Quint Rauss [1]

Quint Rauss barely managed to open his eyes, his vision blurred, his body weak. He felt a pair of hands slip beneath him, lifting him carefully off the floor.

His instincts screamed at him.

He struggled reflexively, his body tensing as he was hoisted onto someone's shoulder. But even through his haze, he knew—this person meant him no harm.

The man carrying him hissed softly, patting his shoulder in a calming gesture. Quint Rauss finally stilled.

The rhythmic motion of footsteps followed as he was carried away like a sack of rice.

"How is he?" A woman's voice reached his ears, faint, almost lost in the fog of his mind.

"He's still too emotional… too consumed by his past," the man answered.

The woman sighed, her regret evident. "It's been a year."

"He's too small," the man muttered. "And his mind is too broken. I'm afraid he'll be useless… he won't be able to cultivate."

A heavy silence followed.

Then, the woman spoke again, a note of determination in her voice.

"He will be five in two months. By then, we can perform the procedure on him. Maybe… maybe it will save him."

Her tone held a fragile hope. She wasn't ready to give up on him.

The man exhaled. "Hopefully…"

-

Quint Rauss sat frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched the paramedic switch on the electric shaver.

The low, mechanical hum sent a jolt of fear through him.

"Mother… what they doing?" he asked, his words clumsy, his English rough. His mother's hand gently patted his leg, an attempt to soothe him.

"It's okay, baby… you will be fine," she reassured him, a warm smile on her face.

But Quint wasn't convinced.

"Why he bald me?" he asked, his panic rising.

The shaver moved closer. He jerked his head, trying to dodge it, but a second paramedic gripped his skull tightly, holding him still.

"They will cure you, my boy," his mother said, her voice unwavering.

Quint's breath hitched.

"But… I not sick, Mother! Not sick!" he protested, squirming against their grip.

His mother's expression didn't waver. "You will be okay, Sweetie."

The paramedics pressed him down against the chair. A thick leather belt was wrapped around his small frame, pinning him in place.

"Don't harm him," his mother ordered, her voice still gentle but now carrying an undeniable authority.

"Yes, Madam," the paramedic replied obediently.

Quint's struggles weakened as desperation took hold. His chest heaved.

"Mother… I promise I be good," his voice cracked, thick with sobs. "I be good… Please… let me go…"

His mother's eyes closed for a brief moment.

When she turned away, her face was unreadable.

"Take him," she commanded.

The paramedics obeyed.

Quint Rauss screamed.

-

A boy's eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion.

His vision blurred, adjusting slowly to the dim light of the room. In the haze, he made out the figure of a man standing near the door, watching him.

He blinked several times. The man remained unfamiliar.

Yet, the stranger smiled in relief upon seeing him awake.

"Boy, you're awake," the man said, his voice steady. He turned, cracking the door open and calling out to someone outside. "Inform Madam. The boy is awake."

Footsteps echoed in the hallway—hurried, urgent.

"Quinny..."

A woman's voice, filled with warmth and relief.

She entered the room quickly, a wide smile stretching across her face as she reached him. Before he could react, she cupped his face with both hands, eyes searching his blank expression.

"Quinny… you're awake!"

Behind her, a man in uniform and two young girls stood, their faces showing relief, but also lingering traces of concern.

The boy stared at them, vacant and detached.

"Who...?" he murmured.

The woman's smile faltered. A flicker of shock crossed her face before she quickly masked it. She nodded to herself, murmuring under her breath. "Right... right..."

She pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him for only a second before gently setting him apart at arm's length.

"Quinny… Quint… That's you," she said softly, her voice coaxing, patient.

"Me?" the boy repeated, his tone uncertain.

The woman nodded. "Yes. You are Quint Rauss. Don't you remember anything?"

The boy slowly shook his head.

The woman sighed deeply before wrapping her arms around him again.

"You had an accident," she explained, her voice gentle but trembling. "The doctor said you suffered brain damage... and you've lost your memory."

A tear slipped down her cheek.

The man behind her stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on her back before offering the boy a thin smile.

"We are your family, boy. I am your father. She is your mother."

The two girls stepped closer. The man placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders.

"These are your sisters, Mila and Penny."

Quint Rauss looked at them all, his gaze empty, absorbing their faces but feeling nothing. He didn't recognize them. He didn't even recognize himself.

But then, something stirred.

Not a memory—something simpler.

The word family echoed in his mind, carrying a strange warmth, a sense of belonging he hadn't known he needed.

Something inside him latched onto that feeling.

A small, uncertain smile curved his lips. His gaze returned to the man.

"Father..."

-

Eight months had passed since he was discharged from the hospital.

The boy now called Quint Rauss played in the backyard, laughter ringing in the air as he chased a small puppy with his two sisters.

Leaning against the open French doors, his mother watched them with a soft, contented smile.

"Quinny," she called.

Quint immediately stopped and turned to her. Seeing the signal, he walked toward her without hesitation.

"Yes, Mother."

She gently ran her fingers through his hair. "I think it's time for you to start practicing again."

Quint frowned slightly. "Practicing?"

His mother nodded. "Yes. Besides your father, you're the only man in the house. Don't you think it's your duty to learn martial arts? To protect us—the women of the family?"

Quint held her gaze for a second, then nodded solemnly. "Yes, Mother. You are right."

His voice carried no fear, no doubt.

"I will practice hard to protect you."

His mother smiled, kissing his forehead. "Good boy."

Still ruffling his hair, she pressed a button on the intercom. "Please come to the kitchen. He is ready."

A minute later, a man entered. His tone was curt, his posture rigid. "Yes, Ma'am."

Quint recognized him. The first man he had seen when he woke up. He later learned he was his father's adjutant—assigned to guard their home.

"Quint wants to train in martial arts," his mother informed the man.

The adjutant studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Okay. Let's go, boy."

Without another word, he reached for Quint's shoulder and guided him away.

They crossed the front yard, heading toward a small side house attached to the main estate. The man unlocked the door and led Quint inside.

The space was clean but devoid of personal belongings, though it was clear someone lived there.

The adjutant, perhaps.

Without stopping, the man led Quint deeper into the house, straight into the kitchen.

Then, without hesitation, he peeled back a rug beneath the sink.

Quint watched as he slipped his fingers into the cracks of the wooden floor, lifting a hidden panel.

A dark hole yawned open beneath them—large enough for an adult to enter. A concealed passage.

The man descended the stairs first. "Come," he beckoned, waving Quint forward.

Quint stared at the opening for a long moment.

Then, without a word, he followed.

The man smiled faintly in the dark before continuing down.

-

When Quint's feet finally touched solid ground, he was met with pitch-blackness.

Then, with a flick of a switch, the room flooded with light.

His gaze swept over the space in awe.

The underground area was massive—far larger than the side house above. Some of it might even stretch beneath the main house.

But what truly caught his attention was the equipment.

The room was filled with martial arts gear. Training dummies. Weights. Sparring mats.

A private dojo.

His father must have trusted this man deeply to allow him to build something like this beneath their home.

Quint stepped forward, his feet sinking into the foam mat in the center. The surface wasn't soft, but it was firm, comfortable underfoot.

Before he could ask the man about it—

A hand grabbed his waist.

Then, in an instant—

SLAM.

Quint's body crashed onto the mat, his breath punched out of his lungs.

Pain shot through his back, but before he could react—

A hand clamped around his throat.

Squeezing.

Tight.

Crushing.

He barely had time to gasp before his vision blurred, his airways constricting.

He couldn't breathe.