Neon lights flickered above the city, reflecting off rain soaked streets and endless glass towers. Flying cars hummed overhead. Sirens wailed somewhere far away. Advertisements smiled down with perfect teeth and dead eyes.
"Everyone thinks they're alive," a boy muttered from the shadow of an alley. His voice was quiet. Flat. "But most of us are just waiting to be forgotten."
He did not look at anyone. The city screamed, yet all he heard was electricity. The pulse of machines. The taste of metal and ozone in the air.
Far below the glowing towers, past streets that never slept, the land collapsed into a dumpsite.
A mountain of waste swallowed the horizon.
Hundreds of children crawled through it. Fighting over scraps. Crying into their sleeves. Sitting still and staring at nothing.
Among them, one boy sat alone with his back against a slab of rusted metal. His clothes were torn. His hair unkempt. The crowd moved around him like insects, but he did not react.
He closed his eyes.
She was there again.
The faceless girl walked between towering plants that should not exist. Their leaves shimmered softly. Her laughter drifted through the air, gentle and empty, like wind through broken glass.
He smiled and stepped toward her.
Her lack of a face never frightened him. It felt familiar. Safe.
When he reached out, the dream twisted.
The air thickened. The light turned sickly. The plants sharpened into jagged spines.
Without hesitation, he wrapped his hands around her throat.
She struggled once.
Then stopped.
He released her and watched her fall into the soil. The laughter vanished. The dream hollowed out.
He opened his eyes.
Rot. Metal. Rain.
The dumpsite breathed around him, alive with desperate movement. The dream stayed with him. It always did.
The boy pushed himself off the pile of rusted metal, boots crunching against broken glass and twisted wires.
Around him, children scrambled through the mountains of trash, oblivious—or too scared—to notice him.
He walked slowly, deliberately, toward an old man hunched over a pile of scrap. The man's face was lined, hands shaking as he sorted through scraps like they were gold.
"When… when will the next bunch of Awakeners come?" the boy asked softly, almost too quiet to hear. "When will they come and kill us children again?"
The old man looked up, eyes dull. He let out a long, tired sigh.
"Tonight," he said. "They'll clear this batch of you folk's… by tonight. That's how it always goes."
The boy nodded once, without emotion, and walked a few steps further. He sat on a mound of ash and rust, staring at the sky.
It was a dull, ashen gray, heavy with smoke and ruin. How long had it been since anyone had seen the moon? How long since the apocalypse had begun? He couldn't remember. Time didn't matter here.
He reached for the sword strapped to his back, its blade blackened and worn.
The old man's eyes widened, realization dawning too late.
The boy struck. Smooth. Precise. Silent. The old man crumpled, blood dark and thick against the ash.
Every child in the dumpsite froze, their eyes wide, fear frozen in their bones. Some shrieked, some backed away, some dropped whatever scraps they were holding.
And then, a whisper spread across the mountains of trash.
"The… Silent Screamer…"
The boy didn't respond. He simply stared at the ashen sky, the wind carrying the distant hum of the city above, the cries of the doomed below, and the weight of a world that had already forgotten mercy.
The boy left the dumpsite behind, walking through streets choked with neon haze and garbage-strewn alleys. Rain slicked his boots, and the distant hum of drones filled the air.
He stopped in front of a police station, the tall gray building flickering with faulty lights. He didn't hesitate. He simply stepped inside.
At the entrance, a new recruit—a young officer barely out of training—saw him and straightened nervously.
"Hey! You can't just… move along, kid! Get out of here!" the recruit barked, trying to sound confident.
The boy's eyes didn't shift. He stared forward, calm, measured.
"I… killed someone," he said softly, voice eerily steady.
The officer froze. His hand shook over his radio. Behind the counter, the receptionist gasped, clutching her chest.
"C-c-capture him! Now!" someone yelled.
Before the boy could react, hands grabbed him. Metal cuffs clicked around his wrists. He was shoved forward, silent, calm, eyes still fixed straight ahead.
They threw him into a cold, gray cell. The door slammed, echoing against the walls.
He sat on the hard floor, staring at the corner, thinking.
It's not fair, he told himself. It's never fair. And yet… they act like it is.
Outside, the city carried on, indifferent, humming with lights, drones, and sirens, unaware that a child capable of murder—and far worse—had just been locked away.
An hour passed. The boy sat on the cold concrete floor, still, silent. The city's hum and distant sirens seeped through the walls, but he didn't flinch, didn't move.
The cell door clicked open again. The young officer returned, his usual bravado gone. His shoulders were tight, and there was a flicker of unease in his eyes.
"Come on… let's go," he muttered, voice low, almost grudging. He didn't shout, didn't try to intimidate. Something about the boy made him hesitate. Respect—or fear—lingered in the tone.
He led the handcuffed boy down the dim hallway, past rows of cells, past officers who instinctively stepped aside.
Finally, they reached the inner office. Behind a massive desk sat a man with a strong presence—broad shoulders, piercing eyes, and a posture that radiated authority.
His hair and beard were both blonde, trimmed sharp, almost golden under the flickering fluorescent light.
The young officer stopped and gave a quick, nervous salute.
"Sir… this is him," he said quietly, almost reverently.
The lead officer stood slowly, eyes locking onto the boy. For a moment, silence filled the room. The boy didn't flinch, didn't bow. He simply stared back, calm, measured, unafraid.
The air felt heavy, charged, like a storm about to break.
The blonde man spoke finally, his voice low, deliberate.
"So… you're the one they call…" he paused, glancing at the handcuffs. "…the Silent Screamer."
The boy said nothing. He didn't need to. The name, the fear, the respect—they were already his.
The boy's eyes met the blonde officer's, calm, unreadable.
"I… I think I've been cursed," he said softly, almost to himself.
The officer froze. His hand instinctively went to the boy's arm, trembling. "Cursed? What… when did this happen?"
"Four weeks ago," the boy replied, voice steady, cold.
Without another word, they led him out of the office. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, dim and humming with energy, until they reached a massive center.
The doors opened, revealing a vast hall unlike anything the boy had ever seen. Silence hung thick, almost suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of machinery and distant murmurs.
Hundreds of people filled the room. Many were teens, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Some trembled violently; others stood rigid, trying to mask their terror.
All were bound by an invisible tension, a collective awareness of something greater and darker pressing down on them.
The boy stepped inside, handcuffed, unafraid. Around him, the fear buzzed in the air like electricity, but he didn't flinch.