"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Chapter IV

(8 years ago)

Year 2046

The day it happened was beautiful. It was late spring, and the air was alive with birdsong. The cherry trees were in full bloom, and fluffy clouds raced across the sky. Yoki’s spirits were high. He loved fall, and winter, his favorite season, was just around the corner. He walked back and forth from school with a new lightness in his step, knowing that he’d be at the Academy next year.

There was no warning of what was coming. True, his dad had been especially paranoid—but he had been that way for weeks, refusing to tell anyone exactly what danger they were looking for, and Yoki had learned to tune it out. If his dad wouldn’t tell him what was going on, he figured there was nothing he could do about it.

As he ambled home from school, he felt a dark energy crackling in the air, but he convinced himself it was all in his head. After all, he wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t predict when something bad was about to happen. All the weirdness lately—The Academy, his dad, the nightmares—was getting to him, that was all. He fully believed that until he opened the door to his house.

“Mom?” he called out. “Dad? I’m home!”

They were usually there to greet him when he came in, but today the house was eerily silent. It reminded him of one of his recurring nightmares. In it, everyone but him had vanished from the world, and he was all alone. He wandered the streets endlessly, panicked, hoping to find someone else, praying he wasn’t the last person alive on Earth. But he never did. He always awoke from that dream in a cold sweat, heart pounding.

“Mom? Dad?” he called again. Something was wrong. He could feel it now. There was a strange metallic smell in the air.

“Dad?”

His foot hit something wet, and he looked down. There was a pool of congealing blood in the hallway. He looked up, heart sinking. A red stain on the ceiling dripped blood onto the floor.

Yoki flashed back to what his dad had said, over and over, during their training sessions. He had many enemies. He’d angered them at some point. They knew where he lived.

“No,” Yoki whispered, trying to deny what he already knew was true. The chickens had come home to roost. His father’s past deeds, whatever they were, had finally caught up with him.

He didn’t want to go upstairs, but his feet carried him there almost without his knowing. It was as if he was seized by some strange compulsion. He had to see. He had to see what was in his parents' room, had to see what his father’s enemies had done. The bedroom door was open a crack, and blood leaked out from under it in a widening stream. The metallic stench filled the air, making his stomach churn. Something terrible was in there. Something horrifying.

He pushed the door open, willing his eyes to close so he wouldn’t have to see. But they stayed open. The door creaked horribly as it swung away from him, revealing the savage scene inside.

His parents were dead. Not just dead—annihilated. Whoever, whatever had done it had shredded their bodies into unrecognizable pieces. The walls were splattered with blood, bits of flesh clinging to the wallpaper. The only recognizable piece of them was of a singular arm, draped over his mother’s torso, as if his father had tried to shield her in his last moments. But it was hard to tell—the scene was too chaotic, too brutal. It looked as though a wild animal had torn through them, leaving nothing but carnage in its wake.

Yoki’s heart pounded, and he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. He felt like he was underwater, like nothing was real anymore. The air was thick with the smell of death. With a shaking hand, he grabbed his arm and pinched himself as hard as he could; so hard he drew blood. This was just a dream. Yes, his nightmares were often so vivid that they felt real. This was one of those, and he’d wake up soon—

. . .nothing. He was awake. This was reality, the present. His parents were dead—mutilated beyond recognition, their bodies reduced to grotesque remnants.

“No,” he said quietly to himself. “No, no, no, no, no.”

If he just rejected it, maybe they’d come back to life.

“NO! This can’t be happening!”

He could hear the sounds of police cars in the distance. They were coming his way. How did they know what had happened here? He hadn’t called them. Had whoever done this tipped them off?

What if his father’s enemy was a member of the police department? What if the police had killed his parents?

He knew it didn’t make any sense—why would the cops murder two random people when they could just put them in jail?—but he could feel his heart beating hard. Too fast, much too fast. His dad had sometimes called these his “freak-outs,” when he lost control of his power. It was always triggered by something highly emotional, although never anything as bad as this.

Garrett had tried to teach him how to control them.

“You’re not going to have the luxury of losing your head if you’re ever in a real fight, son,” he often said. “Take it from me. Trust me, I’m an expert.”

But none of the techniques his dad had taught him had worked. He’d tried controlling his breathing, picturing himself on a tranquil lake in the forest, focusing on the task directly in front of him. It hadn’t done anything. He would still lose control of his abilities regularly. Yoki knew it was his greatest weakness.

The sirens grew louder, closer. Panic surged through him, a tidal wave threatening to drown him. His vision blurred, and he felt a hot rush of adrenaline flood his veins. He stumbled back from the horrific scene, his mind racing with wild, irrational thoughts.

“They’re coming for me,” he muttered, his voice trembling. “They killed my parents, and now they’re coming for me.”

And now it was happening again. He could feel the power rising in him as the sirens got closer, and a deep voice spoke to him from inside his head.

Annoying, aren’t they?

He’d never been able to figure out who this voice was—was it the dark side of his subconscious? Or some other being that somehow had access to him? He hoped it was the former.

Someone was banging at the door downstairs, and he could see the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars through the window. They’d pulled up outside of his house, and it seemed like there were a lot of them.

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“Open up,” a loudspeaker crackled. “It’s the police. Open up.”

What do you think? Do you want to open that door?

He knew he shouldn’t. He really did. But something inside of him did. He wanted to show these cops what they were up against. He wanted to make them feel the pain that he was feeling now.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah.”

Do it then.

But he was too late. The cops had taken out a battering ram and were beating the door down. He could hear the wood splintering. They were almost through. And what would they do when they found him? Would they think this was all his fault?

They might.

Yoki couldn’t let that happen. He whirled around, turning his back on his parents forever. He hoped to never see them again, not like this. He sprinted down the stairs, feeling his breath grow steady. That was a good sign. It meant he was drawing on his power.

He arrived just as the cops burst into the hallway. They looked at him for a moment, startled—they hadn’t been expecting a child—but Yoki didn’t stop for a second. There were two of them, and he launched himself at them, leaping into the air and lashing out with his boots. His feet connected with one man’s face, then the other, and they fell, shocked. He’d broken their necks instantly. They lay on the ground, dead—Yoki standing over them with his eyes now ablaze in fiery red.

He didn’t like to admit it to himself, but it felt sort of good to have this much power.

There are more outside. You are not done yet.

No, he certainly wasn’t. He stepped outside. The street was full of police cars—some fifty police officers or more in total. Men stood behind the cars for cover, guns pointed at him.

“It’s a kid,” one of them said when they saw him. “Stand down. Stand down!”

“Did you kill my parents?” Yoki whispered at first, gradually getting louder. “Did you? Did you kill them?!”

He knew he sounded insane, but at this point, he didn’t care. All he wanted was revenge. If he couldn’t punish the people who’d actually killed his parents, he’d punish whoever he could get at—and that meant these cops.

“What are you talking about, kid? We got an anonymous phone call reporting a murder scene, resulting in the death of this house’s owners. We’re here to investigate, see what’s up.”

They’re lying. Look at their faces. Why would there be so many of them if it was just that?

The voice might not always tell the truth, but it always told him what he wanted to hear.

“You’re lying!” Yoki shouted. “All of you! You’re liars! You killed them!”

“We’re here to help you, kid. Just come with us, and we’ll figure this out. You don’t have to be alone—”

Yoki was already on the move. Logically, he knew the cops weren’t at fault, but he didn’t care. He’d already killed two men anyway. He might as well take out the rest of them.

The sight of Yoki with blazing red eyes was more than terrifying; it was a harbinger of doom. He moved to the nearest cop car, and they started firing at him wildly in a panic. His presence exuded a dark, menacing aura that seemed to swallow the light around him. The fear in their eyes was palpable—they had not expected a child to be the instrument of their destruction. This would be their last, fatal mistake.

Bullets whizzed past him, but Yoki dodged them with an uncanny fluidity, his movements a dance of otherworldly grace. His recent training had refined his reflexes to an exquisite sharpness, granting him a precision that bordered on the extraordinary. The officers, mere mortals, moved with a sluggishness exacerbated by their fear. They were hopelessly outmatched.

He vaulted over the hood of the car, his body a blur. On the other side, he faced the men who had been shooting at him.

Do it. You know you want to.

And he did. He turned toward the first cop and punched, his fist ripping through the officer’s chest with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, painting the ground in a grotesque tableau. The other men froze in horror, then resumed firing, their shots wild and panicked.

Yoki moved through them like a specter, his fury growing with each strike. Two more cops fell to friendly fire, their bodies crumpling to the ground. He shook his head, disgusted by their incompetence. These were the protectors of the city? Pathetic.

He lashed out again, and another officer collapsed, lifeless. Four lay dead at his feet, blood pooling around them. "What are you doing, kid?" the head officer shouted, his voice tinged with hysteria. "You’re crazy! He’s crazy!"

The cops all turned on him simultaneously. The nearest tried to tackle him, while those farther away fired their weapons, trying to corral him.

They don’t know who they’re dealing with. Remember the years of training you’ve had.

He sprinted toward a group, and they turned to flee. Too slow. Much too slow. He caught up to them with ease, dispatching them one by one with brutal efficiency. It was like slicing through butter. Bored, he decided to play with his prey, toying with them, making them shoot each other in their panic.

A cop swung a baton at him, but Yoki leapt into the air, evading the blow. The baton struck another officer instead, and Yoki landed, taking them both out with swift, lethal strikes. Then, seizing a fallen officer’s gun, he fired until the magazine clicked empty, each shot finding its mark through the heads of the remaining officers.

Good work, kid.

He was growing bored. He needed something different, something more challenging. The door of a police car hung open before him, and an idea bloomed in his mind. He ripped the door from its hinges, using it as a shield against the barrage of bullets. He charged the nearest group of officers, whirling the door like a lethal cyclone. He aimed low, severing legs with gruesome precision. Blocking another hail of bullets, he used the door to decapitate those who had fallen, their blood spattering his face.

“How did a little kid learn how to do this?” one of the cops shouted. “Was he a child soldier? Is he an android? Genetically modified?”

“No,” Yoki laughed, the sound chilling. “I’ve just trained hard. My dad taught me so much!” His laughter was maniacal.

You tell them, Yoki.

He nodded, acknowledging the voice, then resumed his own massacre. They tried to regroup, to form a phalanx against him. They saw their numbers dwindling and knew he wouldn’t stop until they were all dead. They circled him, confident they could contain him. “Finally resembling something trained,” he thought. Yoki grinned maniacally, gathering his power into his fists.

He punched the ground, sending a massive shockwave out from the point he’d hit. The cops screamed as the wave of power blew them back against their cars. Yoki felt the power rushing through him and laughed, a sound devoid of sanity.

“Is this all you’ve got?” he shouted. “Defeated by a child?! You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

The cops groaned, disoriented. Yoki ran around the circle, ripping their throats out with his teeth and slicing their bodies open with his kicks. He relished the taste of their blood, the way their eyes dimmed as life left them, the music of their agony.

Seeing more officers advancing, Yoki felt a surge of rage. He grabbed one officer by the head, slamming him into the ground with such force that his skull shattered, brains and blood splattering everywhere. Another tried to flee, but Yoki caught him, tearing him apart limb by limb, savoring the screams of misery.

He turned to another group, laughing hysterically, and ripped a man’s arm off, beating another officer to death with it. His laughter echoed through the night, a symphony of madness and chaos.

As the officers tried one last desperate charge, Yoki grabbed two by their necks, lifting them off the ground. He squeezed until he felt their spines snap, then tossed their lifeless bodies aside. He was a force of nature, unstoppable. Merciless.

The street fell silent. The cop cars' lights flashed red and blue, but the sirens were silent, destroyed in the carnage. The pavement was soaked with sticky puce blood. He’d killed them all. Every last one. He closed his eyes, feeling a hollow victory.

“Did I do a good job?” he whispered, hoping the voice would answer. “Was this the right thing to do?”

But it was gone. The voice usually left him after his “freak-outs,” but this time he really could have used its support. The initial euphoria had vanished, leaving behind a sense of profound emptiness. It felt like he’d just done something unforgivable. No, he had done something unforgivable. He’d gone on a rampage. He knew that. And deep down, he knew the cops hadn’t killed his parents. He’d always known that.

Vomit poured from his mouth, mixing with the crimson blood on the ground, forming a sickening brown slurry. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look around, already dreading what he’d see. More than fifty cops lay dead around him. Their faces were still frozen in fear—those who still had faces left. He was the last thing they’d seen, and he must have been terrifying. More bile rose up from his stomach.

Something tickled his cheek, and he wiped his face roughly. His hand came away wet. He was crying. He hadn’t realized it. The tears came harder, and he sobbed uncontrollably. Why had he done this? Why had he killed all these cops? Was he as bad as the person who’d killed his mother and father? Those cops might have had kids too. What would they think when they learned their parents were dead?

Yoki collapsed to his knees, surrounded by the lifeless bodies. Bodies he’d killed. He’d used his power for evil. He had done something he could never take back.

Power, unchecked, has a way of corrupting those who wield it.

His dad’s message echoed in his mind. The sound of sirens in the distance grew louder, and he knew they were coming for him. He started to feel woozy—tired beyond normal physical exhaustion. As he slumped to the street, he saw black shapes moving towards him—from the bodies of the dead. The shadows flowed into his own, the color of his own shadow darkening.

Before he could make sense of it, the world tilted, and he fell into unconsciousness, the last thing he saw being the encroaching darkness consuming him whole.