Scarred Reckoning

He was running fast.

They were behind him.

He had to get away. No matter what. He had to… or they would kill him.

The thought clung to his mind like a parasite. His lungs burned as he panted, legs screaming, heart battering against his ribs. Still, he ran.

They were shouting his name behind him, calling, pleading, ordering him to stop.

To turn around.

To come back.

He couldn’t.

He would never let them have him.

Not this time.

He would not believe them again.

He tore down the road, cutting through the abundance of people as if they were nothing more than obstacles. Faces turned toward him, confused, startled then toward the figures chasing him.

Eyes followed.

Murmurs rose.

Someone shouted.

He didn’t care.

Again and again they called his name, voices slicing through the air, asking him to stop, to turn back, to come home.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

He sprinted across intersections at full speed. His breath hitched violently, lungs on fire, sweat blinding him. Fear smeared his face, soaked into his skin.

The road slanted upward. The hillside loomed ahead.

He stopped abruptly.

Nowhere to go.

Panic clawed up his spine as he looked around, left, right and then back.

People stood nearby, chatting, laughing, busy with their lives. Cars, bikes, vehicles rushed past in a blur of noise and movement. He slammed into bodies without warning, without apology.

“Hey! Are you blind?”

“Can’t you see, man?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Their voices stabbed at him, sharp and irritating, but he barely heard them. He had ignored worse.

He looked back.

They were close now.

Too close.

Terror hollowed his chest.

He had to run again.

He lurched forward blindly, not seeing the truck barreling toward him from the side, not understanding until it was already too late.

He stepped out.

Impact…. Crashhhhhhhhhh…

The world exploded.

Metal roared. His body was thrown violently, weightless for a second, then crushed by gravity as he tumbled down the hillside.

Pain shattered through him.

And then….

Darkness swallowed everything.

His eyes flew open.

A sharp gasp tore from his throat as he jolted upright.

A small room surrounded him.

Too small. Too quiet.

A single bed beneath him. A narrow cupboard pressed against the wall. One chair. One small table. Sparse. Functional. Almost deliberately empty, like a place meant to hold someone temporarily, not a home. These were the only possessions the room allowed.

Where am I?

His gaze darted around, frantic, then dropped to himself. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He was breathing. Alive.

He remembered the truck.

The impact.

The fall.

And then…..nothing.

A hollow gap where pain should have been.

Slowly, hesitantly, he examined his body. His hands skimmed his arms, his ribs, his legs, searching for damage.

“Huh…”

No shattered bones. No torn flesh. Only a few bruises, fresh, dark, blooming beneath the skin and a slight pain in the back of his head but nothing that matched the violence of being hit by a truck and hurled down a hillside.

No agony.

No lingering ache.

Nothing.

He stood up abruptly, half-expecting the world to tilt, his body to collapse under him.

It didn’t.

He was steady.

Whole.

Too whole.

Am I dead?

The thought struck hard, cold and sudden. He swallowed and forced himself to breathe.

Then …. sound.

Muted voices outside the door. The constant coming and going of people normal and ordinary.

Carefully, he cracked the door open.

A corridor stretched beyond it, long, narrow, lined with identical doors. It looked like a hostel or a dormitory. Somewhere temporary.

Somewhere impersonal.

What is this place?

He shut the door again, pulse hammering, and turned back to the room.

That’s when he noticed the cupboard. A full-length mirror gleamed faintly on its door. Something inside him tightened.

He stepped toward it, fingers trembling as he stood up in front of the mirror and froze.

The man staring back at him was not him.

His breath caught violently.

No. No, this wasn’t possible.

He touched his chest, his arms and his body.

Yes! This was his body.

The same frame.

The same scars.

The same bruises, still raw against his skin.

He yanked his shirt off and examined himself more carefully, hands roaming over familiar flesh, grounding himself.

This was him. But the face….He lifted his eyes again. A stranger stared back.

A handsome man, sharp features deep brown eyes that held confusion and fear, eyes that moved exactly when his did. But only the eyes made him realized that this was his own body.

He reached up and touched his face.

The stranger mirrored him perfectly.

His stomach dropped.

Before he could form another thought before panic could fully set in… A loud knock slammed against the door.

The sound ripped through the room. He flinched violently, heart lurching into his throat.

“Hey, moron! You still sleeping? Come out! There’s a lot of work to do!”

The door rattled violently as if it had been kicked.

Moron.

The word scraped against his nerves. He knew his name. But What? Did he remember his name? The confusion twisted in his gut. Still, the man’s disgraceful tone grated on him, sharp and unnecessary.

He exhaled slowly and walked to the door, opening it with measured caution.

A tall man stood outside, lean, rigid, with pale skin and painfully ordinary features. Nothing remarkable about his face, yet irritation carved it hard and sharp. His eyes flicked over him with open disdain.

“What are you doing?” The man snapped. “Master’s been calling for you for ages, and you’re still not prepared. Come on! Dress up and get over there. Quickly. Huh.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and stalked away. Another man approached just then softer features, slimmer frame. The tall man collided with him deliberately, spitting a few muttered insults as he passed.

The softer man flinched instantly. “S-sorry!” He murmured, bowing his head.

He watched in silence.

The tall man radiated authority, higher rank, higher privilege. The other man shrank beneath it, shoulders slumped, eyes lowered, humiliation clinging to him like a second skin.

Once the tall man disappeared down the corridor, the softer one hurried toward Blake.

“Don’t mind him, Blake,” He said quietly, forcing a thin smile. “Hey! You’re not even ready. Be quick. Master has called everyone to the assembly hall.”

Blake.

The name struck him. Was it really his name? Then why did it sound so unfamiliar? He studied the man in front of him, gentle eyes, nervous posture.

Not hostile. Maybe safe.

“Would you mind waiting for a minute?” Blake asked evenly. “I just need to put on my shirt.”

“Why not?” The man whispered, glancing down the corridor. “But make it quick.”

Blake nodded and retreated into the room, closing the door behind him.

His mind raced.

His face was different. His name was Blake. He was in a strange place.

And someone called Master was expecting him, soon.

He pulled on the black shirt he’d discarded earlier, fingers moving quickly, deliberately. He needed to stay quiet, to observe, to survive whatever this was.

When he stepped back outside, the other man was still there, waiting. They walked together down the corridor and into the assembly hall.

The space was vast.

Rows of men stood in rigid lines, arranged like a military assembly or an elite academy drill. The air was heavy, disciplined and controlled.

At the front rose a broad stage. Three men dressed entirely in dark green robes stood upon it. A red ribbon was tied around their waists.

It was afternoon.

He stepped toward one of the queues.

A sudden shove slammed into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. “What the hell are you doing?” A voice snapped, thick with disgust. “That’s not your place. Have you seriously forgotten where you stand?”

Laughter rippled around him. Not loud, worse, low and mocking. Some stared openly, amused. Others frowned, irritated by the disruption. A few looked at him with surprise, as if he had committed something obscene simply by existing where he didn’t belong.

Heat burned up his neck.

Before he could react, the man who had brought him here rushed forward, gripping his arm hard and yanking him upright. Without a word, he dragged him away from the line and shoved him to the side.

Around fifty or maybe more men stood there.

Hands clasped tightly in front of them. Heads bowed. Bodies still.

Servants.

The realization hit instantly.

And it sickened him.

What the hell…

His jaw tightened as fury curled inside his chest. He was not a servant. He had never been. He was the son of a well-known contractor, a businessman with influence, respect.

But here, none of that mattered.

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t ask. And he knew instinctively that protesting would only make it worse.

So he exhaled slowly and stood still, swallowing the humiliation as it settled heavy in his gut. He lowered his gaze and forced himself to observe.

Then the air shifted.

The hall went tense, like a breath held too long.

A man stepped forward onto the stage.

He wore a lavish jade black robe that fell perfectly around him. A red ribbon was tied around his waist too. Two men flanked his sides. Four stood behind him, rigid and silent. His presence dominated the space effortlessly like a king among subordinates who knew better than to look up.

His head was shaved clean, his skin pale. His eyes were small but razor-sharp, cutting through the crowd with cold precision. His lips formed a thin, merciless line.

At first glance, he was strict. Distant. Unforgiving.

Blake didn’t need to be told.

That’s him.

The Master.

The man surveyed the hall slowly, his gaze moving over every line, every bowed head.

Then….His eyes stopped on Blake.

They narrowed.

A chill slid down Blake’s spine.

He didn’t know what he had done. Didn’t understand why the man was looking at him at all.

But somehow…

He knew this attention was dangerous.