It was his second week in the hospital.
The fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, the kind of constant hum that creeps into your skull and stays there. The room smelled like sterile linen, overused sanitizer, and something deeper—something sad. A child sat on the couch, barely big enough to make a dent in the cushion, feet dangling above the polished floor.
His hair was bone-white.
Not the silver of age or illness—just stark white, like it had never known pigment to begin with. His skin was pale too, but not sickly. His eyes were blank. Hollow. Not because they were dead… but because something in him had yet to be born.
Ren didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even blink unless he had to.
Across from him sat a middle-aged woman in a brown cardigan and thin spectacles, clipboard balanced on her knee, voice gentle—almost patronizing.
"Do you remember your name?" she asked.
Ren stared at her, unmoving. His lips didn't part. His throat didn't even twitch.
A few seconds passed.
She scribbled something down.
Aya a nurse who had been assigned to ne Ren's caretaker for now sat beside him, adjusting his sleeve gently. Her voice was softer, less clinical than the therapist's. "It's alright, sweetheart. You don't have to answer. Just listen, okay?"
Daizen stood in the corner, arms folded. His presence filled the room. Heavy. Silent. He didn't like being here. That much was obvious. But he didn't say a word. He just watched.
The therapist tried again. "Do you remember anything? Even a feeling? A sound? A smell?"
Ren blinked once.
The woman leaned forward a little. "Do you know where you are?"
"…no," Ren finally muttered. Barely audible. Almost not a word. Just sound, drawn from somewhere too deep for a child to have ever gone.
Aya's hand tensed around his arm.
The therapist wrote more. "He's severely dissociative. Trauma this intense usually causes catatonia, but in his case, it's… detached. Emotionally flat. Like there's no wiring for response left at all."
She turned slightly to Daizen and Aya. "Whatever he saw… it didn't just damage him. It rewired him. I don't think he'll recover. Not emotionally. This level of—"
"Stop," Aya snapped. She leaned in and covered Ren's ears with her hands like she was shielding a flame from wind. "You don't get to say that in front of him."
Ren didn't flinch. His eyes just stared at the floor.
Daizen's face didn't change. "Are we done?"
The therapist looked between them, clearly uncomfortable now. "He'll need regular observation. Weekly sessions. I recommend medication—"
"We'll let you know," Daizen said. Final. Cold.
Later.
Physical therapy.
The mat room was quiet except for the occasional grunt from the trainer—an ex-military brute with a permanent limp. They thought they'd ease Ren into motion. Stretching. Light cardio. Something to wake his body back up.
But the moment Ren moved, everything shifted.
His first strike hit the padded dummy with enough force to dislodge it from the stand.
His tiny fists left impressions in the foam.
He wasn't just strong for a child.
He was freakishly, violently beyond anything natural. Even adults didn't hit this hard. Didn't react this fast. The trainer tried to test him with a jab.
Ren moved before the punch had fully extended, twisting behind the man's back and pinning his arm in one fluid, instinctive motion.
He didn't look angry.
Didn't look proud.
He just did it.
Like his body remembered something his mind didn't.
Aya stood at the side, arms crossed, trying to mask her alarm.
Daizen stepped up beside her. "He'll need to be trained properly. I have better facilities for that. He will recover quicker."
"He's a child," she whispered.
Daizen didn't blink. "You don't know what he is."
In the hallway.
Aya stood by the wall, a clipboard pressed tight to her chest like a shield. She glanced at the glass panel again—at the boy—and then back to Daizen, who hadn't moved an inch.
"You said…" Her voice faltered. She swallowed. "You said no one in the world has hair like his. Not naturally."
Daizen's gaze remained fixed through the glass. "No one."
Aya hesitated. "Then what is he?"
Daizen finally turned to face her. His eyes were cold, unreadable. "You're asking too many questions."
"I'm the one treating him. I should know what I'm dealing with."
He stepped closer. Not threatening—just near enough that his presence pressed on her. "He's stable. That's all you need to know."
She shifted uncomfortably. "He's human, right?"
There was a beat of silence. Just the buzz of the overhead lights and the distant drip of a faucet.
Then Daizen's voice—quiet, firm, and final. "That's none of your concern." He turned away, walking down the corridor. "For your own safety you had better stop digging."
Aya stood there, frozen in place. The clipboard in her hands felt heavier somehow.
She bit the inside of her cheek but said nothing more.
Back in the hospital room.
The light was dim. The window was cracked open slightly. Night was settling in.
Ren sat on the bed, knees to his chest, silent. Staring out the window like he was waiting for something that wasn't going to come.
Aya sat beside him, brushing his hair gently behind his ear. "You're safe now, Ren. Whatever happened… it's over."
He didn't respond.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. A gentle hug. Firm, but soft. As if trying to hold together something that had already shattered.
"…will….I always be….like this?" Ren asked.
It was the longest sentence he'd said since arriving.
Aya pulled back slightly, stunned. "What?"
"What the…..woman said… am I normal?" His voice cracked for the first time, like glass barely holding together. "Do I need to be fixed?"
Aya swallowed. "Yes, Ren. You're normal."
"…then…..why can't I laugh or cry like….the other children?"
She didn't have an answer.
So she just held him again, tighter this time.
Outside, the city moved on. Cars. Lights. People living lives he couldn't remember ever having. People laughing. Loving. Screaming. Crying. Feeling.
But inside that room, Ren sat still.
Cold.
Silent.
And somewhere deep in his mind—behind the fog, behind the white hair, behind the fractured wiring—was something asleep.
Something waiting.
Something monstrous.