We know a crazy kid

Over time, humanity dwindled, retreating into 120 massive megacity settlements—fortified strongholds built to withstand the ever-evolving horrors outside. These cities became the last beacons of civilization, surrounded by endless roaming hordes of the undead.

Then, 90 years after the invasion, the world government introduced the Symbiosis Weapon—a semi-living cyborg technology. Alongside it, they revealed classified research on Chaos Hearts, mysterious crystalline organs found within zombies. These hearts contained immense, unstable energy, capable of powering weapons and machinery and even enhancing human abilities through specialized suits.

The government, however, downplayed their significance, claiming the technology was still in its infancy. This was a blatant lie. In reality, the elite had already mastered Chaos Heart technology for themselves, using it to create personal combat armor and hidden weaponry.

It took humanity 400 more years before proper research on Chaos Hearts was made public. By then, guns had become secondary weapons, their effectiveness reduced as the zombies continued to evolve at an alarming rate.

Levi's mother had noticed something early on—whenever Levi was startled, scared, or experiencing heightened emotions, he would become partially blind. His eyes would lose focus, and he would struggle to see.

She observed him closely, noting how his vision seemed to return once he calmed down.

While other babies started talking at eight months, Levi remained silent. It wasn't until he was 1.4 years old that he finally spoke, and the first word that came out of his mouth was "box."

So while other kids said "Mama" or "Papa," Levi said "Box."

His mother had tried and failed to get him to say "Mama," repeating it to him with a hopeful smile. But Levi would only blink at her, then look away, seemingly lost in thought. After countless attempts, she sighed in frustration and gave up out of sheer exhaustion. She was already overwhelmed, juggling two jobs while taking care of a sick husband.

Her husband, a former mercenary, had once been strong and capable, but now he was bedridden, suffering from Chaos Veins.

Because of his past service, the Mercenary Association provided a monthly stipend, but it was barely enough to scrape by. The weight of survival rested on Levi's mother's shoulders, and every day, she fought exhaustion just to keep them afloat.

And now, after all that, her child—her precious son—had chosen his first word, and it was Box.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it go. It's fine, she told herself. It's just a word.

At least Levi was speaking by the time he turned two. His words were still clumsy, his vocabulary limited, but he was trying.

One evening, as his mother was preparing dinner after an exhausting day, Levi waddled up to her, tugged at the hem of her worn-out shirt, and looked up with wide, innocent eyes.

"Mama," he said, his voice small and uncertain.

She turned. "Yes, baby?"

Levi's brows furrowed, and he pointed at the empty space beside her. "Mama... see box?"

His words were difficult to understand at first, his childish speech making it sound more like "Mah-mah, shee boksh?" But when his mother finally pieced it together, the exhaustion in her bones was immediately replaced by deep panic.

He sees a floating box?

She dropped the spoon she was holding. "What, baby? What did you say?"

Levi, sensing her alarm, hesitated. He glanced back at the space beside her, then back at her face, as if confused by her reaction. "Box, Mama," he repeated. "Floating box."

Her heart pounded.

In a world where supernatural abilities existed, hallucinations were not something to be taken lightly. She had heard stories of children who could see things others couldn't—visions, delusions.

She didn't wait to ask more questions. Within minutes, she had scooped Levi into her arms and almost ran to the nearest doctor.

Her grip tightened around Levi as she held him close, her mind racing with a hundred worst-case scenarios. She couldn't afford another problem—not with her husband's condition, not with the crushing weight of bills, not with the daily battle of survival.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, Levi blinked, yawned, and turned to her with a sleepy smile.

"Mama," he mumbled, his voice soft. "Box gone."

Her hands, which had been clenched around Levi, relaxed slightly. But no matter how much she tried to steady herself, she couldn't shake the feeling that whatever Levi had seen—whatever had left—was only the beginning.

Ella was confused but still took him to see the doctor. As expected, the checkup showed that nothing was physically wrong with Levi. His eyesight was normal, and there were no signs of neurological issues.

Then the doctor asked, "Levi, how often do you see this... box?"

Levi's face lit up with excitement. "Every day!" he shouted, giggling.

Ella's stomach dropped. Her face fell, her expression tightening as dread curled in her chest.

Every day?

Something was definitely wrong with her baby.

At first, she tried to convince herself it was just a phase—a child's overactive imagination. But as time passed, the pattern became undeniable.

Whenever Levi was startled, scared, or emotionally overwhelmed, he didn't just flinch like other children—he went partially blind.

At first, Ella had assumed something was wrong with his vision. But after multiple visits to the doctor, tests, and specialists all saying the same thing—there is nothing wrong with his eyes—a terrible truth settled in.

Levi wasn't blind.

He was seeing the box.

And it was obstructing his view.

By the time Levi was six, every kid in the neighborhood knew him as the crazy kid who saw a floating box. It had become his reputation, a joke whispered among children and sighed over by adults.

"Hey, Levi, is your box here today?" they would taunt, waving their hands in front of his face.

Sometimes, he ignored them. Other times, when he got angry, his fists would clench, and his face would twist in frustration.

But without fail, whenever his emotions spiked, the box would appear, and at that moment, his vision would fail him.

It was easy to beat Levi in a fight. Though he was a physically strong kid—faster and sturdier than most his age—his biggest weakness was predictable.

There would always be a moment when his eyes went unfocused, his body hesitating as if trying to look past something no one else could see.

And at that moment, the other kids would strike.

A well-placed punch. A foot sweeping under him. A sudden push.

Every single time, Levi ate the floor.

Lying on the dirt, dazed and breathless, he would stare at the sky while the other kids jeered.

"Oops! Guess he couldn't see that coming!"

At first, people laughed it off—kids fought all the time, after all. But after it happened repeatedly, over the years, the older kids in the neighborhood started whispering among themselves.

"It's that box, isn't it? The one he keeps talking about?"

It was subtle at first, but Levi noticed it.

The whispers. The stares. The way no one truly dismissed what he said anymore.

And then, one day, it wasn't a box anymore.

It became a square.