Chapter 2 - Wounds that remain.

Silence consumed the world.
The painter — decided to leave the canvas, black and white.
How long had it been, hours, days, weeks, eternities — forever.

Moonlight illuminated her face — cold air surrounded the room. The girl opened her eyes — her body damp with warmth, her fingers trembled as she felt her own sweat trying to drown her in her slumber.

She was small.
Long silver hair.
Green eyes that were bright.
Yet those eyes pulsed with trauma.

Her smooth, silky skin clung to the cold. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since these…
Nightmares had begun.

Her eyes wandered as he appeared again.

Stardust landed on her milky, smooth skin.

THUMP.

Her fingers trembled as her body glowed with prisma. She grabbed something that felt familiar.
One that would never come.

Silver hair that didn’t belong to her entered the room — her prisma vanished as his shadow covered her small, fragile body.

The sight of him — she gripped her weapon, yet the only thing that responded to her was cloth.

She watched as his body was carved by war. His arms strained against his clothing — biceps that had clearly outgrown the fabric he wore. His frame was bitten by time — mirrored by the claymore that stuck to his back. His cloak was torn to pieces yet she couldn’t tell if he wore it as an amulet or as clothing.

Rumble.
A single step he took seemed like it belonged to a horde of elephants.
A single step to approach her.
Again.

She gripped her hands — blinking slowly as her eyes scanned the dull claymore that he wielded. It looked… boring and worn — yet she was aware it could sever armies.

Her throat became dry as her words were afraid to leave.

Rumble.
Each step he took — so fast yet so slow
Like an event horizon.
An action that would eternally approach.
A black hole that would never arrive.

Her neck squeezed.

THUMP.
THUMP.

The silver-headed man — lifted his head as his cold, blue eyes pierced her soul.
A silver blade, which reflected all life — he raised it aiming at her.

Her fingers gripped her hand as she closed her eyes…

Silence.

She slightly opened her eyes, there was no sight of the blade or the man.

Just a cold, alone kingdom.
A room with no soul, just a single…

Drop.

She raised her palm as a slither of blood poured from her palm.
She had squeezed her hand so hard her nails dug into her.

She wasn’t sure how long these nightmares would continue to loop.
Her bed was damp, white — far too big and empty.

Creak.

Prismatic shards resonated from her soul …

As the door opened slowly —


- - -

The house was dead silent.
The kind of silence that isolated him — he could hear his own organs move.

Kairo stood by his window. The sight was gloomy — his black suit, red tie alien to Lagos. The rain and wind cleaned the world yet to him it lost all purity.

The words crawled into his ears like a centipede.

Abynt.

It never bothered him at first, but the more the centipede went deeper in his ear.
It became a wound, with no cure.

Abynt.

He felt his skin crawl.

He had heard it his entire life.
When he was a child.
When he was in school.
When he was around his father.
When he was around his mother.
The world had no filter for him.

No matter what he did, no matter how kind he was — how hard he tried to improve.
He was treated the same.

The same red tie. The same black suit.
To the rest of the world, he wasn’t human.

“Abynt.”
He whispered it to himself — his body burnt and shivered.

I feel sick.

He pulled at his tie, loosening the grip.

The boy stared at his own hand. It was smooth, clean, pure — everything they never saw him as.

Blue eyes, lacking warmth.

“I talk like them… act like them, move like them.”
His fingers squeezed the fabric he held.

His knuckles whitened.

He blinked and took a deep breath.

Thud.

A red tie fell on the table, a delicate landing.

“And still…

And still, I’ll never be one of them.”

Heavy eyes closed and reopened.

“I’m tired.”

He turned away — leaving the tie behind.

The wooden hut exhaled in the silence he left behind. Dust clouds danced through the air, faint light caught them as they turned into ghosts.

The ghosts clung to the wood, the lights, the roof and the sheets — which had forgotten the last time they were used.
The last time his father had rested on the bed.

The air was thick.

The hut didn’t know how to mourn — it awaited his return.

Sometimes, it would hear laughter.
One that didn’t belong to him.
One that didn’t belong to the house.
One that didn’t belong to his father.

Laughter of the past.

The painter’s brush — Arctic blue.

***

He inhaled — shards of metal and dust.
It hugged his tongue like stardust.

The pull up bar was rough — corroded. The wood around it was bitten by time. The first touch burnt with cold — the second with uncomfortable warmth. The sweat, heat trapped between his palms.

Autumn leaves fell slowly, sinking into the mud beneath him.

Drop.
Sweat fell — landing like rain.

1.

He pulled once — the frame rattled.
The mud under his black boot barely kissed the floor.
Yet he continued.

2.

Abynt… stay away from him.
Words that weren’t new — yet he didn’t remember when they started.
He’d heard them hundreds of times — yet today they stabbed deeper.

He recalled his mother’s face. How youthful she once looked, skin full of milk and love. Years ago — she granted him warmth. The same warmth that allowed him to call her mother. Yet whenever he thought of her now — his stomach sank. His memory didn’t picture warmth — only a lady he saw as selfish, cold and horrible.

He hates her.
He thinks.

3.
He pulled again.

Creak.
The pulling force — causing the bar to shake.

The boy… the boy — he’s cursed. Don't let him near your children. They’ll become ill.
His grip burnt, his forearms tight.
Shards of rust kissed his skin.

4.
The bar vibrated.

My daughter went missing after she spoke to one — now look where she is…
Gone just like the rest.
Abynt.
Abynt.

5.
His throat tightened as wind blew into his face.
Silver hair damp with sweat — silver glory replaced with gray.

The thoughts tore through him.

His father’s face flickered through his mind. It was so vivid, so familiar…
It hurt.

Just yesterday, just earlier his hand held Kairo — now it was pale, lacking any life. The casket robbed all the warmth, all the love that filled their home. Now the home was cold and quiet.

6.
His eyes dried as flakes of rust dug deeper into his palm.
Calluses formed.

A black crow flew past, its wings slicing the sky.

7.

Drop.

His father was strong as a horse… Now look where he ended up — just like the rest.
The men’s voice echoed in his head.

His muscles were tight — elbows faintly burning. His lungs felt like they were going to collapse from exhaustion. The air around him was dense with emotion. Even the bar felt it.

8.
Wait no —
9.
Was it 10? It didn’t matter to him, he stopped counting.

His fingers slipped from the bar.
Black fabric trousers were introduced to mud.

***

He stood before his house and made himself an oath — he would never return.

The house breathed the same as before. The walls still held his scent.
He didn’t know how long he had stood there — outside his home.
The longer he stood, the harder it became to move.

So he turned away.
A slow turn.

It was dark and cold.
He wandered through the isolated streets of Lagos. A shine caught his eye — near the village a glass case stood in the centre. The case was covered in dirt, cracked and neglected — inside sat a small and dull katana.

One that the people bragged about — legends and war.
A relic from an old war hero.
“All lies or real. Not like it matters."

Small cracks covered the glass. Its reflection was meant to show its honour, its glory yet none of it interested him.

He dug his hand through the cracks — glass fragments bit his palm.

Red fabric covered its handle. As he raised the katana, it slipped — revealing brown tape — like someone had been picking at it in their spare time.

The guard was uneven, dull and ordinary. The blade itself — metal that had lost its shine and excitement — if you asked it when it last shined, it had no answer.

Gray and exhausted just like Lagos. Its reflection wouldn’t even stare back — only a faint silver blur that mirrored his own hair.

Fingers grasping its handle.

It didn’t matter where it came from.
How legendary it was.
How ordinary it was.

The world paused its breath as the clouds hung above him…
He didn’t turn back.

The wooden hut held its arms open.