Revelations

The key clicked in the lock with a hollow snap.

Noah pushed open the apartment door.

It wasn't the dust or the dimness that made him stop. It was the air.

Still. Thick. Too quiet.

Something was wrong.

His sneakers scuffed softly against the hardwood as he stepped inside. The door eased shut behind him with a muted thud.

The room looked… normal.

But it wasn't.

It was the kind of silence that didn't come naturally. Not the stillness of peace—but the kind that followed violence, or waited for it.

The television hummed quietly from the corner, casting a cold, flickering light across the living room. Shadows stretched long and uneasy across the walls. The fridge buzzed faintly from the kitchen.

Everything was in place—almost.

The coffee table had shifted. Just slightly. A few inches off. Enough that no one else would care. But Noah noticed. And it set his nerves on edge.

He moved slowly.

Then he saw him.

A man stood in the center of the room. Not moving. As he was seemingly detached from the place he is in. Not even breathing loud enough to hear.

Just… there.

He wasn't tall or bulky, didn't hold a weapon, didn't even clench his fists. But the presence in the room had shifted. Centered around him.

He stood like someone who didn't need to threaten you to be dangerous. The danger was the calm itself. The stillness in his eyes. Controlled. Unreadable.

Noah had seen all kinds of men—foster dads with short tempers, kids who snapped over spilled chips, dealers who ran red-eyed in the dark, thieves who stole valuables. But this? This wasn't street tough.

This was something else.

His instincts screamed at him to flee.

But Noah didn't move, he couldn't.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

The man's eyes flicked up—just once—and settled on him.

Measured. Quiet. Inevitable.

Then he spoke.

"You don't know me, Noah Cruz. But I know you."

His voice was smooth. Level. A voice you'd hear in a courtroom, not a street corner.

Then came the smile. Or something like it. A curl of the lip, but not out of amusement. More like cruelty remembering itself.

"Is that the best you've got?"

Noah's fists clenched.

The man took a step forward.

Still no threat in his tone. Just the facts, laid bare.

"Your father taught you that stance?"

Noah didn't reply. But the twitch in his brow betrayed him.

The man tilted his head slightly. "Oh, right. Not your real dad."

The words struck harder than a slap.

The stranger kept walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Renzo Cruz," he said. "He raised you. Sure. But he wasn't your blood."

Noah's lungs fought to work. Something between rage and confusion clogged his throat.

"You're lying," he said, barely audible.

"Am I?" The man's tone didn't change. "Seventeen years ago, during a fight, Renzo Cruz took a hard blow—on his balls. Doctors said he'd never have kids after that."

Noah's breath hitched.

The man circled him, a predator giving false space.

"My name is Tadashi," he finally said. "I work for someone very interested in you."

He paused.

"You're coming with me."

That was it. The last line.

Something broke.

Not fear. Not panic.

Just everything.

Noah didn't scream. Didn't curse.

He moved.

The punch wasn't clean. Wasn't trained. But it was fast, made out of pure raw and rage .

Tadashi caught his wrist mid-air.

Effortlessly.

Then he twisted.

Pain flashed up Noah's arm as his shoulder wrenched in its socket. He barely had time to react before he was dragged forward by his own momentum.

Noah kicked—wild, blind—just trying to connect.

And he did.

His heel smacked against Tadashi's jaw.

It wasn't enough to drop him, but it made his head turn. Just slightly.

And in that flicker of a second, Noah saw it.

Not pain.

Not surprise.

Acknowledgement.

Then Tadashi moved.

The kick landed with brutal precision, smashing into Noah's ribs like a sledgehammer. The air left his lungs in one sharp burst. His body folded before it flew—back into the coffee table.

It shattered beneath him, splinters driving into his spine.

He didn't have time to cry out.

Tadashi was already there.

One blow. Sharp. Precise.

To the base of his neck.

And then—

Darkness.

Before the world vanished, Noah heard a voice.

Low. Calm.

"Not bad," Tadashi said. "But you were never going to win."

Tadashi stood over the boy's limp body.

He rolled his jaw once, idly rubbing the side Noah's kick had connected with. Then he pulled out a phone.

"I got him," he said.

"Any trouble?"

There was a pause.

"You sure this kid's never fought before?"

"Records say no. Not a single fight. Not even detention."

Tadashi looked down again.

The boy was skinny. Young. Probably hadn't eaten properly in days. But that strike… there was something behind it. Fire. Bone-deep instinct.

He ended the call.

Then, as if Noah weighed nothing, he hoisted him onto his shoulder.

For a moment, Tadashi stood still—studying the boy like he was some curious artifact. Fragile. But dangerous.

Then he turned and walked out.

Elsewhere, the night was darker.

Officer Reeves gripped his steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dash lights.

The shelter worker's words echoed in his head.

"Noah Cruz hasn't come back. He left five hours ago."

Reeves had said he could handle it. That Noah would be fine on his own.

But now…

The apartment was empty.

Noah's bag was gone.

TV still on.

Coffee table cracked.

A single scuff mark on the floor near the couch. No blood. No signs of a struggle. Just… the kind of silence that said too much.

Reeves stood there, letting the weight settle in.

"I should've gone with him," he whispered.

His voice cracked as he turned back to the car, starting the engine with shaking fingers.

"I'll find you, Noah," he said.

Then, more to himself than anyone else:

"I promise."