Zabo’s eyes flickered open—or at least, that’s what it felt like. The world around him was formless, a vast void of nothingness stretching out endlessly in every direction. His body didn’t feel like his own, weightless and unanchored, as though it were merely an idea rather than flesh and bone. There was no sound, no wind, no sensation against his skin—just an oppressive silence that pressed against him from all sides. He tried to move, but there was no resistance, no gravity to pull him down or hold him steady. He drifted aimlessly, caught in the strange limbo between existing and not.


    Disoriented, Zabo turned his head—or the thought of turning his head—and searched the void. A faint unease crept into his chest as he realized there were no markers of direction, no up or down, no left or right. He was suspended in a vast ocean of nothing. “Where am I?” he murmured, but his voice didn’t carry. The words echoed inside his mind, hollow and unanswered.


    Then, faintly at first, something shifted below him. It was subtle—like a ripple in the fabric of the void. He squinted, focusing on the disturbance, and watched as a faint glow began to pulse beneath him. At first, it was barely discernible, like the first hint of dawn on the horizon. But slowly, steadily, it grew stronger, taking on form and color.


    Blurry shapes emerged from the glow, swirling and unsteady, like shadows cast underwater. Zabo tilted his head, watching as the indistinct forms began to solidify, their edges sharpening until they became unmistakable. Buildings rose up from the void—old, rusted, and crumbling, their skeletal frames held together by decades of neglect. Narrow streets snaked between the structures, littered with debris and broken glass. Faded graffiti adorned the walls, its once-vibrant colors now muted and peeling.


    Recognition hit him like a punch to the gut. This was RustBlock, his old neighborhood. The place he had grown up in, long before it had been abandoned. The realization stirred something deep within him—a mixture of nostalgia, bitterness, and a pang of something he couldn’t quite name.


    From his vantage point high above, Zabo could see it all clearly. The crooked, patchwork roofs patched with mismatched sheets of metal. The sagging power lines crisscrossing the sky like spiderwebs. The air itself seemed heavy, thick with an invisible haze that clung to everything like a suffocating blanket.


    His gaze drifted lower, and his breath caught in his throat. There, tucked away at the far end of the block, was a small, run-down house. Its once-bright paint was now cracked and faded, the windows grimy and opaque. A crude wooden fence surrounded the yard, though most of it had collapsed into a heap of rotted planks.


    He felt despair as he recognized where he was. Home.


    A wave of disgust rose in his chest. “I never wanted to come back here,” he muttered, his voice echoing in the emptiness. He knew this place had been abandoned for years, left to rot like the memories it held. Yet here he was, being dragged back to face it all.


    As if in answer to his thoughts, his weightless body began to descend, the world pulling him closer. He landed softly on the cracked pavement outside the house, the stench of rust and decay filling his nostrils. The front door creaked open as if inviting him in, and Zabo hesitated before stepping forward.


    Inside, the dim light barely pushed back the oppressive shadows, leaving much of the room cloaked in darkness. The air was thick and stifling, saturated with the acrid stench of stale smoke, unwashed bodies, and something far worse—a rancid, metallic tang that clung to his tongue with every breath. The wallpaper, once an off-white, had turned a jaundiced yellow, streaked with dark stains and peeling in long, curling strips. The carpet squelched underfoot, damp from years of neglect and filth.


    His eyes landed on a hunched figure in the far corner of the room. She sat on the floor against the wall, her legs sprawled awkwardly, as if her body had long forgotten what dignity was. Her skin, the same bronze tone as his own, was ashen and dry, clinging to her bones like parchment. Her frizzy, unkempt hair spilled over her face in uneven tufts, matted in places and streaked with gray. One hand clutched a syringe, the needle trembling against her arm, while the other held a rubber tie, still loosely wrapped around her biceps.


    His mother.


    Zabo felt his stomach churn, not from pity but from a simmering, icy rage. She muttered under her breath, a string of incoherent words that faded into a strained, raspy laugh. Her hands shook violently as she tried to steady the needle, her cracked lips curling into a grotesque smile when the tip finally pierced her skin. She pushed the plunger down slowly, her head lolling back as a guttural moan escaped her throat.


    The scene was a sickening déjà vu. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen her like this, and it wouldn’t be the last—at least, not in the distorted echo of this memory. He stood frozen, torn between disgust and a detached sense of inevitability. *This is who she was. This is who she always was,* he told himself, his chest tightening.


    A faint sound interrupted his thoughts—a soft scraping noise, coming from somewhere deeper in the house. His head spun toward the source, and his gaze landed on a doorway partially hidden by a sagging curtain. Something about the noise was unnerving, a weak and pitiful scratching that reminded him of a trapped animal.


    Curiosity—or perhaps dread—propelled him forward. He moved toward the doorway, pushing aside the tattered fabric with a hand that didn’t quite feel like his own. What he saw on the other side made his breath hitch.


    The room was barely large enough to be called a bedroom. The walls were bare, the plaster cracked and marred with what looked like fist-sized holes. A single flickering bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting uneven light over the scene. In the middle of the floor, a boy sat cross-legged on a threadbare rug.


    Zabo’s heart sank as he recognized his younger self.


    The boy was painfully thin, his bronze skin stretched taut over his small frame. His oversized forehead glistened with sweat under the dim light, accentuating the hollow look in his wide, glassy eyes. His bald head shone like a beacon in the gloom, making him look even more vulnerable, like prey waiting for a predator. His ribs jutted out starkly beneath the loose, grimy shirt that hung from his shoulders. In front of him sat an empty plate, the chipped ceramic smeared with the remnants of what might have once been food—a streak of grease, a crumb or two.


    The boy’s stomach growled audibly, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the room like a knife. His tiny hands, calloused and raw, trembled as he reached out to touch the plate, his fingers tracing the rim in a slow, absentminded motion. It was as if he hoped that by some miracle, the plate might refill itself, that food might materialize out of sheer desperation.


    “Mom?” the boy called out weakly, his voice barely more than a whisper. It cracked mid-word, hoarse and fragile, like it hadn’t been used in days. “I’m hungry… Please…”


    Zabo felt a sharp pang in his chest, an ache that refused to be ignored. The memory played on, dragging him deeper into the grotesque tableau.


    The child’s plea was met with a sharp, furious shout from the other room. “Shut up!” his mother barked, her voice slurred and venomous. A moment later, she staggered into the doorway, syringe still in hand. Her bloodshot eyes burned with irritation as she glared at the boy.


    “I told you not to bother me!” she screamed, advancing toward him. Her bare feet slapped against the cracked linoleum, her movements uneven and unsteady.


    “But I’m—”


    Before the boy could finish, her hand lashed out, striking him across the face with brutal force. His small body crumpled to the floor, his head snapping to the side as a red mark bloomed across his cheek. He whimpered, clutching his face, but didn’t cry—there were no tears left.


    The mother stood over him, panting heavily, her face a mask of rage and something else—something almost like regret. She swayed on her feet, her expression flickering between fury and sorrow.


    “I’m sorry,” she muttered suddenly, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled violently as she knelt beside the boy, pulling him into a shaky embrace. “I’m sorry, baby… I didn’t mean to. Mama didn’t mean to.”


    Her words were empty, a rehearsed apology spoken a thousand times before. She reeked of alcohol and sweat, her breath hot and sour against the boy’s ear. She pulled away, reaching for a bottle of rum sitting on the floor nearby.


    “Here,” she said, unscrewing the cap and tipping the bottle toward him. “Take a sip. You’re hungry, right? This’ll help. It’ll make you feel better.”


    The boy hesitated, his small hands trembling as he accepted the bottle. He brought it to his lips, wincing as the harsh liquid burned its way down his throat. His face twisted in disgust, but he drank anyway, desperate for anything to fill the gnawing void in his stomach.


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    Adult Zabo watched from the doorway, his expression cold and unreadable. He felt nothing—not sadness, not anger, not pity. He had seen this play out too many times before, and the repetition had long since dulled whatever emotions this memory might have once stirred.


    This was his childhood. This was his life. And there was no escape from it, even now.


    The room began to shift and blur, the events folding into one another like waves crashing against a crumbling shoreline. Zabo felt as if he were being dragged forward in time, forced to watch the years unfold in painful, excruciating detail. It wasn’t a memory anymore—it was a nightmare made real, each moment unfolding as if he were there, powerless to intervene.


    The younger Zabo grew older before his eyes. He watched himself at six, huddled in the corner of the filthy living room as his mother stumbled through the door, high and incoherent, muttering promises that she would “make things right.” The boy’s wide, hopeful eyes lit up as she reached into her bag, only to dim moments later when she pulled out a bottle of cheap rum and a fresh stash instead of food. Her apologies slurred together, her promises hollow, fading into the din of her laughter and curses.


    The room darkened, and Zabo saw himself at eight. A new presence loomed in the doorway—a large man with a thick neck and cruel eyes that glinted like broken glass. His sneer was permanent, his presence suffocating. The younger Zabo froze, instinctively shrinking back as the man stepped inside, dragging the stench of alcohol and cheap cologne with him.


    “Who’s this, Mama?” the boy asked, his voice trembling.


    “Your new daddy,” she replied with a brittle laugh, ruffling Zabo’s bald head. The man’s hand soon followed, but it wasn’t playful; it lingered too long, his thick fingers squeezing hard enough to make the boy flinch.


    The scene shifted again, faster now, but with horrifying clarity. The man wasted no time establishing his dominance, his cruelty infecting every corner of the house. Zabo’s mother giggled at his vulgar jokes, her frizzy hair bouncing as she perched on his lap, oblivious—or uncaring—about the venom in his words. The boyfriend’s voice boomed through the house, barking orders, hurling insults, and smashing objects whenever he was displeased.


    And then the first blow landed.


    Zabo saw himself cower under the dining table, clutching his knees as the man towered over him, belt in hand. The buckle gleamed in the dim light as it cracked against the boy’s back, leaving angry red welts that would later fade into bruises.


    “Speak up when I talk to you!” the man roared.


    Zabo flinched, his own adult body recoiling as if he could still feel the sting of the leather. The memory burned, raw and relentless, but the worst was yet to come.


    The room shifted again, and this time the air reeked of burnt tobacco. Zabo watched in silent horror as his younger self—now nine—stood trembling in front of the man, his small hands balled into fists at his sides. The man dangled a lit cigarette in front of the boy, a twisted grin spreading across his face.


    “You think you’re tough, huh?” he said, his voice full of mockery. He grabbed the boy’s wrist, forcing his small hand to hover over the glowing tip. “Every time I light one, you’re gonna hold it. Understand?”


    The boy shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “Please, don’t—”


    “Understand?!” the man bellowed, slamming the cigarette into Zabo’s arm.


    The boy screamed, his legs buckling as the flesh hissed and sizzled beneath the heat. The acrid stench of burnt skin filled the room, making Zabo gag as he watched. The child’s muffled sobs echoed in his ears, the pain radiating through the memory like a phantom wound.


    Still, the younger Zabo endured. He nodded, his teeth clenched so tightly they threatened to crack, and the man finally relented, laughing as he tossed the cigarette aside.


    The timeline surged forward again, and Zabo saw fleeting glimpses of his younger self—bruised, starving, trembling in the shadows. But through it all, there was something almost more disturbing: his mother.


    She smiled more. She cooked meals, even sang sometimes. With the boyfriend’s presence, she seemed lighter, more attentive, even doting on Zabo when the man wasn’t around. For a time, the boy clung to the scraps of kindness she threw his way, convincing himself it was worth the pain.


    But Zabo, the adult, saw the cracks. He saw the way her laughter faltered whenever the man raised his voice, the way her hands shook when she handed the boy his dinner, terrified the man might take offense at the size of the portion. He saw the guilt in her eyes, buried under layers of self-preservation and addiction, as she turned a blind eye to the horrors her son endured.


    Zabo wanted to scream, to tear the man apart, to shake his mother and demand answers. But he was nothing more than a ghost in the memory, trapped and helpless as time marched on, each second more harrowing than the last.


    The illusion shattered one night when the walls of their decrepit home erupted with a sound that turned Zabo’s blood cold—his mother’s voice, shrill and raw, screaming from her bedroom.


    At first, he froze, confusion and panic warring inside him. His mother rarely screamed like that unless someone was hurting her—or worse. Barefoot and trembling, he ran down the hallway, his small, uneven steps echoing against the stained walls. Each cry pierced him deeper, his young mind conjuring images of her in danger, being attacked, needing him.


    When he reached her door, he didn’t hesitate. His hands, small and clammy, fumbled with the handle before he pushed it open with all his strength, bursting into the room.


    And then he froze.


    The air inside was stifling, heavy with the mingling scents of sweat, alcohol, and something he didn’t fully understand but instinctively recoiled from. His wide, innocent eyes fell upon the bed.


    His mother was bent over, her frizzy hair wild and damp, her face contorted in an expression Zabo couldn’t process. The boyfriend loomed behind her, his bare, hulking frame moving with animalistic intensity. The sounds he’d mistaken for pain twisted in his head as they morphed into something else, something far uglier.


    His mother turned, catching sight of him, and her face snapped into a mask of rage. “Get out of here, you little mistake!” she screamed, her voice a jagged blade that cut deep into his chest.


    The boyfriend laughed, a low, guttural sound that made Zabo’s stomach churn. He didn’t even stop. His beady, soulless eyes flicked toward the boy, and his lips curled into a grin so cruel it felt like a slap. “Let me give you a kid you won’t regret,” he sneered, thrusting forward as if to punctuate the words.


    Zabo’s mother laughed. She laughed. The sound was high and shrill, almost manic, and it sliced through Zabo like a rusted knife, jagged and merciless. Her laughter mingled with the boyfriend’s, a grotesque symphony that filled the room and drowned out the pounding of Zabo’s heart.


    The younger Zabo’s breath hitched as he staggered backward, his legs weak and wobbly. He tripped over the edge of the doorway, falling onto his hands, his palms scraping against the rough wooden floor. Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t let them fall. Not yet. Not here.


    He stumbled back into the kitchen, the harsh yellow light buzzing overhead as he clung to the counter for support. His small hands trembled violently, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge. His chest heaved, every breath feeling like it might tear him apart.


    And then his eyes landed on the knife.


    The dull blade sat on the counter, coated in flecks of rust and grime. Without thinking, his hand darted forward, wrapping around the handle. The metal felt cold, almost soothing against his burning skin. He gripped it tightly, the tremors in his fingers slowing as something colder, darker, seeped into his young heart.


    The adult Zabo stood nearby, a ghostly observer, his jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfold. His lips curled in frustration, his voice low and bitter. “What did you expect, kid?” he muttered, his tone heavy with regret. “You didn’t know better. How could you?”


    The younger Zabo raised the knife, his reflection flickering in the warped metal of the blade. For a moment, his slight frame seemed to grow heavier, his shoulders stiff with a weight far too great for a boy to carry. But then his grip loosened, the knife clattering onto the counter as he crumpled to the floor, silent tears spilling down his cheeks.


    The adult Zabo turned away, unable to watch any longer. “You should have done it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Maybe it would’ve saved us both.”


    The setting altered again, the tension in the air growing thicker. Zabo’s memories reached their breaking point: the night everything changed.


    The boyfriend was drunk and angry, his fists slamming into young Zabo over and over. His mother stood in the corner, too afraid—or too indifferent—to intervene.


    Something inside the boy snapped. He grabbed the kitchen knife and lunged, burying it deep into the man’s back.


    The boyfriend collapsed, blood pooling on the floor as he gasped his last breaths. Young Zabo stared at his trembling hands, now stained with blood, while his mother screamed in rage.


    “You killed him!” she shrieked, grabbing a broken bottle and lunging at her son.


    Zabo cowered, backing into a corner, clutching the knife as his mother closed in on him.


    The front door burst open.


    A tall, imposing figure stepped inside, his presence overwhelming and almost otherworldly. Lonzo Mourning. His master.


    Without hesitation, Lonzo dispatched Zabo’s mother with a single chop of his hand. Her head rolled on the floor as blood sprayed across the walls, freezing in midair as the dream paused.


    Lonzo knelt in front of the terrified boy, extending a hand. “You’re safe now,” he whispered.


    Young Zabo hesitated before taking the hand, his wide eyes filled with confusion and fear.


    The adult Zabo watched this moment, his expression unreadable. The dream crumbled, the house cracking and collapsing into darkness.


    Zabo found himself standing over his mother’s head, her lifeless eyes staring up at him, as he leaned down.


    “I hope you still hate me. That’s my biggest pride.”


    Suddenly, her body twitched. Her hand shot out, grabbing his ankle, her decayed face twisting with hatred.


    Zabo pulled away, sneering. “I don’t need you.”


    The dream shattered, and Zabo jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat.


    For a moment, he sat in silence, staring at his hands as if seeing the blood from his past all over again. He clenched his fists, whispering to himself, “I don’t regret anything. Not then, not now.”


    Looking around the chamber, he noticed the statues standing eerily still. Nearby, Maize and Saliba were asleep, while Warren and Elektra were wrapped around each other. Sabir was clutching his chest as if he was holding something, his face pale and tears flowing like a waterfall despite his eyes being shut.


    “I''M SORRY, I''M SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME,” he wept.


    Zabo frowned. “What the hell is going on?”