felin awakening

The room was cold. Silent. But Felin's breath came hot and heavy, like a man drowning in air.

He jolted awake.

"You can never escape…"

That whisper again — slithering through his skull like smoke.

The same voice. Every night. Every dream.

Red mist. Broken chains. Blood on his hands.

Felin sat up, chest heaving, drenched in sweat.

He looked around. Nothing.

Only shadows in the corners of his room, like watchers who never blink.

But he knew better.

In his dream, he stood in the middle of a burning temple, red-robed men chanting in circles, their faces hidden, their knives dripping.

They all whispered the same words:

"Once you enter the Red Cult... there is no way out."

He saw himself running — chased by fire, by faces from his past — but always ending in the same place:

A coffin carved in red stone… with his name etched on it.

Felin had buried his ties to the Red Cult years ago.

Or so he thought.

But now the dreams had returned. Louder. Angrier. Closer.

And deep inside… he feared it wasn't just a memory.

It was a warning.

"You can never escape…"

Felin walked to the mirror, wiped the sweat from his brow — and paused.

There was something on his neck. A small red mark.

The cult's symbol.

But he hadn't seen it in years…

And he didn't put it there

Felin stepped away from the mirror, heart thudding.

The red mark on his neck pulsed like it was alive — like the Red Cult was reaching through time, dragging him back into the darkness he thought he left behind.

He quickly covered it with a scarf.

"Not now," he whispered.

"Not when my sons are watching."

The Rough Life

Outside, in the small shack they called home on the edge of the city, Celin, Melin, and Kelin — his three sons — were already awake.

Their faces were tired, skin marked with dust and hunger, but their spirits were still unbroken.

Melin, the eldest, sharpened a stick like a weapon.

Celin practiced punches on an old tire.

Kelin, the youngest, sat with his small notebook, sketching strange symbols — always watching, always thinking.

Felin stepped out, hiding the fear behind his smile.

"Get ready," he said.

"We leave for San Jamb today."

The boys froze.

"We're moving again?" Melin asked.

"Why?"

Felin forced a calm tone.

"There's nothing left for us here. No work, no safety... just ghosts."

But inside, he wasn't running from poverty.

He was running from the cult.

They packed what little they had — a cracked radio, torn clothes, and Felin's secret journal — the one with old maps, names, and symbols of the Red Cult crossed out in blood-red ink.

By nightfall, they boarded a cargo train to San Jamb — a city known for gang wars, hidden tunnels, and forgotten people. The perfect place to disappear.

Or so Felin thought.

That night, as the train rocked through the desert, Felin slept again.

And again… the dream returned.

Only this time, the voice whispered a name.

"Melin… Melin will replace you."

Felin woke gasping, eyes wide.

He looked across the train.

Melin was staring back at him.

"You okay, Dad?"

"You were mumbling something in your sleep."

Felin nodded slowly, forcing a weak smile.

"Yeah. Just a bad dream, son."

But deep down, something inside him screamed:

"This isn't just a dream. It's a prophecy."

San Jamb City was not what Felin expected.

It was louder. Dirtier. More violent.

The city stank of smoke and sweat. Graffiti covered every wall, and the streets pulsed with sirens, screams, and the sound of gangs speeding by in armored bikes.

Felin looked around with dread. No safe corner.

They had nothing left. No home. No food. No plan.

Felin and his three sons became beggars.

Every day, Melin stood near the market with a dented tin can, watching people pass without looking.

Celin, always quiet, stayed close to Kelin, who never stopped scribbling codes and drawing strange machines on old paper.

Felin sat in the shadows, haunted by dreams and whispers.

"You can never escape…" the Red Cult echoed in his head.

One day, Melin was walking near the Red Sun Alley, a place crawling with young thieves and dealers, when he saw a boy surrounded by three bigger ones.

They pushed him to the ground, kicked his bag away.

"Think your rich daddy's name protects you here?" one of them snarled.

Melin didn't care much at first. He'd seen fights before.

But something in the way the boy stood up, bleeding but laughing, caught his attention.

"You hit like scared dogs," the boy said, grinning.

"I've had worse beatings from my grandma."

The bigger boys charged again — but Melin stepped forward.

He grabbed a broken pipe near the dumpster and smashed it across one attacker's back.

The second swung at him, but Melin ducked and landed a punch straight to the ribs.

The third ran.

The beaten-up boy wiped blood from his nose and grinned.

"Nice moves. You from around here?"

Melin didn't answer.

"Name's Jack," the boy said.

"Jack Fredrick. And you just saved me."

Melin stared at him. This boy didn't act rich — he acted dangerous.

"Why were they after you?"

"Cause I talk too much," Jack laughed.

"And because my dad used to run this street — before the cults took it over."

He held out his hand.

"You need food?"

Melin hesitated. Then nodded.

And just like that, a new bond was born — not of blood, but of survival.

Later that night, Jack brought Melin to an old underground boxing ring under a garage.

He tossed Melin a loaf of bread and pointed to a cracked leather seat.

"Sit. Eat. Learn. You've got fight in you."

"Maybe you're meant for more than just begging on the street."

Melin didn't say much.

But in that moment, for the first time since they arrived in San Jamb, he felt like he belonged somewhere.

"Hey," Jack called out. "What's your name?"

Melin looked up cautiously. "My name is Melin. Any problem with that?"

Jack shook his head. "No, I just feel like being your friend."

Melin raised an eyebrow and replied coldly, "You want to be friends with a beggar? I'm not the kind of boy you just walk up to and make friends with. That's impossible. Sorry."

Without another word, Jack left, and Melin stood there in silence. A wave of sadness came over him, but then he remembered something his father always said:

"Don't be sad. Be happy, no matter what life throws at you."

Encouraged by those words, Melin went home and told his family what had happened. His father smiled and said, "If that boy really wants to be your friend, don't push him away. Accept his friendship. You never know what it could lead to."

The next day, Melin returned to the market, searching everywhere for Jack. He walked through the busy stalls and crowded alleys but couldn't find him. Disappointed, he decided to go back to begging as usual.

As he passed by the largest hotel in San Jamb City—an enormous and beautiful building—he suddenly saw Jack standing near the entrance.

Without hesitation, Melin ran up to him.

"Hey Jack, how are you doing? What are you doing here?" Melin asked.

Jack turned and smiled. "I came to visit my dad. He's the owner of this hotel. And you—where are you going?"

"I was actually looking for you," Melin admitted. "I wanted to talk... maybe be friends. You know, I really didn't have a choice yesterday. I'm sorry about how I acted. I had to follow my dad's instruction."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Wow, you're really still your dad's son. That's... kind of amazing."

Melin gave a small smile.

"Come on," Jack said warmly. "Let's go eat some pizza inside. We can talk better there."

Melin was shocked by everything he was seeing—the gold-painted walls, the sparkling lights, the grand staircase. It was the first time he had ever stepped into a hotel, let alone the most luxurious one in the city. His heart raced with happiness and nervousness.

What Melin didn't know was that Jack's father, Mr. Fedrick, was not just the hotel owner—he was also a senior figure in the Red Cult. He had a complete file on Felin and his family, including their photographs. When he saw Melin standing next to his own son, he was stunned.

Out of curiosity and concern, Mr. Fedrick approached them.

"Hey, son," he said to Jack, then turned to Melin. "And you must be Melin."

Melin looked up in surprise. "Yes, sir."

"My name is Fedrick," he said with a calm smile. "That's my son standing beside you. I'm the owner of this entire complex. You don't need to say much—my son has already told me plenty about you."

Melin stood there speechless, unaware of the deeper connection their families had—and the storm that might be coming.

Melin didn't know what to say. He wanted to tell his father, but something held him back. He remembered their poverty, and although he didn't want to be greedy, he accepted a few things and headed home.

As Melin was leaving the hotel, something caught his eye. A golden chain around Fedrick's neck—it looked exactly like the one his father used to wear. It made him suspicious.

"I'll tell Dad about this," he thought to himself.

Fedrick also had thoughts of his own. At first, he considered kidnapping Melin, but he knew Jack cared deeply for him. In the end, he let both of them go. That evening, Jack even followed Melin home.

When they arrived, Felin was shocked to see his son standing with a stranger. He never wanted anyone to know where they were hiding. But he had no choice. Melin loved Jack—partly because of the kindness he showed, but also because Jack lived a life Melin had only dreamed of. Riches, food, and luxury—things Melin had never seen or touched before.

That night, Melin shared the gifts he brought home. Felin didn't ask where they came from, though something felt strange in his heart.

Meanwhile, Felin's wife, once a loving and strong mother, had been left deaf from the gunfire of the war they escaped. She had survived, but the trauma stayed with her—and now, the past might be catching up with all of them