The truck groaned to a halt.
The engine coughed, wheezed, and then died like it had finally gotten permission to give up on life.
Adyanth stepped off the back with the calm grace of a man who'd spent eight hours inside a poorly ventilated metal box and still hadn't found a reason to scream.
The ride had been excruciating.
Not because of pain—he didn't feel any of that anymore, which was unsettling all on its own—but because it had been long. And bumpy. And the driver had treated seat belts as optional and shocks as a distant memory.
What should've been a six-hour trip had stretched to nearly eight.
By the time the orphanage gates came into view, the sun had already resigned for the day.
Still, Adyanth didn't feel tired. Or hungry. Or bruised.
He felt... intact.
More than that. He felt well.
And that was a problem.
Because by all accounts, he shouldn't be.
---
Eight hours. No back pain. No muscle ache. No fever. No flashes of nausea, which had been his reliable companion just days ago.
He remembered the burns. The raw fever in his skin. The moments in the hospital when breathing had felt like inhaling razor wire.
Now?
His breathing was smooth. Effortless.
His body felt lighter. Not fragile. Not even normal.
It felt capable.
Like it had woken up from something. Or into something.
"There's no way I should feel this good," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
Yurrel's voice crept into his mind like an oil slick.
"Your heart's just doing the minimum. Out of spite."
Right.
He remembered the moment—Yurrel's fascination, the way his eyes lit up while studying him like a lab rat that had learned how to walk upright and quote poetry.
Now that he was thinking clearly, everything that happened in that hospital began to itch.
Had Yurrel done something?
Syringes. Scans. Tests. Frowns. Laughter.
There had been too many moments unaccounted for. Too many quiet hours where he'd been unconscious, too many tools that beeped without explanation.
And Yurrel hadn't stuck around to answer questions.
The memory of that man's grin made his skin ripple.
There was a reason horror movies used doctors as villains.
"Just my luck. I get saved by a science gremlin."
---
Adyanth shook his head.
Enough.
He couldn't afford to keep spinning in the dark about whatever was going on inside his body. That would come later—along with whatever plan he would need to survive it.
For now, he had a different target.
A different kind of sickness to disinfect.
And it lived behind these walls.
---
The orphanage hadn't changed.
Still the same crumbling concrete facade. Same rusted fence. Same flickering entry light that always died just as you passed beneath it—like even electricity didn't want to be here.
But something had changed.
Adyanth.
He no longer looked at the building with dread.
There was no numbness. No anxiety in his gut. No fury crawling under his fingernails.
Just observation.
And intent.
He had spent every moment of that miserable truck ride preparing for this. Not fantasizing—planning.
Every beat of his return had been mapped in his head like lines on a hunting grid.
Because this wasn't about revenge.
This was about correction.
---
The first time, they'd beaten him because he was quiet.
Because he didn't play the games. Because he sat alone. Because his eyes didn't beg for approval like theirs.
They'd mocked him for crying when it hurt. Then mocked him harder when he stopped crying altogether.
And everyone else?
They watched.
Some with pity. Some with amusement.
Most with indifference.
No one stopped it. No one spoke. No one helped.
They were complicit. Whether they wanted to be or not.
Adyanth hadn't forgotten any of it.
But he didn't hate them for it.
---
Because hate would've made them important.
And they weren't.
That was the lesson he'd learned somewhere between fever dreams and silence. Somewhere in the darkness where pain had carved everything empty inside him.
Hate meant you remembered someone when you didn't have to.
It meant that they mattered beyond the bruise they left.
He didn't want to grant them that dignity.
Not when they had so easily stolen his.
"They're not worth my hate," he thought. "Not anymore."
He wasn't a predator. He wasn't hungry for retribution.
He was a hunter.
And the hunt never begins with hatred.
It begins with decision.
---
He passed through the outer gates like a shadow through smoke.
No fanfare. No notice.
Except one.
"Hey! Kid. Stop right there."
Adyanth didn't stop immediately.
He gave it a beat.
Let the words drift. Let the man behind them grow agitated.
Then he turned.
Mukir.
One of the caretakers. A man who looked like he'd been outsourced from a tax audit. Always angry. Always greasy. Probably ran an underground cigarette racket and called it "fundraising."
"Still alive and kicking, huh?" Mukir muttered, already walking toward him.
His voice had the enthusiastic range of a dull blade cutting cold meat.
"You have any idea how much trouble you caused? We had to cancel half the procurement order during inspection week. You're lucky the committee didn't shut us down completely!"
Adyanth blinked, watching the man's rage swirl like dishwater.
'If only I'd known dying was such an administrative inconvenience'.
Still, he had to play the part.
Father's smile.
Eyes soft.
Voice warm with remorse.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, bowing slightly. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."
Mukir blinked.
Confused.
Adyanth, the ghost boy. The arrogant one. The kid who never bowed to anyone—not even when it would've helped.
And now he was apologizing?
The man huffed and turned away.
"Well. Just stay out of the way."
Adyanth watched him walk off.
The moment Mukir turned the corner, Adyanth's mouth flattened into a line.
Every muscle in his face relaxed like it had shed a mask.
He felt sick.
Not from the lie. That had been necessary.
It was the helplessness that followed.
The feeling that he would have to keep doing this again and again—bowing, bending, smiling—just to keep the lie alive long enough to reach his goal.
It clawed at his chest.
He swallowed it.
Buried it in stone.
"No matter what," he whispered. "I'll make it. I'll get the money. I'll find the cure. And then I'll grieve. For real."
---
He walked through the dormitory entrance.
There were no guards. No alarms. No warning signs.
But make no mistake—he was entering a hunting ground.
The difference now?
He knew it.
He reached the dormitory like a soldier returning from the dead.
The air inside was stale with sweat and shame. The hall light flickered twice, buzzed, then gave up.
Perfect timing.
He pushed open the door to his room.
And there they were.
Erwan. The captain of nothing. Skinny, smug, mouth always curled like he'd swallowed a punchline.
And the two he dragged behind him like parasites in training.
They were whispering. Making plans. Giggling like they'd already forgotten what they'd done.
Adyanth didn't hesitate.
Didn't pause to think.
He walked up to Erwan—calmly, cleanly—and punched him in the mouth.
There was a satisfying crack.
Erwan stumbled, eyes wide.
Then two teeth skittered across the floor like tiny white lies.
He barely made a sound—just choked on his own spit.
Adyanth grabbed his collar, slammed him against the wall, and lifted him off the ground.
The other two moved—barely.
Adyanth's voice landed first.
"Move or scream," he said, "and I'll kill him."
He smiled—slow, deliberate, cruel.
"Then I'll kill you."
The smile wasn't real.
He didn't feel anything.
But God, it looked real.
The two froze. Erwan whimpered.
Adyanth dropped him without flair. Erwan crumpled like a thrown towel.
Then he sat on the lower bunk. Crossed his legs. Looked at them like a teacher expecting answers.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said, voice level.
"Option one: You do exactly what I say, no questions."
Pause.
"Option two: You resist. You snitch. You complain…"
He tilted his head.
"And you die."
They nodded before he finished. Faces pale. Hands trembling.
Good.
Fear was a beautiful conductor.
Let the hunt begin.
He smiled again.
Theatrical.
A mask without feeling beneath it.
Because this wasn't revenge.
This wasn't about teeth and fury.
This was strategy.
Control.
Precision.
They weren't threats. They weren't rivals. They weren't even villains.
They were targets.
Marked. Measured.
Not worth his hate. That would make them meaningful. Worth feeling.
But they weren't.
They were unworthy obstacles he'd let exist too long. And now?
He was a hunter.
And this?
This was the opening move.