The sunlight in the Arkwright nursery felt wrong.
It warmed his skin like a hand that had never earned trust.
Cain blinked up at a ceiling of carved beams and painted flourishes, a ceiling that had never known smoke or the echo of gunfire. In the tiny room, everything smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen — a scent that made his chest ache more than any wound.
He tried to move and the world laughed at him.
His arms were jelly. His legs were knots of useless weight. He had the reflexes of a man who had executed dozens of life-or-death motions, but this body answered like a puppet with severed strings. He raised a hand and it fell. He tried again and the muscles betrayed him.
SO THIS IS PUNISHMENT, he thought sharply. TO BE CAGED IN A BODY THAT CANNOT OBEY.
A warm voice — soft as breath, steady as a lullaby — said, "He's awake."
Seraphina Arkwright's silver hair fell across his brow. Her fingers were gentle when she cradled him, but his heart shook with an old, automatic suspicion. Warm hands meant help. Help had died on him before. Help had become absence and bullets.
He HATED that Seraphina's touch calmed him. He hated that his new lungs filled with air that smelled of soap, not cordite. He hated that his body wanted to lean into comfort when his mind screamed: DO NOT TRUST.
A phantom flash — metal, shouting, the last scream of a friend — stole through his mind and left a hot, hollow ache. He gagged on a memory no infant should carry: Jae-Ho's laugh turning into a mouth full of blood. The nursery spun. He tasted iron.
He made a small sound. Not a word. Not a command. A complaint of a man trapped in a child.
Seraphina smiled through her worry. "He's frightened, Leon. He's had a bad dream."
Leon Arkwright's laugh came from the doorway — large, easy, the kind of laugh Cain used to hear before he learned to keep his face calm during a firefight. "This child has lungs fit for a war horn," Leon said. "He'll survive anything."
Cain wanted to tell him: SURVIVAL IS NOT THE SAME AS LIVING.
But all that came out was a soft whimper.
---
NIGHTS THAT DID NOT END
They called them nightmares.
Cain called them replay.
When the house went silent, his past screamed back to life. He would wake with his hands clenched into fists too small for the memories they held, panting, tasting smoke and hearing boots on metal floors. Sometimes he screamed. Other times he whispered the names of the fallen into the darkness.
JAE-HO… MIN SEO-JIN… ROOKIE…
Seraphina would gather him, whispering, "Shh… you're safe."
Safe felt like a lie.
Safe was what he had believed before the world betrayed him.
Days were tests of patience and humiliation.
Hungry — he cried.
Wet — he cried.
Afraid — he cried.
EACH CRY WAS A FAILURE.
EACH CRY WAS AN INSULT TO THE SOLDIER HE USED TO BE.
"I commanded soldiers," he thought bitterly. "And now I cannot even command my own body."
Watching Leon train outside the window was torture.
Watching Seraphina heal small wounds was a reminder of a world where his skills once mattered.
He wanted to stand.
He wanted to fight.
He wanted to forget.
He could do none of those.
---
LITTLE PROOFS OF OLD BLOOD
The Arkwrights treated him like a child, but signs slipped out around the edges.
At four months he crawled.
At nine months he stood.
At one year he walked, staggering but determined.
Leon frowned often, studying him like a misplaced puzzle piece.
"His gaze… it's too sharp for a child."
Cain learned everything he could.
He memorized the house layout.
He observed the neighbors' routines.
He learned the sounds of doors, footsteps, and distant carts.
He memorized Seraphina's healing techniques.
He absorbed Leon's footwork drills and breathing patterns.
Everything was data.
Everything was survival.
Even as a child, his mind sharpened itself like a blade.
---
THE FIRST TIME HE SPOKE
By two years old, Cain's world had settled into something he could predict.
His body no longer betrayed him completely.
His hands obeyed more than they refused.
He could walk, mimic, analyze, and understand enough words to navigate this new life.
But he had not spoken — not truly spoken — until that day.
Seraphina sat with him near the hearth, sunlight warm on her skin. Leon was outside, swinging a practice sword with precision that Cain envied.
"Say something, Cain," Seraphina urged gently. "Anything."
He looked at her — really looked.
At the tired eyes from sleepless nights comforting his nightmares.
At the hands that had held him with a love he didn't know how to return.
At the woman who gave him warmth he did not understand.
A warmth he feared.
A warmth he was starting to want.
In his past life, nobody held him like this.
Nobody had called him their child.
He drew in a breath.
"...Mother."
It was small.
Rough.
Uneven.
But it was real.
Seraphina froze, then hugged him so tightly he thought he might break.
Leon's eyes turned glassy, pride written across his face.
Cain lowered his head, ashamed of how good it felt to say the word.
TODAY I TURN TWO YEARS OLD, he thought.
I WILL LEARN. I WILL WATCH. I WILL SURVIVE.
This time,
I WILL NOT FAIL MY FAMILY
---