(#12 Dystopian Fiction) Fire courses through his veins like an uncontrollable blaze, igniting an unknown force within him. Inigo writhes on the ground, overwhelmed by a pain he's never felt before. Heat flickers to life in his palms, gradually escal...
The stillness of the night was pierced by the echo of footsteps, rousing Iñigo from a sleep untouched by fever for the first time in days. A quick glance at his phone illuminated the time—2 a.m.—and with the realization that his fever had subsided came a rush of unease. The footsteps, now slowing, seemed to carry a deliberate intent. Peering through his bedroom door revealed an empty hallway, but the silence only heightened his anxiety, compelling him to investigate further.
Descending the stairs, Iñigo was met with a scene that defied belief. Shadows moved across his living room, where unfamiliar figures prowled with clearly malicious purposes. Among them, he spotted a figure he'd seen before—the tall man from school, now inexplicably in his home. Panic knotted in his chest as he turned to flee, but his escape was cut short. A clumsy misstep sent a vase tumbling to the ground, its crash echoing like a gunshot, instantly drawing the intruders' attention.
"The target!" one shouted, sparking a nightmare of chaos. Pain exploded in Iñigo's leg as a taser dart hit him, his scream lost amidst the ensuing commotion. Driven by sheer survival instinct, he staggered towards the bathroom, dodging bullets that sang past him.
Trapped inside, with shouts for help vanishing into the void, Iñigo's attention snapped to his palms, now emitting a mysterious red glow. Before he could grasp this new anomaly, the door was blasted open, throwing him against the sink.
In a frantic scramble for escape, an unforeseen force hurled him out the window, his body crashing into the bushes below. Bruised and battered, he lay among the shrubbery, the glow from his hands fading as his assailants approached, their intentions masked by the command to keep him alive yet cautious of his unforeseen powers.
"Careful, he might not look it, but he's dangerous," one of the assailants warned as they closed in, guns aimed with lethal intent.
Consciousness waned, giving way to darkness, only to be shattered by an explosion and the sight of his attackers falling to an invisible assailant's gunfire.
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Regaining consciousness, Iñigo found himself in a moving car, disoriented but acutely aware of the figure beside him—his father. The presence of this man, long absent from his life, deepened the mystery of the night's events.
"Dad? What's happening? Who were those people?" Iñigo managed, his voice weak.
"Not now, Iñigo. We need to get you somewhere safe first," his father replied, eyes fixed on the road, the weight of unspoken truths between them.
Exhaustion soon overcame him, pulling him back into unconsciousness before more questions could form.
The car journey blurred into a mix of sensations and fragmented memories. The night's ordeal, starting from a simple break in his fever to an attack that left him with more questions than answers, replayed in his mind. Who were those men? Why did they want him alive, yet seemed ready to kill? And the red flickering in his palms—what was it?
As the car hummed through the darkness, Iñigo's thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and pain, each bruise a harsh reminder of his reality. The journey with his father, a man enveloped in mystery, hinted at a destiny yet to unfold, a prophecy intertwined with their shared bloodline.
The silent drive continued, father and son together yet apart, heading towards an uncertain future. As Iñigo surrendered to the unknown, his fate seemed irrevocably linked to the man beside him, possibly holding the keys to the secrets that had turned his world upside down. The journey into the night promised not just answers but a confrontation with a destiny that Iñigo Del Fuego was only beginning to understand.
