Some time later, the sharp clink of glass shattered the stillness, followed by the hurried crunch of footsteps over broken shards. The sound snapped the young Kaiju from his restless sleep, his eyes flying open in alarm. He heard them—steel-capped boots clattering up the stairwell, then thundering down the corridor. A squad of black-clad mercenaries advanced like a storm, hefting a battering ram between them.
With one brutal swing, they splintered the door into a spray of wooden shrapnel.
But the boy had known they were coming. The makeshift alarm of glass he'd scattered had warned him—just in time.
Jolting upright on the rooftop where he'd been sleeping, he clapped trembling hands to his face, his breath hitching. Be calm. Be calm. The words echoed in his head like a mantra. Think. Think quick about how to get out of this. C'mon, think!
Panic clawed at him. He hadn't expected to be found—not like this.
He scrambled to his feet, his mind racing, when another noise nearly made him jump out of his skin. More rustling. They were trying the door.
In desperation, he shoved a platform against it, hoping it would buy him enough seconds to escape. Long-term plans? Fantasy. With the Foundation's global reach, freedom was a myth. This life—running, hiding—was all he had left.
He pressed his palms to his temples, trembling. None of this is my fault, he told himself. Not really.
In another world, he would've failed. They would've broken in, dragged him to the floor, jabbed a needle into his neck—and everything would fade. But not this time.
Not this reality.
Adrenaline surged through him. He bolted. Down the fire escape, his heart hammering in his chest, his feet barely touching the metal rungs before he hit the ground. He melted into the shadows just as the soldiers stormed through the ruined door.
"I thought I saw movement," one of them said. The barricade barely slowed them.
"Must've been shadows. Contact command. We need to clarify them on the situation as quick as possible," barked their leader.
Situation? the Kaiju thought, hiding a block away. What situation? Do they mean me? Am I the situation? His thoughts spiraled.
Then realization set in. Someone must've seen me. Reported me.
That had to be it. Indeed.
Why else would they deploy a squad to his doorstep?
Fear sank its claws into his chest. He had seen firsthand their resolve. The Foundation never quit. He couldn't afford to rest too long in one place, couldn't risk the curious eyes of strangers, or the wrong whisper falling on the wrong ears. He moved constantly, his every moment stitched together by caution and paranoia.
He stared into a shallow puddle under the moonlight, his reflection pale and ghostly. It brought back a memory—five years ago, maybe more. He wasn't sure. Back then, he'd smiled more. He'd laughed. He hadn't yet learned how cold survival could be. He turned away, his jaw tightening.
That boy was gone.
He pulled up his hoodie, his fingers brushing the small scar on his side—a jagged wound from a Foundation bullet. Even healed, it pulsed with pain on cold nights like this.
He wandered the city like a ghost, searching for any place to hide, to breathe. Finally, he found a small hollow where a fire might live. He fed the flames—two plastic cans and some kindling—and blew gently until the embers swelled.
A crackle.
Then, fire.
Just as the rain began to fall.
He glanced around. Graffiti on the walls. A public place, maybe abandoned. If anyone came, he'd be ready. A brick lay nearby—just in case of the necessary.
Necessary...
He slumped beside the fire, burying his head in his hands. How had it come to this? The Kaiju hadn't chosen this life. Or maybe he had—without knowing it. Fear and isolation had become his companions. He didn't know if the Foundation was tracking his movements or simply waiting, laying traps. He wrote in a scorched notebook he'd found, documenting everything—food sources, patrol routes, odd things he overheard in the streets.
Food was always the hardest.
He'd dug through a dozen bins already that day, searching for anything remotely edible. He relished even the smallest victory—a half-rotten potato was a feast. Among the trash, he'd found the bones of a small animal. Dead. Crushed. Forgotten. He held them in his hands, the smell of decay overwhelming.
Poor thing was just trying to eat… and it died buried beneath trash. Just like he might.
He buried it in soft earth and prayed. Quiet. Reverent. To a god who maybe didn't care—but still, he prayed.
The cynical part of him wondered why he still wrote, still remembered. What future? he asked himself again. What hope existed for something like him? No answer came. Just the crackle of the fire, the endless cold.
He never asked for this. Never wanted to escape containment. He couldn't even recall why he ran.
Sleep was elusive. Dreams plagued him.
One nightmare was worse than all the rest.
Kaijus—his kind—chained, tortured, burned alive. Blood everywhere. He tried to run, but chains clamped down. He screamed, fought—but only tore open his wrists and ankles against the iron.
He woke drenched in sweat, body shaking, his heart a drumbeat of dread.
There was no sleeping after that. Every creak, every whisper of wind could be their arrival.
He stared into the darkness until morning came.
He moved again. Three days blurred together. Three days of running, hiding, not sleeping. Three days of fear gnawing at his soul.
Each night, the wounds on his wrists burned with memory. By the fourth evening, he collapsed on a stranger's doorstep, his hair wild, his eyes vacant.
That night was the worst.
Every rustle in the alley, every creak of the building—it could be them. He was dust-covered, half-starved, his thoughts unraveling.
Another day comes. Another goes, he thought.
And nothing good has ever come of it.
He let out a breath.
You just had to mess with me, didn't you, fate?
Then, from the darkness—a peculiar sound.
And the Kaiju rose.
A white dog came forward, making fierce noises at him with it's face all scratched and torn. In that instant, a vivid blue pigmentation swirled around his irises, coalescing to form his pupils. The Kaiju emitted a low menacing growl, followed by a vicious snarl that echoed through the night. His heart was unyielding, and he bared a set of protruded razor sharp fangs, perfectly designed to rend flesh and bone. The sight and sound sent the poor dog fleeing in terror, whimpering as it scampered away.
When his eyes reverted to their usual amber, confusion crossed his face. He breathed heavily, unsure of what he had done. At least the noise stopped. He was thankful for that. Now, he needed to enjoy the little peace he had before it began again, the uproars. He lay on the cold ground, pulling the hoodie he sported tighter around his person in a futile attempt to keep the wind off his skin. I have to stop all this nonsense. All of this lunacy. Tomorrow, I start fresh! No more reliving dread-filled nights. No more paying heed to distorted voices. Just reaffirming my beliefs, faith, and confidence in rationality. Just being normal... if ever such a thing is possible. Kiel concentrated on breathing and struggled through the raw pain. He was frightened, cold, and hungry. But he would be okay, he assured himself. One day at a time. He was a survivor, after all. But who knew surviving was so much less than living.
The wind howled. Exhausted, the Kaiju turned to his side, closing his eyes in the vain hope that he would fall asleep. And soon, if indeed a short while, he forgot all his troubles.