Chapter One

The house was alive, but not in a comforting way. It was sick, decaying, and echoing with the remnants of forgotten screams. The walls groaned under the weight of their own age, the cracked plaster groaning like an old man in pain. The floorboards were warped, creaking under each hesitant step Jungkook took. The smell of mildew mixed with the faint, bitter stench of his uncle’s breath, which permeated the house and clung to everything it touched.

Jungkook sat on the cold, unforgiving floor of his room, his knees pulled tightly against his chest. His body ached with the familiar, dull throb of old bruises, a collection of dark marks etched into his skin. The sharp sting of the fresh cuts on his back burned in the dark, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the internal one. He had lived with it so long that it no longer shocked him. He had learned to live with it.

Tonight, the sounds had been louder than usual. The alcohol had made his uncle louder, his insults more cutting, his violence more brutal. Jungkook could still feel the sting of his uncle’s belt against his skin, the bruises on his arms from being grabbed too hard, the disorienting slaps that rang through his ears.

But it wasn’t the pain that lingered in his mind now. It was the words.

"You’ll never be anything," his uncle had spat, his voice thick with alcohol. "I should have left you on the street where I found you."

The words dug into his skin, deeper than the belt, deeper than any slap. They echoed in his mind like a chorus, relentless and never-ending.

In the corner of his room, shadows moved, shifting unnaturally, curling like smoke, only they were more than smoke. Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t flinch. He was used to the shadows. The dark was something he knew intimately, and it seemed to know him back.

His uncle had gone to sleep in a drunken stupor, sprawled out across the couch with an empty bottle of whiskey at his side. The room reeked of it—alcohol, sweat, and years of decay. Jungkook could hear his uncle’s heavy snoring, his labored breathing punctuated by occasional coughs.

It was always like this. The violence. The drunken stupor. The constant humiliation.

And tonight… tonight, something felt different.

The shadows whispered, or maybe it was just in his mind. But it didn’t matter. The feeling was the same. It was an inevitability that wrapped itself around him like a cold, dead hand. He stood, his legs trembling slightly, but it wasn’t fear that made them shake. It was anticipation. The knife he had hidden in his pocket felt heavier than it should. The cold steel pressed against his palm, and he let out a shaky breath as he grasped it tighter.

His uncle lay on the couch, sprawled like a bloated carcass. His snores were deep and distorted, the sound a mix of exhaustion and drunken stupor. Jungkook’s steps were silent as he approached.

The darkness seemed to thicken in the corners of the room, the shadows closing in, crowding him like they were trying to push him forward. The whispering got louder, or maybe it was just in his head. His uncle shifted slightly in his sleep, but the room remained still.

"Do it," the shadows whispered.

Jungkook’s hand tightened around the knife, the blade glinting faintly in the moonlight that slipped through the broken blinds. He leaned over his uncle, the tip of the blade just grazing the man’s neck.

His uncle stirred, his eyes opening just enough to meet Jungkook’s.

"Jungkook… what are you—"

The first strike came fast, and the blade sank into the soft flesh of his uncle’s throat. A choking sound escaped the man’s mouth, but it was drowned out by the wet gurgle of blood pouring from the wound.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He pulled the knife out and plunged it down again, and again, and again. Each strike was met with resistance, each one finding its mark with horrifying accuracy. His uncle’s body jerked, flailing weakly in a desperate attempt to fight back, but it was futile. The knife cut deeper, slicing through flesh, severing blood vessels.

The sound of the blade sinking into the man’s body was sickening—a soft squelch, wet, and horrible. Jungkook couldn’t stop now. The dark shadow in the corner urged him on.

He kept stabbing until the gurgling stopped. Until the body lay limp beneath him. Until the blood pooled on the floor in a macabre testament to what had been done.

His uncle’s face was frozen in terror, his eyes wide open in disbelief. But Jungkook felt nothing. Not fear. Not regret. Only a hollow, empty relief.

The room was silent, save for the drip, drip, drip of blood falling onto the carpet. Jungkook dropped the knife with a soft clatter, stepping away from the corpse. He stared at the lifeless body, feeling a strange peace settle in his chest.

The shadows in the corner seemed to pulse with satisfaction. They wrapped around him, a cold embrace that felt familiar, like an old friend. The whispers had stopped, replaced by a thick silence that seemed to consume everything around him.

Jungkook moved without thinking, dragging the body to the basement. He didn’t look back as he carried his uncle’s limp from down the creaky stairs, the weight of the body pulling at his frail frame. The basement was colder, darker—no light, save for the dim bulb that flickered overhead. The shadows seemed to linger longer down

After burning his uncle's body, a smile decorated his face.

The way his uncle stared at him as life faded from his eyes made the years of pain numben.

That night was the first night he fell asleep peacefully. Excited for his first day at high-school and no more bullshit of his uncle.

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