In a house that people envy its residents, the facts were not true .The silence of the house was a heavy blanket, suffocating eighteen -year-old felix more than any scream ever could. It was a silence woven from his father's indifference, a chilling quiet that followed him from room to room. His father, a man whose booming laugh once filled their old home, now moved through their new one like a ghost, his eyes passing over Felix as if he were thin air.

But if his father was a phantom, his stepmother, Briteney , was a chillingly solid presence. Her cruelty was a slow, steady poison, seeping into every corner of FELIX's life. A forgotten chore meant a meal withheld. A stray mark on the floor, an extra hour of scrubbing. Her voice, sweet as honey when his father was near, would turn sharp as shards of ice the moment he left the room. "Useless " she'd hiss, her smile never quite reaching her eyes.

And then there was Lyra, his stepsister. Lyra was a storm in human form, a whirlwind of malice and entitlement. She reveled in his misery, her eyes sparkling with malicious glee as she invented new torments. . His meager possessions would disappear, only to reappear, broken and defiled, tucked back into his drawer. Lyra's cruelty wasn't subtle; it was a brazen, theatrical performance, designed to inflict maximum pain and ensure Felix knew his place: beneath her heel.

Every day was a desperate dance, a struggle for survival in a home that offered no comfort, only coldness and contempt. Felix learned to make himself small, to disappear into the shadows, hoping to escape the notice that always seemed to bring him pain. But even in the deepest corners of the house, Briteneys watchful eyes, and Lyra's cruel laughter, always seemed to find him.

The school, once a sanctuary in Felix'ss imagination, quickly became a different kind of hell. The pristine hallways and bright classrooms, so stark a contrast to the shadows of his home, offered no escape. Instead, they introduced a new set of tormentors, and a new layer of isolation.

It started subtly, with the whispers in the corridors whenever he passed. Then came the "accidental" shoves, the tripping feet, the textbooks "mysteriously" vanishing from his locker. The ringleader was Kevin, a hulking boy with a sneer permanently etched on his face and a gang of sycophants trailing behind him. Kevin seemed to sniff out vulnerability like a bloodhound, and Elias, with his quiet demeanor and haunted eyes, was an easy target.

The lunchroom was a gauntlet. Felix would try to disappear into the bustling crowd, clutching his meager packed lunch, but Kevin always found him. Sometimes it was a tray “accidentally” tipping over, drenching him in lukewarm soup. Other times, it was his lunch money disappearing from his pocket, or worse, being forced to hand it over under the threat of a beating. He learned to eat quickly, hunched over his food, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

The taunts followed him into classrooms, hushed but sharp. "Freak," "loser," "orphan"—words that sliced deeper than any physical blow. Teachers, seemingly oblivious or simply choosing to ignore the subtle torment, rarely intervened. Felix tried to tell one, a kind-faced English teacher, about his missing books. She offered a sympathetic sigh and a suggestion to "be more careful," her words doing little to stem the rising tide of fear.

The worst, though, was after school. Kevin and his crew would often lie in wait by the back gate, blocking Felix’s path home. There, in the relative privacy of the deserted street, the abuse escalated. Shoves turned to shoves against lockers, then to punches in the gut when no one was looking. Felix learned to brace himself, to absorb the blows, his mind drifting away from the pain to some distant, imagined freedom. He never fought back. What was the point? It would only make it worse.

Every bruise, every stolen meal, every whispered insult chipped away at him. At home, he was a shadow. At school, he was a punching bag. The lines between the two began to blur, and Felix wondered if there was any place in the world where he truly belonged, any corner where he could just be. The burden of his secret, the dual lives he led, grew heavier with each passing day, pressing down on his young shoulders until he felt he might crack. He was alone, utterly and completely, in a world that seemed determined to break him.

The Illusion of Kindness

Days bled into weeks, each one a monotonous cycle of silent suffering at home and veiled torment at school. Felix moved through his life like a ghost, his spirit growing thinner, his hope a flickering ember. He learned to anticipate the blows, to numb himself to the insults, to exist in a state of constant vigilance. The bruises became a familiar landscape on his skin, a map of his hidden battles.

One evening, he stumbled through the front door, his arm throbbing from a particularly vicious shove against the school lockers. Lyra, perched on the grand staircase, watched him with a smirk. "Looks like you had a fun day, Felix," she purred, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. Britney emerged from the living room, a saccharine smile plastered on her face. "Oh, Felix, dear, you look quite… unwell. Perhaps a change of scenery would do you good."

Her words, usually a veiled threat, held a new, unsettling undertone. Felix's eyes, dulled by exhaustion, suddenly sharpened. He saw the subtle exchange of glances between Britney and Lyra, the almost imperceptible nod. A cold dread seeped into his bones. This wasn't just about punishment; this was something more.

Later that night, as he lay in his bed, the pain in his arm a dull ache, he overheard hushed voices from downstairs. He crept to the top of the stairs, straining to listen. Britney's voice, low and conspiratorial, floated up. "...the Correctional Youth Facility… a good, disciplined environment… away from here… your father needn't know the details…" Lyra's giggle followed, sharp and triumphant.

A Correctional Youth Facility. They were trying to get him incarcerated, locked away without his father's knowledge or consent. A wave of icy terror washed over Felix, followed by a surge of desperate resolve. He couldn't let them. He wouldn't.

The thought of the juvenile correctional facility ignited a desperate fire in Felix's heart. He couldn't go there, couldn't be locked in another cage. His only option was to escape. That night, as the house sank into its usual gloomy silence, Felix moved with trained agility. He packed a small bag with the few possessions he owned—a tattered jacket, some crumpled bills he'd managed to stash away, and the tattered book that was his only solace.

He crawled down the grand staircase, each creak of the aged wood sending a shiver of panic through his body. The front door loomed, a grim promise of freedom. His hand was on the cold metal handle when a shadow parted from the darkness of the front yard.

A long way down, Kevin saw him.

"Are you going somewhere, Felix?" sneered a voice, instantly recognizable. Kevin.

Felix froze, his blood running cold. How? How did he get here? Before he could respond, Kevin lunged, grabbing his arm. "Where are you sneaking around?"

Kevin pulled Felix away, his grip iron-clad. Felix struggled, but to no avail. Kevin, fueled by a rage Felix couldn't contain, began to pummel him. Punches rained down on Felix's face and ribs, each blow echoing the many blows he had endured. He fell to the ground, trying to protect his head, the familiar taste of blood filling his mouth.

"This is for trying to run away, you pathetic loser!" Kevin spat, delivering one last, brutal kick.

At that moment, the screeching of tires cut through the night. A car screeched to a halt. Felix's vision blurred as he saw a figure appear, moving quickly. It was Mr. Han.

Mr. Han didn't hesitate. He lunged at Kevin in an instant, not violently, but with a sudden show of control. He grabbed Kevin's arm, twisting it with such precision that the bully screamed. "Enough," Mr. Han's voice was low and grave. Kevin, startled by the man's unexpected appearance and quiet strength, stepped back, rubbing his arm. "You'll regret this!" Kevin shouted, before speeding off into the darkness at a surprising speed.

Mr. Han knelt beside Felix, his face fraught with concern. "Felix, are you okay?" he asked, his hands gently checking for any injuries. He helped Felix to his feet, supporting him as Felix swayed. "Come on. We have to get you somewhere safe."

Felix, dazed and in unbearable pain, leaned on Mr. Han as he led him to his car. The ride was silent, the pain in Felix's body a dull throb. They arrived at a modest but comfortable house, bathed in the dim glow of the porch lights. Inside, Mr. Han carefully tended to Felix's cuts and bruises with gentle, experienced movements. Felix watched him, a strange mixture of gratitude and bewilderment overwhelming him. Who was this man? Why was he helping him?

Mr. Han's touch was gentle as he applied the last remnants of antiseptic to Felix's injured temple. Unlike his withdrawn, almost clinical father, Mr. Han was attentive, frowning with genuine concern. He was also undeniably handsome, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a calm demeanor that seemed to fill the room with a quiet power. Felix found himself leaning into the comforting warmth of the man's closeness, a stark contrast to the coldness he had long experienced.

"There you go," Mr. Han whispered in a soft, soothing voice, a sweet balm after years of harsh words and deafening silence. "You'll be sore for a few days, but nothing serious. Now rest."

He offered Felix a cup of warm milk, something his stepmother wouldn't bother to buy, and a thick, soft blanket. Felix wrapped himself in it, a strange, unfamiliar comfort washing over him. This man was nothing like his father. His father was stiff, hard, and cold. Mr. Han felt like a warm fire on a winter night. He watched him move around the living room, arranging some scattered books, his movements smooth and calm. There was a calm, homely atmosphere, a sense of order and tender care Felix had never experienced before.

But then, Mr. Han's phone rang. Mr. Han looked at the screen, his expression changing slightly. It was fleeting, but Felix noticed it—a twitch around his eyes, a slight stiffness in his posture. Mr. Han answered, his voice dropping to a low, respectful note. "Yes, sir... He's here now... Minor accident, but he's fine... Yes, I'll keep you updated."

He hung up, turning to Felix with a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. But Felix heard. "Sir." "Fine." "Keeping you posted."

A cold, unsettling doubt began to form in Felix's mind. Mr. Han was cooperating with his father. The man who had just saved him from Kevin's brutal attack, the man now tending to his wounds, was somehow connected to the source of his silent suffering. The glimmers of hope Felix had felt moments before were beginning to crystallize into bitter terror. He was still trapped, but in a different cage, with a new and disturbing guard, disguised by a soothing voice and a low tone.

Mr. Han's touch was gentle as he dabbed the last of the antiseptic on Felix’s scraped temple. Unlike his father's distant, almost clinical presence, Mr. Han was attentive, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. He was also undeniably handsome, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a calm demeanor that seemed to fill the room with a quiet strength. Felix found himself leaning into the comforting warmth of the man's proximity, a stark contrast to the coldness he’d lived with for so long.

"There you go," Mr. Han murmured, his voice sweet and soothing, a melodic balm after years of harsh words and indifferent silence. "You'll be sore for a few days, but nothing too serious. Just rest now."

He offered Felix a glass of warm milk, something his stepmother would never bother with, and a thick, soft blanket. Felix wrapped himself in it, feeling a strange, unfamiliar comfort settle over him. This man was nothing like his father. His father was a stone, unyielding and cold. Mr. Han felt like a warm fire on a winter night. He watched as Mr. Han moved around the living room, tidying up a few scattered books, his movements fluid and unhurried. There was a quiet domesticity about him, a sense of order and gentle care that Felix had never experienced.

Felix sat alone on the cold garden bench, the bruises on his back aching beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The world was quieter here—no shouts, no slamming doors, just the soft rustling of leaves and the distant hum of traffic. For a moment, he could almost pretend he wasn’t the son of Mr. Commanded.

A sleek black car slowed as it passed by the garden’s edge. The driver glanced toward Elias, then stopped. After a pause, the door opened, and a man stepped out.

“Felix?” the man called gently.

Felix flinched. He turned slightly, ready to bolt, but then recognized the face—sharp suit, kind eyes. David. He’d seen him once before at one of his father’s political gatherings, where Elias had been forced to attend and remain silent.

David approached slowly, hands raised as if trying not to spook a stray animal. “It’s okay. I’m not here to take you back.”

Felix stared at him, unsure.

“I know who you are,” David said quietly. “And I know what kind of man your father is.”

Felix looked away, ashamed. “I just wanted to breathe.”

David nodded. “That’s why I’m here too. Gardens are safe like that. Quiet places help you think.”

They stood in silence for a while, the tension gently melting.

David sat beside him. “Listen. I know things are hard. But graduation is coming soon, right? Once you're out of school, you’ll have more power than you think. Just hold on a little longer.”

Felix blinked. “You think I can really get away from him?”

“I know you can,” David said. “And when you’re ready, I can help.”

Felix didn’t say anything, but for the first time in a long while, his heartbeat slowed. Someone knew. Someone believed him. And someone was offering a way out.

Would you like to continue with Elias’s escape plan, or explore his relationship with David next? I can help with either Felix's escape or developing David's role.

Felix returned home that evening with a strange new calmness in his chest. David’s words echoed in his head: “Be patient. Wait until you're of age. Then you can choose your life.”

The bruises still throbbed, but he felt lighter somehow—as if the future was no longer just a dark tunnel. When he stepped into the house, however, his father was waiting in the parlor, smiling. That alone made Felix uneasy.

“There’s a proposal,” his father said, swirling his whiskey glass. “You’ve been chosen.”

Felix's heart skipped. “Chosen?”

“For marriage,” his father said flatly. “Mr. David sent the request. He wants you.”

he froze. David? The man who comforted him in the garden? Who gave him hope?

Before he could speak, his father added, “I accepted it. The ceremony will be held in two weeks.”

It happened fast—preparations filled the days. Tailors came. The house bustled with guests and arrangements. Felix didn’t even get a chance to speak with David privately. But in the whirlwind of it all, a small, desperate part of him believed: maybe David meant it. Maybe this was his way of saving him early.

The wedding was quiet, but elegant. David looked as kind as ever. And for a few days after, he was gentle. Respectful. The same calm man from the garden.

But then, something changed.

It started subtly. David grew cold. He avoided Felix’s gaze. He didn’t speak much anymore. Then came the first outburst. Felix had dropped a teacup by accident. David grabbed his wrist—tight. Too tight. His voice, low and sharp, was nothing like before.

“I didn’t marry a child,” he growled. “Don’t act like one.”

What he didn’t know—what he would later discover—was that his father had visited David days before the proposal. He had twisted the story, saying Felix was manipulative, shameful, a burden on the family name. He offered land, power, and favors if David would "set him straight" through marriage.

David, under the illusion of justice and ambition, agreed.

Now the kindness was gone. And every day, Elias had to face the wrath of a man who once promised to protect him.

And still, his birthday—his coming of age—was months away.

Would you like to continue with Felix's emotional struggle, or how he begins to uncover the truth and plans his next move? I can help expand on Elias's suffering or his plan for freedom.

The walls of David’s estate were taller than Elias remembered them being. They didn’t just separate him from the world; they swallowed his identity whole.

At first, Felix tried to be the perfect spouse. He cleaned, listened, served tea the way David liked it. He stayed quiet when David came home late, smelling of whiskey and other people’s perfume. But perfection didn’t soften David—it only seemed to harden him further.

“You look like your father when you’re quiet like that,” David said one evening, his tone bitter. “So smug. So calculated.”

Felix flinched. “I’m not him.”

David scoffed and turned away.

The months passed in a cold blur. Sometimes, David disappeared for days. Other times, he was there too much—hovering, controlling, sharp-tongued. He never raised a hand, but his anger was a cage made of words and silence.

Then one morning, while gathering laundry, Felix found a torn letter in David’s study drawer. Half of it was missing, but what remained made his blood run cold.

“...Felix will destroy everything if he thinks he has a choice. You must make sure he stays dependent. I trust your discretion. Once he’s under control, we’ll move to the second phase of the agreement.”

It was signed with his father’s wax seal.

Felix sat there for hours, clutching the torn paper. Everything he feared was true—his father didn’t just give him away. He sold him. And David... wasn’t just tricked. He was complicit.

But in the quiet hours of the night, something inside Felix  began to shift. He was no longer the frightened boy hiding in gardens. He was a young man with knowledge. He had endured too much. And he had waited long enough.

His birthday was in three months. The coming-of-age ceremony would mark his legal freedom. His father couldn’t hold him anymore. David would have no say. He just needed to survive.

So Felix began to observe. He listened to David’s calls. Noted the names. The meetings. The files. He learned how the house operated. Who the staff answered to. What doors stayed locked and why.

Then he started writing again—secretly—letters to Mr. Han, the only adult who had ever tried to protect him. He never signed them. He used a symbol only Mr. Han would recognize: a small ink sketch of a silver ring—David’s gift to him from the garden day.

Weeks passed.

Then, one evening just after dinner, a note arrived for FELIX under his bedroom door. No sender. Just six words:

“When the candle burns blue—run.”