if something left long ago.
And I stopped looking for it.
Full lips. Too much, maybe.
A clean nose, but one I judge too strong.
My face doesn't make an impression.
But people look twice.
Not because I'm handsome.
Because I seem elsewhere.
Untouchable.
Closed.
I am a border.
An invisible sign that reads: "Leave me alone."
I'm 1.75 meters tall.
Nothing impressive.
But my hair gives me height.
A stature I never asked for.
A kind of worn prophet's presence.
A kid too lucid, too early.
I always dress in black.
Not to play the dark guy.
Not for style.
Because black needs no explanation.
It is.
It takes all the light, digests it, keeps it.
It says: "I have nothing to prove to you."
That's exactly me.
I step outside.
The city is already awake. It moves, breathes, functions, like a perfectly oiled organism. This is the capital. The cold heart of the continent. It gleams from every angle, polished like a sacred stone. Here, the government rules. Invisible, yet omnipresent. A smooth, clean, silent authority. A faceless force that makes you feel it doesn't need a face to exist.
I ride in silence on my bike. Headphones over my ears. No music. Never. The headphones are my bubble. My isolation. They cut me off just enough without blinding me. I hear the world without fully being in it. They say my city is a jewel of architecture, a masterpiece of progress. And in a way… it's true.
The buildings, all slender lines and mirrored gleam, are forged from a unique alloy, a blend of intelligent glass and organic metal. This material captures sunlight, absorbs it, converts it into energy, making each tower autonomous, almost alive. The façades seem to breathe, as if the city itself had a soul.
Everywhere, greenery: carefully trimmed trees, shrubs set into the walls, flowers climbing along the structures, as if every square centimeter had to obey a perfectly calibrated ecological aesthetic. Even the roofs, once gray and sad, have become hanging gardens.
this morning, a voice draws my attention.
Calm. Cold. Official.
A voice without timbre.
Just an echo we've all swallowed before.
"If a white tattoo appears on your skin, contact the authorities immediately.
You will be summoned for the Awakening Test.
Three paths are open to you:
— Join the army as a Demon Hunter.
— Be directed to an outpost of the Divine Guild to follow the Celestial Protocol.
— Or seal your Word."
My bike slows; I lock onto the screen.
I've heard this message a thousand times.
In schools. In transit. In lines.
Sometimes, I think about it.
About those bearers. Those "chosen" people.
Those who received a Word.
A Word.
Just a Word.
Etched somewhere between their flesh and their soul.
A Word that defines them.
That imprisons them.
Or frees them.
They say these powers come from the gods.
That the gods were seduced by our language.
By our way of writing. Of naming the world so as not to forget it.
In their eyes, it was a cripple's miracle.
Because we had revealed Words to them.
So they offered us a fragment of their power.
In the form of Words.
And if one day… I received one?
I ask myself that sometimes. In silence. When no one is watching.
I pretend I'm not interested. That I don't care.
But the truth is, I imagine.
Which Word would I receive?
Which Word would define me?
They say Words can be hereditary.
That they're transmitted.
Like blood-secrets.
Like golden chains.
From generation to generation.
But me…
I have no idea who my family is.
Nothing.
Not a name.
Not a voice.
Just one memory.
Only one.
I'm small.
Hands in the soil.
My mother beside me. She's smiling.
We're gardening.
That's all.
And then, nothing.
As if someone pulled a curtain over the rest.
As if my life before that memory had never existed.
And even after, I only remember the last few months I lived.
Everything is blurry.
Muddled.
Fragmented.
I have only that moment.
So how would I know if a Word was passed to me?
How would I know if something is sleeping inside me?
An inheritance? A poison? A curse?
I don't know.
But sometimes, I feel that Word…
It's waiting for me.
There, somewhere.
Not to save me.
Not to destroy me.
Just to reveal me.
And that scares me.
Anyway.
I have to go.
I hate being late.
I get moving again.
I work in a flower shop.
A window planted in the middle of the city.
Inside, everything grows without lying.
No need for Awakened Words. No need for gods.
You plant.
You water.
It grows.
Or it dies.
That works for me.
I'm going to take a shortcut.
An alley out of sight.
I know these passages by heart.
But now…
Something's off.
This alley—
it has never been this long.
I'm riding.
But I'm not moving.
Or not the usual way.
My legs turn,
but I feel like I'm floating at two kilometers an hour.
Is it me slowing down?
Or is the world around me freezing?
My senses derail.
I no longer really feel the handlebars.
The wind is gone.
Sound? Distant. As if drowned under a thick cushion.
I look at my hands.
They move. Slowly. As if underwater.
I don't fall.
I'm still riding. But everything is… blurred.
Time.
Body.
Space.
Everything is here.
But everything is slowed.
— What's happening?
I don't understand.
I'm not afraid. Not yet.
But for the first time in a long while…
I feel I am no longer alone.
He's there.
In front of me.
Out of nowhere. As if he had always been there. As if I were the parasite.
A young guy. My age, maybe. A bit shorter. Too calm.
He's wearing a white hoodie, black hourglass patterns inked on it like a bad omen.
His gray hair spills from the hood, styled in a rush but… too neat. As if it had never known wind.
A piercing splits his nose, discreet but assured.
His gaze? Sky blue. But not the gentle kind of sky.
The kind of sky just before a storm.
He's in cropped pants, white sneakers, standing like an ordinary kid.
But he stares at me.
Not like someone who looks.
Like someone who is hunting me.
And then, without moving.
Without raising his voice.
He speaks.
— Hi, Heyo. I've come to capture you.
…
My throat tightens.
I don't answer right away.
Because he said my name.
And because he spoke of me like an object.
As if I already belonged to him.
I try to speak but my mouth moves in slow motion
I try to speak.
My mouth twists.
My lips move slowly, as if the air itself had turned to cement.
I don't panic. Not yet.
But something is slipping out of my hands.
My body no longer responds.
And him, he looks at me.
Calm. Hands in his pockets. As if I were a stray dog he had just tamed.
— Forget it.
His voice is steady. Flat.
No aggression. Just… certainty.
— You don't move anymore. You don't speak anymore.
You're in slow motion.
He tilts his head, studies my sluggish gestures, almost amused.
— It's nothing against you. But a man has to eat, you see.
He crouches, looks straight into my eyes. Too close. Too calm.
— Well… might as well explain. The Guild of Word Hunters put a bounty on your head. Apparently, you're about to awaken a rare Word. Something that excites them. No one told me which, but I think it's worth a lot.
He straightens, pulls his hood back up.
— Me? I'm just a mercenary. I do my job. Nothing personal.
He steps back once, without letting go of my gaze.
— Honestly, I'm even being kind. I'm warning you.
There are others out there… They won't talk. They won't offer you that luxury.
He smiles.
Not meanly. Not kindly either.
An empty smile.
— You might thank me later.