Chapter 4: The Boy With No Face
I jolted awake, my whole body trembling as I gasped for air, soaked in cold sweat. My heart pounded wildly, its rhythm echoing in my ears like the drums of war.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the terrifying images, but the fear clung to me—cold, vivid, and real—like something I had lived through over and over in a past I couldn't reach.
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In that dream, I was standing in a dark, damp alley. The stench of garbage stung my nose.
Three large silhouettes towered in front of me, and there he was—the faceless boy. His expressionless face gave away nothing, yet I could feel the tension in his shoulders, the steel in his movements. He knew exactly what was coming.
The thugs moved like trained fighters, clearly stronger than most. But the boy... he moved with terrifying precision, like every punch, every kick, every slash of their knives had already happened before.
He dodged attacks with millisecond timing, twisting his body to avoid strikes, locking wrists with lightning speed.
THUD! CHAK! CRASH!
The sounds of impact echoed—not from him, but from the strikes that barely missed.
He used their momentum against them, his movements sharp and efficient, like a perfectly rehearsed dance he'd performed dozens of times.
He ducked at just the right moment to avoid a swing from a metal pipe, rolled his shoulder to let a punch miss by a hair, and kicked out legs from under them with flawless timing.