Korir Hiroto. That was his name.
The words echoed in his mind as he stirred awake, blinking against the dim light of a small, candlelit room. His body ached—his arms still burning with the strange markings carved into his skin. Not tattoos. Not wounds. Something else.
Across from him, sitting on a wooden crate, was a boy around his age—arms crossed, watching him with wary curiosity. His silver hair caught the flickering light, and his sharp blue eyes had the kind of look that came from seeing too much, too soon.
"Finally up? Thought you were gonna stay out forever," the boy muttered, tossing him a flask of water. "Name's Malik Armand. Most people call me Zero. You looked like you needed a friend."
Korir caught the flask, his hands still unsteady. He took a slow sip, letting the cold water wash away the dryness in his throat. A friend? He wasn't sure he even knew what that meant anymore.
"Where... where am I?"
Zero leaned back, balancing the crate on two legs. "Safe house. Not for long, though. Those Mombasa Mabas bastards are already sniffing around."
Korir frowned. Mombasa Mabas. The words felt heavy, like something he should have known—like something important had been buried deep inside his mind.
Before he could ask, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
Zero tensed. The air shifted. His casual demeanor faded, replaced by something razor-sharp. His eyes darkened as he reached inside his jacket, fingers brushing against the hilt of a knife.
Knock. Knock.
"Looks like we're out of time," Zero muttered under his breath. He turned to Korir, his voice low but firm. "You ready to run?"
Korir didn't feel ready for anything. But something deep inside him whispered:
Run or die.
And so, he ran.