APEX RISING

Chapter Three Thirteen Years Later

Thirteen years had passed.

But the rain still sounded the same.

It pattered against the rusted rooftop like it had that night—cold, indifferent, and eternal. Damian sat hunched in a folding chair near the only window of his cramped one-room apartment. The wallpaper was peeling, the light above flickered without rhythm, and the air reeked of stale instant noodles and damp wood. A single flickering lamp cast long shadows across his bare mattress and scattered clothes.

He was twenty-two now. Lean, tired-eyed, and hardened by years of solitude.

Damian Nakamura was alive, but barely. Not in any way that counted.

He lit the last half of a cigarette and exhaled slowly, his dark eyes fixed on the rain outside. The city below was shrouded in fog, neon lights bleeding like bruises across the wet streets.

He hadn’t dreamt in weeks. He didn’t want to.

But the man with the golden eyes still visited him—not in sleep, but in every reflection. In every quiet moment. In the sound of thunder. In the silence between raindrops.

Golden eyes and a smirk of wickedness..

The image carved into the core of his hate.

Damian hadn’t forgotten.

He never would.

But revenge required power, and right now he couldn’t even pay rent.

He glanced down at his ancient laptop, the screen dimly lit with job listings. Most were scams or dead ends. His wallet held a crumpled bill and three coins. Survival had taken priority over vengeance. Dreams didn’t pay for electricity.

Just as he was about to shut the laptop and give up for the night, something blinked in the corner of the screen.

1 New Email

Sender: Unknown

He frowned.

The subject line read: “We’ve been watching you.”

Curious, cautious, he clicked it open.

The message was brief—no greeting, no explanation.

If you want a job, come to this address. Tonight. 10:00 PM.

Come alone.

—M

Damian’s breath caught. His chest tightened.

He read the message again.

Then again.

That symbol at the bottom… M.

A chill slid down his spine.

He didn’t believe in coincidence. Not anymore.

The clock read 9:03 PM.

The address was only a few miles away—on the edge of the city, near the woods.

He stared at the screen, heart pounding, jaw clenched.

Something in him stirred. Not fear. Not yet.

Something older.

Hate.

He closed the laptop and stood.

Whatever this was… he was going.

…

Damian pulled his hood over his head, zipped up his worn-out black jacket, and stepped into the night.

Tokyo pulsed around him—bright, loud, and alive. Neon lights bathed the wet streets in surreal shades of crimson, sapphire, and electric green. They reflected in the puddles like burning stars fallen from the sky. The rain had slowed, now just a cold drizzle, but the ground still shimmered as if the city were breathing through its skin.

People moved like rivers—umbrellas clashing, heels clacking, voices rising in a thousand fragmented conversations. The smell of grilled meat wafted from street stalls, mixing with engine fumes and cigarette smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a saxophone played lazily beneath a flickering sign, its notes melting into the low hum of the city’s neon heart.

Damian kept walking, eyes straight ahead, hands buried in his pockets.

“Hey handsome,” a woman called, leaning against a street pole in a short coat, her red lips glistening in the lamplight. “Looking for company?”

Another joined her, brushing past him with a smile. “You look cold. We can warm you up.”

Damian didn’t even blink.

He just kept walking.

He wasn’t here for warmth. He wasn’t here for comfort.

He was here for answers. For a shadow. For the one thing that had kept him breathing for thirteen long years.

The further he walked, the louder the world seemed to get—and the more he felt himself pulling away from it. Past the train stations and convenience stores, past alleyways glowing with vending machines, past bars where drunken businessmen howled at each other in joy or sorrow.

He didn’t belong here.

He never had.

The lights began to thin as he reached the outskirts. The noise faded to the distant growl of traffic. The buildings grew shorter, older, more worn. The sidewalk cracked beneath his feet.

And then, ahead, beyond a rusted gate swallowed by vines—

the warehouse.

It sat like a skeleton in the dark. No sign of movement. No vehicles. No guards.

But the address matched.

Damian stopped at the gate, one hand tightening around the cold iron.

The air here was different. Still. Heavy. As if the city didn’t dare follow him this far.

He exhaled and stepped forward.

The rain had stopped. But the storm was just beginning.

…

The iron gate groaned open under his touch, the sound sharp and metallic in the night silence. Damian stepped through without hesitation. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he approached the warehouse, its towering silhouette looming like a rusted giant in the dark. One of the sliding doors was slightly ajar, inviting—or warning.

He slipped through the gap, his breath hitching at the sudden change in temperature. Inside, the air was colder. Stale. Smelling of damp concrete, old metal, and something faintly coppery—like dried blood that no one had bothered to clean.

The cavernous space stretched into shadows, broken only by narrow beams of moonlight cutting through cracks in the roof. Long-forgotten crates and broken shelving lined the edges. A heavy silence pressed against him from all sides.

“Hello?” he called, his voice echoing into the dark void.

No answer.

Only the hum of silence.

Then—

Snap.

Damian’s heart jumped. The sound came from the far corner, near a collapsed pillar. He turned slowly, every muscle in his body tense.

Then he saw it.

A shape moved—too fast, too smooth. A blur of darkness slithering between crates.

“What the hell...?”

He took a step back.

A growl rumbled from the shadows.

Not human.

Low. Guttural. Wet.

A shape emerged—bigger than a man, hunched and twisted. Limbs too long. Joints bent wrong. Skin glistening like oil. Its eyes gleamed with unnatural light—no pupils, just burning white voids that locked onto him.

Damian ran.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He just turned and ran through the warehouse, ducking under pipes and vaulting over broken crates. Behind him, the creature howled—an awful, high-pitched wail like tearing metal and cracking bone—and the sound of its claws tearing into concrete echoed through the darkness.

His breath came fast. His lungs burned. His feet pounded against the floor, slipping once on wet moss.

It was gaining.

It was fast—too fast.

Then it leapt.

Something massive slammed into his back, sending him crashing into the wall. Pain exploded through his ribs. The breath was knocked from his lungs. He tried to crawl, to scream—

Claws tore through his side. Blood poured onto the cold cement.

“Ah—AHHH!”

He twisted, weakly trying to fight back, but the creature pinned him down, its breath hot and foul against his neck.

He saw his blood pooling. He felt his body going cold.

No... not like this...

His vision blurred.

The edges of the world started to fade—

Then a voice cut through the haze.

“Damian.”

That voice.

That voice.

He blinked, his body paralyzed, every nerve screaming. The pain returned all at once—violent, crushing. Tears spilled from his eyes without control.

Standing over him in the gloom, untouched by blood or fear, was the man with golden eyes.

Him!

The monster slithered back into the shadows at the man’s approach, like a pet obeying its master.

Damian tried to speak, to scream, to move—but nothing obeyed him. His limbs were frozen. His tongue refused to form words. He could only watch.

The man crouched beside him, the faintest smile playing on his lips.

“You’ve grown,” he said softly, golden eyes reflecting Damian’s broken image. “I’ve been waiting.”

Damian’s eyes widened in agony and rage.

“I expect great things from you,” he whispered, brushing a bloodstained lock of hair from Damian’s face. “That’s why I’m giving you this gift.”

And with that, the darkness finally took him.

…

Damian’s mind screamed, even though his mouth couldn’t. The weight of his own helplessness was suffocating. Malcolm’s voice echoed in his skull like venom—each word dripping with mockery, calculated and calm.

“That’s why I’m giving you a gift.”

Gift?

Gift?!

Damian’s eyes burned with fury, hot tears sliding down the sides of his bloodied face. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, but his body refused to move. Rage pulsed through him like fire beneath his skin—boiling, wild, but trapped. Every fiber of his being wanted to lunge, to rip the man’s throat out, to scream until the sky shattered.

But he couldn’t even raise a finger.

Not again.

Not like before.

Not like when he was nine, soaked in blood, clutching his mother’s lifeless body.

And now… here he was again. Broken. Helpless. Watching him walk away, just as he did that night. Unbothered. Smirking. Leaving behind nothing but silence and pain.

The man turned without another word, his coat sweeping behind him. His boots echoed faintly across the cold cement floor—unhurried, confident. The impossible creature slinked after him, vanishing into shadow like it was never there.

As the last trace of him disappeared into the dark, Damian’s world tilted.

He’s still alive… after all these years…

He’s been watching me.

That single thought cracked something deep inside him.

The fear that gripped his spine twisted into something sharper. Something darker.

Hatred.

A hatred deeper than blood.

Deeper than pain.

More powerful than the fear that paralyzed him.

He would not die here.

He would not die tonight.

He would kill this man.

No matter how long it took. No matter what it cost.

His vision blurred as unconsciousness took him, but his final thought was crystal clear:

“You’re going to die, whoever you are. By my hands. I swear it.”