Flashback

Ryen

The world was a different color then, painted in hues of gray and fear. My name was lost in the labyrinth of Osaka, a discarded pawn in a deadly game. I have no memory of a mother’s warmth, no recollection of a father’s guiding hand. The world began for me in a cramped, cold room, shared with a woman who was more shadow than substance. She was a survivor, like me, her eyes holding the remnants of a life shattered by despair. She called me ‘Zurui’. I remember the taste of stale bread, the bitter sting of cold water. Yet, there were also moments of fleeting joy: the discovery of a discarded toy, the shared warmth of a stolen blanket on a winter night. These were the fragile threads that held me together, a desperate clinging to the remnants of childhood. The woman, whose name I can barely recall, was a phantom in the dim light of our shared existence. She was older, her face etched with lines of hardship, her eyes holding a depth of sorrow that chilled me to the bone. She was a survivor, like me, her spirit broken but not defeated.

I clung to her like a lost puppy, seeking warmth in her meager embrace. She fed me scraps, patched my torn clothes, and taught me the brutal poetry of survival. In the harsh symphony of the city, her love was a faint melody, a whisper against the howling wind. She was a shield, protecting me from the worst of the world, a fragile barrier against the encroaching darkness.

Yet, there were shadows in her eyes, secrets hidden in the depths of her soul. Sometimes, late at night, I would see her weep, her silent sobs echoing in the emptiness of our room. I would reach out, a small hand in the vast expanse of her loneliness, but she would pull away, her face a mask of indifference. There were moments of tenderness, stolen glimpses of a woman who had once known joy. She would hum a forgotten tune, her voice a fragile bird song in the concrete jungle. She would tell me stories of a world far removed from ours, of green fields and laughter. These were the moments when I felt a flicker of hope, a belief that perhaps there was something more to life than the endless struggle.

Then came the night that changed everything. A harsh knock on the door, a voice that carried the weight of authority. The woman, her eyes filled with terror, as pulled me close. “You are a very strong girl, Zu. Please, always keep fighting. Please, never stop. Always fight… for me.” She told me just above a whisper. I felt her trembling, smelled the fear in her sweat. In an instant, the world I knew imploded. Men, their faces hidden in shadow, stormed the room. The woman was dragged away, a silent scream echoing in the night. I watched, paralyzed by fear, as the world I knew shattered into a million pieces. Alone, I became a ghost in the city, a shadow slipping through the cracks of society. I learned to be invisible, to exist without being seen.

I was twelve when they found me, a feral creature scavenging for scraps in the neon-lit underbelly of the city. My body bore the scars of countless battles, my spirit, a hardened shell. They offered me a choice: become a weapon, or perish. I chose to live, to fight.