James’ lungs burned. He gasped, but no air came. His chest heaved in vain.

  The monster’s eyes—glowing like embers in the dim light—locked onto him. It didn’t move. It didn’t need to. The slow curl of its lips, revealing jagged, bone-crushing teeth, told him everything.

  James wanted to run. Wanted to scream. But his legs were stone, his body frozen in sheer terror.

  Then—

  "Junior, move!"

  A force slammed into him. The world blurred as he hit the ground hard, the impact knocking air back into his lungs. He gasped, blinking up through the haze.

  Michael Kelechi Conor—his father—stood between him and the monster.

  He was battered, bloodied, but unbroken. His tattered shirt clung to his frame, streaked with crimson, but his stance was firm, unwavering. His eyes burned—not with pain, not with fear, but with something more terrifying. Determination.

  The monster growled, the sound deep and guttural, shaking the very walls. Then, it struck.

  Michael shifted fluidly, dropping into a perfect combat stance—one hand forward, legs spread for balance. A stance designed for evasion, counterattacks. For survival.

  The beast exhaled sharply, a blast of hot, foul breath filling the air. Then—it charged.

  Michael stood his ground. Not even the pain in his limbs made him falter. James had never seen his father look so deadly.

  "Junior, run!" His voice was firm, but urgent. "I’ll hold it off. Get as far away as possible. I’ll catch up when—"

  "No, you’re not—"

  The monster lunged.

  Michael sidestepped, his foot snapping forward. CRACK. The impact rattled through the air as the beast staggered, ribs fracturing under the force. But it did not fall. It spun back, saliva dripping from its fangs, and slashed at Michael’s throat.

  A blur of movement. Barely a dodge.

  The claws raked his side, flesh peeling like paper. James sucked in a sharp breath. But Michael didn’t stop.

  He closed in. A brutal right hook snapped the monster’s snout sideways. CRACK. A knee to the chest. An elbow to the skull. Each strike was precise. Calculated. Unrelenting.

  For a moment—just a moment—James thought his father might actually win.

  Then the beast roared.

  It lashed out, faster than before. Michael’s body jerked as claws tore into his shoulder, hurling him backward. He crashed through the remains of the dining table, wood splintering beneath his weight.

  "Dad!" James screamed.

  Michael gritted his teeth, forcing himself up. His body trembled, but he refused to stay down. Not while his son was watching.

  The monster pounced.

  Michael had no time to dodge. He caught its throat—bare hands against raw muscle and teeth. But the force drove him to the floor, the beast’s full weight pinning him down.

  James’ breath hitched. His father was trapped.

  Claws plunged into Michael’s side. Teeth snapped inches from his face.

  Still, he did not let go.

  His arms trembled. Pain lanced through every muscle. The monster pushed harder.

  Then—a bite.

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  CRACK.

  A scream ripped through the air.

  Michael gasped. Blood pooled around him. His left arm—useless.

  With his remaining strength, his right hand shot forward. Fingers jabbed into the beast’s eye. Deeper. Deeper. A sickening squelch.

  The monster howled, thrashing. But Michael didn’t let go.

  A smirk touched his bloodied lips. "Got you, bastard."

  Then—

  A final, merciless swipe tore across his chest.

  Michael coughed blood. His body collapsed.

  James didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

  His father didn’t even flinch when he hit the ground.

  "Dad?" His voice cracked. "Dad, stay awake—please! We have to go. Mom, Sarah, Amara… they aren’t moving! We need help! Please don’t leave too!"

  Michael’s eyes softened. His son, usually so cold, so composed—was weeping.

  For the first time, Michael allowed himself to feel tired.

  His breath was shallow. His vision dimmed.

  "I’m sorry… I couldn’t protect them." His voice was barely a whisper. "Don’t lose hope… things will get be—"

  A shadow loomed behind James.

  The monster was still alive.

  Michael exhaled.

  "Forgive me…"

  His eyes dimmed.

  James’ world shattered.

  His vision blurred. His breath turned ragged, sharp. His fingers brushed against something.

  A knife.

  Cold metal.

  He gripped it, knuckles whitening.

  "Give them back!"

  He charged.

  He stabbed.

  And stabbed.

  And stabbed.

  Over and over, until the beast stopped moving. Until his arms ached. Until everything went silent.

  Until he realized—it didn’t matter.

  His family was gone.

  James slumped beside his father. He didn’t cry anymore. He just sat there.

  Three Days Later

  "Sir! We found someone!"

  Lying among the bodies, covered in dried blood and bruises, was James.

  For a moment, they thought he was dead.

  Then—

  A shallow breath. Weak. Barely noticeable.

  But alive.

  ---

  Three Days Before James Was Found

  The United Nations emergency conference was in full swing, every branch worldwide in lockdown. Nations communicated through holographic screens, but the meeting had descended into absolute chaos—representatives shouting over one another, their voices clashing in a storm of panic and defiance.

  Amid the noise, Sergei Volkov, Russia’s representative, a surprisingly young man with icy blue eyes, leaned forward, fingers interlocked. His expression was grim as he addressed General Robert Langston, the U.S. representative, a towering man with a scarred jaw.

  “We have lost three cities—not to the creatures, but to the awakened. Some of these people wield god-like abilities. If we don’t act now, this world will enter an apocalyptic era.”

  Langston's eyes burned with defiance. “And your solution is to treat them like rabid dogs? You’d abandon your people just because they’ve changed?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade.

  “We need to focus on the real threat first—the creatures coming from the rifts,” interjected Isabella Duarte, the Brazilian representative. A woman with jet-black hair and a business-like demeanor, she spoke with measured authority.

  Sergei scoffed. “Says the one who wants to experiment on awakened humans like lab rats.”

  France’s Emmanuel Laurent, an average-looking man who constantly adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat. “This is the next step in human evolution. Instead of suppressing them, we should be working with them to fight the real enemy.”

  “And what about the awakened wreaking havoc?” Sergei countered. “They’re worse than the creatures!”

  A deep voice cut through the tension. “Then we control them by force.”

  The speaker was Chukwuemeka Onwudiwe, the Nigerian representative—a bald, dark-skinned man who exuded raw authority.

  China’s Zhang Wei, a middle-aged man with sharp features, raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

  Chukwuemeka leaned forward. “The awakened fall into three categories.”

  First—the rampant ones, those who seek destruction. We suppress them with force.

  Second—the protectors, individuals trying to bring balance. We offer them support, so they see us as allies rather than threats.

  Third—the side-viewers, those waiting for the perfect moment to act. They are the most dangerous. We negotiate, offer them benefits they can’t refuse, and keep them under watch.

  A measured voice joined the fray. “A logical approach, but one that assumes we hold the upper hand.”

  All eyes turned to George Whitesmore, the UK representative. He was a man of striking presence—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and dressed with an elegance that masked his reputation as a ruthless strategist. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers before continuing.

  “The moment we act against the awakened, we declare war on our own people. If we fail to suppress them instantly, they will retaliate. And tell me, what government has the means to stop an awakened whose power rivals a nuclear warhead?”

  Silence gripped the room.

  Langston exhaled sharply. “We don’t have a choice. If we don’t take control now, there won’t be a world left to argue over.”

  Whitesmore’s lips curled in a faint smile, but his eyes remained cold. “Then control them wisely. Force alone will only accelerate our downfall.”

  India’s Anika Rao, a tall woman who carried an air of mystery, tilted her head. “And how will they trust our promises?”Chukwuemeka’s expression remained firm. “We don’t ask for trust—we prove it. Our military must take control of the situation, evacuate survivors, and eliminate the creatures. Only then can we offer resources and security in exchange for cooperation.

  ”Representatives turned to their respective military commanders, issuing urgent orders to mobilize forces, stabilize the crisis, and execute this strategy.All except Zhang Wei.

  Anika Rao narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t speaking to his military. His expression was too calm. His words, too measured.

  He was speaking to China’s scientists.And unlike the others, he wasn’t reacting to the crisis—he was already ahead of it.