Five.
He barely thought the word as he dragged one foot in front of the other, the limp in his step betraying the damage inside. Rain lashed his back. Each drop struck like a verdict.
Exactly five meters, it had been.
That's how far he'd fallen. Roughly the height of a diving board at an Olympic pool, only there was no crowd to catch their breath, no water to cushion the blow. Just air. Then concrete. Unforgiving, cold, and final.
Not the kind of fall that knocks the wind out of you.
The kind that buries it.
He hit the ground like a discarded puppet, his limbs bending the wrong way, his ribs collapsing inwards like paper. For a moment, the world didn't sound like rain or outside noise. It sounded like a heart that had stopped.
Muffled.
Unmoving.
His eyes flickered open through the haze. Everything was dark; smeared rain, a pale sky bruised with storm clouds, and the sharp taste of copper in his mouth. Water ran down the Foundation walls like veins, pooling around his broken body. His cheek was pressed into the street like something someone meant to kill and forgot to hide.
He should have stayed down.
But pain had never been the enemy.
No.
The real enemy was remembering what it felt like not to be in pain.
Beneath torn flesh, something stirred. Muscles quivered, tendons clenched. Cracked bones shifted, grinding against each other as they slowly snapped back into place with horrible resolve. Bullets, once buried deep in his side, began to push out, one by one. Like the body itself was rejecting death.
He tasted blood again.
Breathed smoke.
And blinked.
Why wasn't he dead?
It should have killed him.
Rain, bullets, gravity; all conspired to end him right there.
By every law of man and nature, he should've been dead. Even the rain seemed determined to wash him away.
But he wasn't natural.
He never had been.
Born small. Weak. Sick. Passed over by doctors, teachers, even his own parents. A mistake that kept breathing. The kind of kid people forgot to pick up after school. The one who sat in the nurse's office while the others ran.
Maybe that's why it chose him.
What better vessel for ruin than something already fractured?
Then—it came.
A dark web pulsed across his mind's eye.
Speak of the devil.
A voice — clinical, detached — sliced through the chaos in his brain.
"Requiem Protocol: Regenerative Process Initiated. Hemorrhaging contained. Initiating Recovery Sequence."
The words made his stomach turn. That name. Requiem Protocol.
It sounded so… cold. Too clean. Too precise. The kind of thing they write on reports. Not people.
He never called it that. That made it sound official. Permanent.
No.
He called it The System.
Because if he said that name enough, maybe it would sound less like a parasite and more like a tool.
But even lies sound like the truth when you say them in your own head.
"Energy levels: critical. Vital signs: below survival threshold. Activating pain suppression protocol."
He should've felt comfort. Relief. Something.
But all he felt was hollow.
The System didn't care about him. It never did. It only cared that the meat kept moving.
And now… it did.
His arms straightened. His legs locked into place. Not because he wanted them to but because they were told to.
He moved, not like a person, but like a machine restarting after failure.
When his eyes opened again, they didn't feel like his. Just lenses. Sensors. Windows for something else to see through.
The ground in front of him blurred — until he saw it.
DON'T DIE HERE
The words were smeared in dark red. Still wet. Still brave.
Someone had written it. Recently. For him.
A plea. A command. Maybe a promise.
He stared at it like it was scripture.
Something inside him clawed to the surface.
Not strength.
Grief.
Because if someone still believed he was worth saving… why didn't he?
Steam hissed from the wounds across his chest as they closed, sealing like old secrets. Rain dripped from his fingertips like blood. And as his senses sharpened, the pain faded into something quieter. Less noticeable. More dangerous.
System Update: Bullet Shards — 88% Extracted. Tissue Regeneration — 62%. Internal Vitality — 37%.
He swallowed.
Not words.
Doubt.
A question he didn't want answered.
What am I now?
"System Alert: Enhanced Strength Engaged. Power Surge Remaining: 43%."
His hand curled.
The world around him faded. No footsteps, no shouts, no color.
Just the voice.
System Notice: Vital Signs Stabilized.
He should've screamed. Should've cried. Should've remembered who he was.
But maybe there was nothing to remember.
No boy. No name.
Just… the System.
A corpse in motion.
[Welcome, Reaper Candidate.]
That word again. Candidate.
As if this was a promotion.
As if becoming a weapon was a choice.
His visor glowed.
His eyes — if they were still eyes — didn't.
"Is this me now?" he wondered, not aloud, but in the aching silence between his heartbeats.
"Or is this just what's left?"
He remembered what it felt like to be afraid.
He just didn't know if he still could be.
What he knew was this: he didn't die.
Not because he survived.
But because something else decided he should.
And he had to live with that.
Necessary, he whispered.
Again.
And again.
And again. And again. And again.
Like a prayer offered to a god made of wires and bone.
But even then…
He wasn't sure he believed it anymore.