The Operating Room. Brown State General Hospital.
Dr. Abd's hands were steady, but his mind was racing.
He clamped the blood vessel in the boy's chest. The monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Suction," he ordered.
The nurse cleared the blood. Dr. Abd stared at the wound. It was clean. Too clean.
He had just examined the bodies of the parents and siblings in the morgue. They were butchered. Bones snapped, throats torn, faces twisted in agony. A maniac did that. A beast.
But this boy, Z?
The knife had entered perfectly between the ribs. It missed the lung by millimeters. It missed the heart by a hair's breadth. It was a wound designed to bleed, but not to kill.
Why? Dr. Abd thought, stitching the skin. Why would a killer slaughter a whole family but leave the weakest one alive with a calculated scratch?
He looked at Z's sleeping face. For a second, he thought he saw the boy's lip twitch.
Outside the O.R.
Huzaifa sat on a plastic chair in the hallway. He was staring at the floor, his face pale.
A pair of heels clicked aggressively against the tiles. Click. Click. Click.
Huzaifa didn't look up. He knew who it was.
"Where were you?"
The voice was sharp, trembling with rage. Huzaifa looked up.
Standing there was Hirey. She was beautiful, but her face was twisted with grief. She wore a long coat, a badge hanging from her belt. She was born in the Brown State, just like them, but her genius-level intellect had earned her a sponsorship from the Yellow State. She was a detective now. A rising star.
She was also the woman who had walked away from Z to chase that dream.
"I asked you a question, Huzaifa," she snapped, grabbing his collar. "You call him your brother. You swore to protect him. So where the hell were you when his family was being slaughtered?"
Huzaifa looked into her tear-filled eyes. He felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly replaced by anger. He shoved her hand away.
"Where was I?" Huzaifa laughed bitterly. "The real question is, where were you, Hirey?"
Hirey flinched, stepping back.
"You're the one who left," Huzaifa spat the words out. "You got that sponsorship, and you didn't look back. You chose your career. You chose your dream over him. You left him alone in that house to rot so you could become a 'big shot' detective."
Hirey stiffened. She wiped a tear from her cheek, her expression hardening.
"Z and I talked about it before I left," she said, her voice cold and defensive. "It is between us. You don't have the right to question my decisions or what we decided for our future."
"If I don't have any right, then why are you questioning me?" Huzaifa shot back, stepping closer. "You didn't even call once while he was in a coma for five months. He was fighting between life and death, and you were... where were you?"
Hirey looked away, her jaw tight. "I... I had my reasons."
"Reasons?" Huzaifa scoffed. "If you really cared—"
Before he could finish, the O.R. doors hissed open.
Dr. Abd walked out, pulling off his mask. Hirey rushed to him instantly, the argument forgotten.
"Doctor! Is he alive? Is he awake?"
Dr. Abd sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "He is alive. The surgery was successful."
"Can I talk to him?" Hirey asked, hope rising in her voice.
"I am sorry," Dr. Abd shook his head. "He is physically stable, but he is still in a deep coma. We need to do another MRI. We hoped the heavy trauma might shock his system awake, but... there has been no change."
Hirey covered her mouth to stop a sob. She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, praying to a God she hadn't spoken to in years. "Oh God, please… give him back to me."
But behind her, Huzaifa froze.
Still in a coma?
His heart started hammering against his ribs. Thump. Thump.
If the doctor says he never woke up… then who was I talking to in the ambulance?
Flashback: 30 Minutes Ago. Inside the Ambulance.
The siren wailed. The vehicle shook as it sped over potholes.
Huzaifa held Z's hand, tears streaming down his face. "Stay with me, brother. Please."
Suddenly, the hand in his grip tightened.
Huzaifa gasped. Z's eyes snapped open. They weren't groggy. They were clear. Sharp.
"Z? Oh God, you're up!"
"Huzaifa," Z whispered. His voice wasn't weak; it was cold steel. "I saw a dream. A dream I want to fulfill."
Z slowly raised his right hand. He pointed two fingers at Huzaifa's forehead. A gesture from their childhood.
"Are you with me?"
Huzaifa stopped crying. He looked at the blood on Z's chest, then at his eyes. He realized instantly: It wasn't new. He had seen these eyes once before.
The memory hit him like a physical blow.
12 Years Ago.
Huzaifa was on the ground, dirt and blood filling his mouth.
He tried to stand, but a heavy boot slammed into his ribs, forcing him back down. It was Sajawal, the son of the most powerful man in the Brown State—the leader of the MILSUM political party.
Sajawal laughed, flanked by three other elite kids.
Huzaifa looked up through swollen eyes. Z was standing just a few feet away.
Z was crying. Tears streamed down his face, his small hands balled into fists at his sides. He was physically strong enough to stop them—Huzaifa knew that—but he couldn't move. He couldn't fight back.
Their fathers were just low-level employees working for MILSUM. They were ants in a world of giants. If Z fought back, their fathers would be fired instantly. Their families would starve. The party controlled everything.
So Z stood there, paralyzed by the unfairness of the world, begging with his eyes for them to stop.
Thud.
Sajawal kicked Huzaifa again.
"Please..." Huzaifa wheezed, his vision blurring. The pain was unbearable now. He was losing consciousness. He looked at his best friend, desperate. "Z... please save me. They're going to kill me."
Seeing his friend broken, hearing that plea... something snapped inside Z's chest.
His heart rate didn't just speed up; it doubled. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
His breath hitched, a strange, wet sound, as if he were choking on the air itself.
The sound caught Sajawal's attention. The bully stopped kicking and turned around. "Oh my, oh my. Is someone getting angry?"
Sajawal laughed. It was a cruel, arrogant laugh. A laugh that was about to be silenced forever.
Because before Huzaifa passed out, he saw it.
Z's tears had stopped.
His eyes were no longer the eyes of a scared boy. They were ruthless. They were filled with blood and rage. The energy in the air shifted instantly. The boy was gone.
The monster had woken up.
Back in the Ambulance.
The realization washed over Huzaifa. It's him. It's that same look.
"Yes," Huzaifa whispered, gripping Z's hand harder. "I made a promise. I am with you. Whatever the dream is… I will help you build it."
Z smiled. It was a terrifying, satisfied smile. Then, he closed his eyes and went limp.
Present Time. The Hallway.
Huzaifa wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He is faking it, Huzaifa realized, looking at the closed door. He is awake right now. He is listening to us.
"Huzaifa?" Hirey's voice broke his trance. "You look like you've seen a ghost. I'm going to take over this case. I will find the monster who did this, and I will kill him myself."
Huzaifa forced a nod. "Yeah. You do that. I'll… I'll stay with him tonight."
9:00 P.M.
The hospital was a graveyard of silence. The lights buzzed overhead.
Huzaifa was asleep in the chair next to Z's bed. His snoring was soft.
The door handle turned slowly.
A middle-aged man in a gray suit entered. He wore glasses and carried a thick leather briefcase. It was Dr. Nawaz, the psychologist who had treated Z before the coma.
He walked to the bedside. He didn't look at the sleeping Huzaifa. He only had eyes for Z.
"My Master," Dr. Nawaz whispered reverently.
Z's eyes opened. Instantly.
There was no transition from sleep to wakefulness. One second he was a statue, the next he was a predator.
"Report," Z said.
"I have brought the files you asked for," Dr. Nawaz said, his hands trembling with excitement. He handed Z a thick folder and a stack of cassette tapes. "These are the only copies. All records of your sessions. Your diagnosis. Your… nature. I deleted the digital backups."
"Good," Z said, taking the files. "Dr. Nawaz."
"Yes, Master?"
Z looked at him. To anyone else, Z looked like a pale, injured boy.
But Dr. Nawaz didn't see a boy.
As he looked into Z's hollow eyes, Dr. Nawaz's mind began to fracture. The boy's face seemed to smooth out. The nose disappeared. The mouth vanished. The eyes became infinite black pits.
He was looking at a blank sphere. A perfect, empty void.
"You have served your purpose," the voice echoed in Dr. Nawaz's head. "The final session is over."
Dr. Nawaz understood. The records were gone. The only evidence left... was him.
A look of pure ecstasy crossed his face. He smiled, a wide, unnatural stretch of lips. "You are… beautiful."
He bowed deep.
Then, he turned toward the heavy metal door. He focused on the sharp, L-shaped handle. He didn't slip. He didn't stumble.
He adjusted his angle with terrifying precision.
He took three steps back, wound his body up like a spring, and launched himself forward.
CRACK.
He drove his own temple directly onto the metal spike of the handle.
It was executed with the accuracy of a machine. The metal punched through his eye socket and into the brain.
Dr. Nawaz's body seized, twitched once, and then went limp, hanging from the door like a broken coat.
Blood dripped onto the linoleum floor. Drip. Drip.
Z watched from the bed. He didn't blink. The metallic scent of blood didn't sicken him; it soothed him like a lullaby(a soft, gentle song usually sung to babies or children to help them fall asleep and feel safe).
He slid the files beneath his mattress and closed his eyes.
The loose end was gone. The first pawn had been sacrificed. The Game had finally begun.
A moment later, the heart monitor continued its steady, slow rhythm.
Beep… Beep… Beep.