In the prison bathrooms—where humans discard their filth without a second thought—Em lay collapsed on the cold concrete floor. His face was drenched in blood, and his left eye had turned into a mass of dark crimson, as if it had been burned from within.He hadn't lost consciousness yet.
He breathed slowly, feeling the blood drip from his chin.When Bran burst in running, his footsteps echoed beneath the screaming and the guards' frantic shouts.
Em lifted his head with great difficulty, and through a blurred red vision he saw someone standing above him… his grandfather, Jeremy.It wasn't real—only a shadow from his memory—but real enough to give him a taste of salvation.
Jeremy looked down at him with eyes dripping with pity. And among a sea of red, Im stretched his hand upward, muttering words broken between blood and pain.
He couldn't speak, yet what escaped was a wounded, shattered whisper:
"Are you still watching…?"
And then the world collapsed into darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, a cold white ceiling loomed overhead.
He found himself in the medical ward, body drained of all strength, face imprisoned beneath thick bandages that froze his features beneath them.
He tried to speak… he couldn't.Even pain had lost its voice.
With heavy effort, he rose, dragging himself to a small window.
Outside, he saw a child riding a bicycle, his parents running after him in panic, afraid he might fall.The child's laughter was light, pure—alien to anything in Im's world.
He touched his swollen mouth, wondering in silence:
" Why am I different?Is it because I know the truth about the people around me?Or because I'm a defect…? A broken fragment that doesn't belong anywhere?"
He was lost, without a clear past or a future.He still couldn't understand what Jeremy meant when he once told him:
"You're special…?"
Days passed, and he returned to his cell wrapped in bandages.
He found someone new inside—a frail old man, kneeling, praying in a low whisper, begging God for mercy or forgiveness.
Em didn't care.He lay on his bed without a glance at the old man, without acknowledging the shadows his eyes carved in the room.He was tired of looking at people's eyes, tired of seeing truths even they didn't expect, tired of discovering what they hid beneath their masks.
He fell asleep while the old man continued praying.He could sense the broken spirit within him… but said nothing.
The following night, the old man prayed into the empty air:
"Oh Lord… save this wandering soul… show it Your path and enlighten its heart."
Em listened without moving, without emotion, as if the words weren't meant for him.In the morning, the old man stood at the door before leaving and said in a stern tone:
"Boy… if you don't stand up, this place will devour you.The devil loves the weak… those who let the world swallow them.Do not be weak at least… not here."
Then he left.
But Im remained still, like he didn't exist. He ate only when the nurse came to feed him—his mouth sewn with stitches, every movement pure hell.
Weeks passed, and Im removed his bandages.Nothing inside him had changed.He didn't look the old man in the eyes.
Didn't speak.
Didn't leave the cell.
The old man talked constantly—to himself, to the sky, to Em. Im listened without daring to look at him.To look meant to see truth… and with it everything people say would collapse into another performance in a world that never stops lying.
During this time, the prison shook.The group known as the Invaders fractured—fighting over leadership tore them apart.Perhaps Bob had been their best leader.
One night, Im burned with fever.His body shook, drenched in sweat, screaming without opening his mouth.The old man approached in fear and woke him.
Em opened his eyes… and looked directly into the old man's.
That moment was different.His gaze did not unveil a mask… but a real heart—eyes of a man genuinely worried, not performing, not deceiving the world.
Em froze, unblinking.
The old man stepped back.
"What is it? Why are you looking at me like that? …Did you expect something else?"
Em did not respond.
The old man sighed.
"Don't speak.I already know why you were avoiding looking at me.I am like you… I fear looking people in their eyes.We both feel the world betrayed us—but betrayal isn't the problem… the problem is knowing it.And that… makes it hard to go on."
Em slowly raised his head, nodding lightly:
"Yes."
The old man smiled bitterly.
"That's not a gift, son… it's torment.It keeps you from living among people… among family…It makes you doubt even yourself."
Em leaned against the wall, listening as if the words passed straight through him.
The old man told him about his life:
" He once led a church.He had a young assistant—someone who believed in him, loved him.He didn't want to leave him to the darkness.But every time he looked into his eyes… he saw a flame that never dimmed. Even then, he kept fighting. for the boy, for goodness, for himself. The church sheltered migrants, the poor, the rejected.Then that assistant betrayed them, toppled the old man, seized control, turned the church into human trafficking. And he sent the old man to prison."
But...
"I hold no hatred for anyone."He said it with a strange calmness, as if it were an unshakable truth.
Then he asked Em:
"what about you, son?Do you feel the urge to take revenge on the one who sent you here?"
Em slowly turned his head—shaking it.
In prison…the old man was the only one no one dared approach.
Not because he was strong…but because his faith was stronger than any weapon.
[ Seven years passed...] Em stayed by him.He helped him speak to other prisoners, tried to persuade them to change.But they only changed until they remembered they were inside prison…then virtue died, and instincts returned.
Em understood something cruel:
Humans don't change.They only adapt.Sometimes they appear as angels, sometimes as demons.
Yet even he couldn't shatter the old man's hope, But death could.
One morning, the old man didn't wake.His face was calm… smiling.
As if he'd found the peace he'd been seeking.
Em's face smiled too—not truly…It was the scar carving his mouth, an involuntary smile, inhuman, as if mocking the world.
A small funeral was held inside the prison.No one attended… except Im.
The old man had helped them for years, and not a single soul came to say goodbye.
Then Em understood the truth:
The old man didn't change the world—no one will.
He raised his eyes to the tiny TV in the corner.On the screen: a
prestigious detective, a beacon of London's safety, a man with charisma—Jim Smith.Standing with his family, speaking of heroism… the kind of image people love to see themselves through.
Em didn't see him as the man who destroyed his life.He saw him as the mask the world chose to wear.The mask that hides its selfishness, that gives people their illusion.
And then he understood:
He didn't need to change the world.He only needed to break people's trust in their hero…Then they'd start doubting everyone…They'd search eyes the way he did…And he would never be alone again.
He returned to his cell transformed—not the lost boy chasing meaning in other people's eyes.Now he had purpose.
And that purpose was Jim…the one who shaped everything in his favor, uncaring of those he corrupted as long as he remained on top.
Em's body bore witness to what he'd become:
Tall and unnervingly thin, narrow shoulders but hard as steel, black hair cascading to his shoulders.His face hidden behind a red scarf—concealing the scar… or perhaps concealing a smile that didn't belong to him anymore.
His right eye was normal.His left still held its frozen blood, fully crimson, as if it had never healed since that day.
He had no family.
No friends.
But he had a plan.
The first year, he trained.He knew the mind alone wasn't enough.
Intellect completes a crime, but it doesn't execute it.The body clears the path.
He woke before dawn, running the yard, lifting iron, repeating movements like prayer.Sweat became his language, muscles his first tools.No one dared disturb him.They saw something in that red eye—something beyond comprehension.Something that told them not to ask.
During the day, he volunteered in the prison workshops.
There, he excelled at repairing electronics: recorders, old radios, cameras, even gate terminals.He touched wires like a surgeon touches an open heart.No one knew where he learned it, but they all understood he was a genius—able to make something out of nothing.
He didn't repair out of kindness, He did it to build a network of debts.
A guard owing him a TV fix.
Another, a security camera.
A third, a recorder.
All of it was paper in the file of his plan.
But he still lacked the perfect ending.
One day, while fixing an old radio, a broadcast returned from a forgotten frequency:
"Welcome… this is Raise Your Voice,the year nineteen seventy…"
Time stopped.
His hand froze.
Time… yes. That was it.
He smiled beneath the scarf.If he wanted a detective who knew no limits, he had to craft a case that would seize his conscience.Ambition devours everything… even reason.
His cellmate sat beside him, trying to understand.
The man in the cell with him scratched his head:
"I don't get it… what does 1970 have to do with your plan?"
Em slowly raised his head.His voice was rough, distorted like a beast, torn by the wound in his mouth:
Em:
"Exactly… you won't understand."
Not anger—just certainty in the other man's limitations.
A year passed...
Inside the prison, nothing had changed.Two factions ruled everything:
[ The Black Clouds.]
[ The Locusts.]
Every inmate knew they had to belong to one… or be devoured.
Em belonged to neither.But he earned the trust of the Black Clouds—not by words, but by force.In one fight, he felled ten of their men alone, with a calm no human should have.Their leader came afterwards, shaking his hand, inviting him into the ranks.
He didn't refuse.
But they weren't his aim.
"I won't kill anyone," he told himself.
"I'll let the world kill itself."
One day, he approached the Locusts' leader.Told him the Black Clouds planned an ambush.Then went back to the Black Clouds and told them the Locusts were preparing to butcher them.
No one suspected him.
He wasn't an enemy…
but not a friend either.
At the appointed hour, he climbed to his cell and locked it.He wedged a nail in the socket and cut the entire prison's power.
Darkness swallowed everything.No one saw anything—only their own fear.
The Clouds charged, believing they were alone.The Locusts charged, believing the enemy had struck first.And in the middle of the yard, they collided.
Knives came first.
Then screaming.
Then blood.
It was slaughter.
When the power returned, guards stared at an impossible sight:
The Locusts—eradicated.
The Black Clouds—barely alive.
As for Em?
He sat at his tiny desk, drafting the next stage of his plan, listening to jazz.
They later called that night:
"The Harvest Battle."
Another year passed... It wasn't enough.There were still rats crawling in the prison.He didn't mean only criminals…he meant everything human.
Em wanted everyone in that prison to die, because:
"If you aren't rotten, prison will make you so."
He whispered to himself.
One day, he broke his arm on purpose and went to the medical wing.
There, he stole a small vial—highly toxic.He hid it in his mouth, behind the red scarf.
He waited for the right man to begin the final phase.
He remembered the recorder a guard had given him a year earlier.
It was broken—Em repaired it.What he heard inside…was enough to have the guard executed.
He copied the recording and waited.
One cold night, he cornered the guard in a small room.
The guard was impatient.
Guard: "What do you want? Speak. Hurry."
Em raised his head—voice slow, terrifying:
Em:
"Why? Are you afraid of something… something you gave me a year ago?"
He paused.
"Ah… yes. The recording."
The guard grabbed the scarf, trying to strangle him.
Guard: "What are you talking about? What do you know about it?"
Em—calm as frost:
Em:
"I know everything… but you hold the final decision.Do what I say… and the recording will never see light."
The guard laughed—but it was a nervous laugh.
Guard: "And how would it see light? You're just a prisoner, you are in the darkest place!"
Em smiled like explaining to a child.
Em:
"Many guards here owe me favors.One of them has a copy.If I fail to contact him… it will be sent to a specialist.Then… the world will know."
He added, softly:
"Don't worry… he can't listen to it. Not yet."
The guard froze.
His grip loosened.
Guard: "…What do you want?"
Em stepped closer—voice a whisper:
Em:
"See this?"
He took out the vial of poison.
Em:
"Pour it into the main soup pot… stir well.Everyone will die… and you'll be fine."
The guard trembled.
Guard: "You're insane… How can I be okay when I poisoned all the prisoners?!"
Em smiled:
Em:
"I'll give you garnish."
He pulled a tiny rat from his pocket.
Em:
"Put it in… they'll think it caused the poisoning, Because the liquid I gave you leaves no trace, and when they find a rat in the food, they will try to hide the matter and close the case."
The guard shook.
Guard: "You're a devil…"
Em:
"I am not the person who would poison dozens of lives. To save his life"
Guard: " why...but why?"
Em did not answer.
He only said:
"Tomorrow… at lunch."
The next day, the dining hall was packed.Em sat alone in a corner, spinning the spoon between his fingers.He ate nothing—not until the very last moment.
He took only a single bite.Enough to appear normal.
Minutes later came complaints.
Then vomiting.
Then bodies collapsing.
Within an hour…
the hall turned into hell.
Dozens of bodies shook, seized, fell unconscious.
Screams like animals being slaughtered.
Then… a heavy silence.
It became global news.
Covered by major papers.
After that, Im's name spread everywhere.
He was the sole survivor.No one suspected him…for he had ingested the poison too—just not enough to die.
In the hospital, journalists crowded outside.Officials entered, faces stiff as stone.One spoke:
Official:
"I think you're a lucky person It seems God has granted you a second chance… and so shall we. You only have one year left of your sentence. Orders have come from the top. that you will be released, but on one condition that you disappear and not speak to anyone about what happened."
He received a pardon.
He walked out free.
A man in a red scarf.
Before leaving, a reporter asked:
Reporter:
"What exactly happened… how did you feel?"
Em approached him, voice calm and sharp:
Em:
"I felt that I… was chosen."
The reporter stepped back:
Reporter:
"What do you mean? Chosen by who?"
Em closed the distance by one step, without lowering his voice:
Em:
"By God."
Then he walked away in silence.