Elijah sat quietly on the edge of his bed, the wooden floor creaking beneath him. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. His mind swirled with the memory of the man from the hill.
"You were never meant to end here."
Alaric's words echoed again and again, like a whisper trying to crawl into his soul.
"Why did he say that? Who is he really?"
The thoughts didn't fade, even as loud voices echoed from downstairs. Tonight was George's birthday—his adopted parents' only real child. The entire house was decorated with colorful streamers, expensive lights, and the artificial scent of happiness.
"Elijah!" a deep voice barked from below.
Bob. His adopted father.
He didn't wait for a second call. Elijah descended the stairs silently.
Bob stood near the living room, adjusting his tie. His fake smile didn't reach his eyes. "You know the rules, boy. Tonight, we're a happy family. No slip-ups. Understand?"
Elijah nodded without a word.
"Good."
Soon, the guests arrived in waves—businessmen, neighbors, politician and socialites. Laughter and forced politeness filled the air. Elijah stood beside a table, acting as the perfect helper. His hands moved with practiced ease, placing drinks and food where needed. Every smile he gave was fake. Every compliment he heard made his skin crawl.
Laura, his adopted mother, passed by with her ever-charming expression. She suddenly grabbed Elijah by the collar and hissed through her teeth.
"Serve properly. Don't make George upset. Or else."
Elijah lowered his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."
The dinner began.
At the long dining table, dishes were served one after another. Elijah brought out the soup bowls and gently placed them before the guests. One by one, the guests complimented him.
"What a well-behaved boy!" one lady exclaimed.
"He should teach George some manners!" another man laughed.
George, already fuming with envy, clenched his fists.
"I can serve too!" he barked, snatching the last bowl of hot soup from Elijah's tray.
He marched toward the table, puffing his chest like a peacock. But his foot slipped on a damp patch. His body jerked forward.
SPLASH!
The entire bowl of steaming soup poured over his face and clothes. A beat of silence followed.
Then—laughter.
Loud, mocking, cruel laughter.
George screamed and ran out of the room, tears streaking down his face.
Laura gasped and rushed after him.
Elijah dropped to his knees, quietly cleaning the mess on the floor. No one helped. They didn't even notice. The guests returned to their conversations, now focused on stocks, profits, and political favors.
Bob clinked his glass and began discussing business deals with a group of stern-looking men in suits. Elijah looked up at the stars through the large window, his eyes searching.
"Alaric... what did you mean?"
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
Laura returned, smiling again. Her face bore no signs of the anger from earlier.
"You did good," she said gently, placing a plate of leftover food in front of him. "Eat. You earned it."
Elijah gave a small nod and ate quietly.
Later, he went back to his room. The noise of the party below became distant.
But then—voices.
He heard them clearly through the thin wooden walls. Laura and Bob were speaking in hushed, serious tones.
Bob took a deep breath and looked around the room at the gathered men. His voice was low, but firm.
"Gentlemen, we all know our business is sinking. If things continue this way, we'll be begging on the streets."
He paused, eyes narrowing with grim resolve.
"So I reached out to Mr. Red Crows. I offered him the boy."
The room fell silent.
One of the men frowned. "Red Crows? The one who runs that underground syndicate?"
Bob nodded slowly.
"Yes. He's interested. Says the boy could fetch a good price in his circles. So we'll sell the boy to the Red Crows tomorrow," Bob whispered. "He's worth a good price."
"We can launder the money through the business fund," Laura replied. "And no one will question it."
Elijah's eyes widened. Sell… me?
His hands trembled. He took a step back, and his foot knocked over a small lamp. It crashed to the floor with a loud clang!
Silence.
Downstairs, voices stopped. Then came the sound of guns being drawn.
"He heard us," someone said coldly. "Don't let him escape!"
Elijah didn't wait. He bolted out of his room and down the stairs, bursting through the front door into the cold night. Behind him, cars revved and headlights blazed. Shouts echoed.
His feet pounded the pavement, bare and bloodied from the sharp stones. Every breath burned. Tears mixed with sweat and rain as he pushed forward.
Bang!
A bullet struck his leg. He stumbled but didn't stop. The glowing sign of the nearby police station shone like salvation.
He fell at the entrance and dragged himself inside.
"Please!" he shouted at the officer behind the desk. "Help me! My parents—they want to sell me! Please!"
The police chief looked at him... and slapped him across the face.
"You talk too much."
Before Elijah could react, two constables grabbed his arms.
The door opened. Bob and the other guests walked in calmly, smiling as if nothing was wrong.
The chief nodded. "You paid well."
Elijah struggled, screaming. "You can't! They'll kill me!"
The chief told coldly. "In this world money is everything."
The guests emerged from the shadows, their laughter twisted and cruel. In their hands, they carried instruments not meant for celebration—cold, cruel tools of fear.
One man held a rusted iron rod, its tip blackened with old soot. Another dragged a chain with sharp hooks at its ends, the metal rattling like a snake ready to strike. A woman carried a jagged branding iron, its surface glowing faintly from the embers she dipped it in.
Their faces wore masks of amusement, but their eyes glinted with malice.
"They said he's a stubborn one," one muttered. "Let's see how long that lasts."
The police station, once a place of hope, became a trap. It was as if the world itself had turned its back on him, closing every door, watching in silence—content to see him suffer.