Chapter 6 – When the Dinsions Bend
The brutal assault continued for what felt like an eternity—ten whole minutes of rciless violence. Zane endured every second of it in silence, his body used as a punching bag, a target, a vessel for the twisted amusent of Emilio and his gang. Stomps crushed his ribs, fists rained down on his back and stomach, kicks slamd into every inch of exposed flesh. He was left battered and broken, his skin blotched with deep bruises that painted him in shades of black and blue. Long, ragged cuts bled freely down his arms, soaking his clothes and pooling around him.
When the final kick landed, the noise finally died. Zane's body didn't move—he couldn't. His breathing was shallow and erratic, each inhale sharp with pain. His gaze, unfocused and dull, stared up at nothing as the group of boys stood around him, panting, dripping with sweat from their frenzied aggression.
"Hah... hah..." Emilio was the first to stop. His chest heaved with effort, sweat clinging to his brow. But behind the mask of rage was sothing else—sothing colder. Fear. The chill that had gripped him earlier hadn't gone away. He glanced at Zane's bloodied face and felt that sa unease crawling up his spine.
"Enough..." he muttered, spitting near Zane's head. "He's had more than enough. Next ti, keep your mouth shut, you worthless piece of shit. Stay rotting in this hellhole or just drop dead—either one works."
He turned, waving his hand dismissively. "Let's go."
One of the boys hesitated. "Hey, Emilio, should we—"
"I said let's go."
The rest fell in line, trailing behind Emilio with one last glance at Zane. No one stayed behind to see what beca of him. No one cared.
Silence returned to the hidden alley. The sa quiet that Zane had once found peaceful now pressed against him like a weight, heavier than the bruises decorating his skin. He lay there in a pool of his own blood, unmoving, his chest barely rising and falling. His eyes, though open, seed to look past the world entirely.
For a mont, he was empty. Hollow.
Then, faintly, a sound escaped his cracked lips. "A... agh..."
It wasn't a scream, nor even a cry. Just a broken groan—dry and barely audible. Even that was a struggle. His throat felt like sandpaper, his lungs burning from lack of air. Slowly, painfully, he shifted his fingers against the ground. His joints protested with every twitch.
With agonizing effort, he pushed his trembling body upward. Every muscle scread. Pain lanced through his spine and limbs, but he forced himself up, inch by inch. As he staggered forward, trying to stand, his knees gave out, and he fell face-first, his head bouncing against the concrete.
"Ugh..."
He didn't cry out. He couldn't. All he could do was lie there, twitching, his battered body refusing to cooperate.
"Mother..." he whispered hoarsely. "I'm trying. I'm really trying... You don't need to worry. I won't give up."
Tears welled in his eyes, stinging against the bruises on his cheeks. But they weren't from the physical pain. No, that was sothing he had learned to swallow long ago. It was the weight in his chest, the emptiness in his soul, that finally cracked him open.
"I'm just... so tired..." His voice was a whisper now, thick with emotion. "I don't know how to be better. I don't know what more I can do. I'm always trying, always pushing forward... but I'm so alone. So damn lonely..."
The words spilled out, quiet and broken.
"I'm hungry all the ti... My room's always cold... I can't sleep, and when I do, all I see are nightmares... I'm scared, Mom... What did I do to deserve this? Why does it hurt so much...?"
His fists curled against the pavent as the tears ran freely, dripping down to the blood-streaked ground.
"I hate this... I hate all of it... I don't want to do this anymore. Please... If you can hear ... just give sothing. Give hope. Give the strength to keep going. I don't care what it costs."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
And then, in that silent mont of desperation, sothing changed.
A warmth washed over him—not physical, but familiar. A gentle glow filled his mind's eye, and within it, a silhouette took shape. A figure so comforting, so beloved, it made his heart ache.
His mother.
Her arms open, her smile the sa one that had always greeted him before she was taken from him. She didn't speak right away. She simply looked at him, and Zane, broken and trembling, stared back at her in disbelief. Then her voice ca—soft, soothing, yet tinged with sothing else he couldn't place.
"What do you want, Zane?"
He blinked, too overwheld to answer.
"What is your deepest wish?" she asked again. "I can give you what your heart desires most."
Zane lowered his gaze, hesitant. Then, slowly, his voice found strength.
"I want... to take control of my fate. I want to be able to shape my own outco, to change what everyone says can't be changed. I want to beco stronger... faster... smarter..." He clenched his fists. "And I want them to suffer. All of them. I want them to feel what I felt. I want to crush them until they beg for rcy."
There was no sha in his voice. Only truth. This was what he had buried deep down for so long. A fire born from pain. This world hadn't been kind to him, and he wished to give back that pain to those who inflicted it on him. An unending pain until his soul is fully satisfied.
"Is that your deepest wish, darling?" the figure asked sweetly.
"Yes."
"Would you ever regret it?"
"Never."
"Even if it changes everything?"
"Even if the entire world flips upside down."
The figure smiled.
But this ti... the smile changed. It twisted—widened—almost unnaturally, too large, too pleased. Sothing in that expression chilled Zane for a heartbeat. Yet before he could question it, the image dissolved into white light.
And a final whisper echoed through his mind:
"Your wish... shall be granted."
Zane's eyes fluttered open. The world had returned, but the warmth lingered for a mont longer. He sat there, dazed. What... was that? he wondered. He had spoken to his mother, but she felt so different. Too calm. Too knowing.
Still, his mind felt clearer than it had in days.
He reached up and wiped the tears from his face, groaning softly as he pulled himself upright. This ti, he didn't collapse. Using a bench nearby for support, he lowered himself onto it and sat there, catching his breath.
"Fuuuh..." he exhaled shakily. "I really lost it for a second... Didn't expect to start crying like that..."
A self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. 'You really are pathetic, Zane... Crying like a child. Mom didn't raise you to be weak—not physically, sure—but ntally...'
Still, he couldn't shake the strange conversation. That smile... It lingered in his thoughts like a ghost.
"And what was that she said at the end? 'Your wish shall be granted'? Granted what?" He scoffed, shaking his head slowly. "I was just venting. There's no wish. Nothing realistic, anyway."
But then—
[Assimilation process begun!]
[Please do not fall asleep until the process is complete.]
Zane froze.
"...Huh?"
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