Then warmth.
The soft rhythm of a heartbeat, muffled, slow — steady like waves crashing in the farthest corners of memory.
The boy saw her again.
She wasn’t a shadow or a ghost this time.
She wasn’t screaming or bleeding.
She was just there, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a dim room, light catching the edge of her face.
Brown eyes. Hair pulled back in a messy knot.
Ordinary.
Alive.
He reached for her — stubby, chubby little arms wiggling upward, fingers curling in the air like soft hooks.
His arms were fatter than they should’ve been.
Not lean or scarred.
They hadn’t known hunger yet.
"...Mama?" he gurgled, voice full of milk and need.
The woman smiled. Just once.
Then his vision shifted — like glass cracking beneath water.
White.
Ceiling tiles. Dirty. Flickering lights.
Pain.
Real, suffocating pain, blooming through every nerve like fire crawling across bone.
His eyes fluttered.
He couldn’t move.
His whole body felt wrapped — like a mummy stitched together out of the aftermath.
Gauze. Bandages. Tape. Everything. Even his face.
His mouth was dry. His vision blurred and burned. He blinked.
And saw them.
Two figures leaned over him — one on each side, too close, watching like children spying on a sleeping animal.
On his left — a broad-shouldered man with skin the color of warm earth, eyes wide with disbelief.
His hair was tight and clean — waves so sharp you could cut yourself on them.
Grey sweaters layered over a collared shirt, clean, soft, surprisingly stylish for whatever ruined corner of the world this was.
His mouth hung open.
On his right — the masked figure.
with a plague doctor's mask.
Same beak-shaped mask. Same black hoodie, sleeves lazily pushed to now his wrist with gloves on each of his hands.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The hood was still up. Still relaxed.
They stared down at him.
Then the masked man let out a laugh — explosive, high, raw.
"HAH! I told ya!"
he crowed, his head tilting back like he was howling at the ceiling.
"He's alive and breathing!"
The boy flinched slightly at the volume.
The black man jolted upright, his shoulders almost flying into the air.
"YOU CHEATED!" he shouted, pointing across the bed with one hand.
"You ACTUALLY cheated, nah... How does that make sense?!"
He turned to the masked man, eyes nearly bulging out of his skull.
"You... Nah. Nah, I know you did something. this boy ain't natural!"
The masked man raised his hands slowly in mock innocence.
"Me? Do something? C’mon, Reef — don’t be like that."
"dawg." Reef pacing a half-circle around the bed.
"His lungs were gone. His ribs were glass! You don’t just bounce back from that, man."
He turned toward the figure leaning casually on the bed rail — the one in the dark hoodie and that eerie beaked mask.
"You just don't wake up like it’s a nap!"
The masked figure tilted his head, relaxed and unbothered.
"Didn’t say I expected it," he said, voice smooth through the mask. "Just bet you were wrong."
Reef jabbed a finger at him, face twisting in disbelief.
"You named the odds, Blot! I was the one fixing him, bleeding my hands out trying to keep his guts in — and you sat there sipping canned tea, betting he’d die before morning!"
" 'One in a hundred,' yeah I remember," Blot said, rolling his shoulder lazily.
"But I never said which side I was on."
"You said he would die!" Reef snapped.
Blot nodded thoughtfully.
"hm. yeah?"
Reef stared at him, mouth slightly open.
"That... that's not even how bets work, man."
Blot let out a soft chuckle, tapping the side of the bedframe. "Worked this time."
Reef threw both hands up again. “You’re a menace. Just wait till I win one. I’m gettin’ all your rations next cycle.”
The room buzzed with heat and noise.
Their voices grew fuzzier then — still arguing, still throwing playful jabs — but the noise dulled, faded, like it was passing through water.
The young man lay still.
To them, he looked in shock — unmoving, eyes locked on the stained ceiling above.
But behind those tired eyes, something else stirred.
A low flicker of pain pulsed beneath his ribs. The bandages held him in place like a cage.
And above it all, faint and silent, the window still blinked in the corner of his vision:
He didn’t care.
He barely registered it.
Memories flashed like broken glass across his mind:
The gray, ashy sky.
The reek of mold and old blood.
The cold iron weight of the emblem in his hand.
The scream of the first man.
The wet sound of bone hitting steel.
The eyes of the woman, sharp and wild, knife flashing—
The pup.
Its whimper.
Its warmth.
Its stupid, shaking body pressed against his.
Tiny legs.
A stupid, stubborn bark.
and yet, no barking, no scratching — just sterile ringing.
The pup.
Where—
His breath hitched.
His chest rose too fast. He tried to sit — failed — then twisted violently upward, gasping.
The jolt came without thought.
A full-body surge.
Pain lit up every nerve like fire racing through soaked wires.
The bandages pulled taut across his frame, stitches tearing slightly in his side.
“—THE HELL?!” Reef stumbled backward, nearly knocking over a tray of tools.
“yo! dude—he’s up!”
Blot's head turned slowly, a quiet hum rumbling under the mask.
“...Well damn” he muttered.
The boy’s eyes weren’t on them.
They were wild, bloodshot — scanning, searching, frantic.
His lips cracked as he whispered hoarsely:
“...where... the dog...”
The room snapped quiet.
Both Reef and Blot froze — heads turning toward each other in tandem.
"..."
"..."
END OF CHAPTER 6