Shawn didn't know how he got home.
He dragged his legs, which felt as if they were filled with lead, every step pulling at the injuries on his body. The sky was overcast, and a cold drizzle began to fall, hitting his swollen face and mixing with the saltiness of his tears. He was grateful for this rain. It could wash away some of the filth, and it could also hide his wretched state.
He pushed open the door to his home, and the warmth of the lights and the aroma of dinner washed over him. His mother and younger brother were sitting on the sofa watching TV.
"Shawn! What happened to your face?" His mother saw the bruises on his face and the mud on his clothes at a glance and rushed over with a cry of alarm.
His brother also came over, worried.
That unconditional concern, at this moment, was like a red-hot branding iron, searing his last shred of pride. He couldn't tell the truth.
"It's nothing," he turned his head, his voice hoarse. "It was raining and the road was slippery. I fell."
"You fell and got like this? Let Mom see," his mother said, reaching out to touch his cheek.
"I said I'm fine!" Shawn violently shook off her hand, his tone harsher than he realized. He couldn't stand this tenderness; it only made him feel more pathetic. "Leave me alone!"
Like a wounded animal, he stumbled back to his room and slammed the door shut with a "bang."
From outside the door came his mother's anxious knocking and worried sighs. He leaned against the door, gasping for breath, letting the pain in his body and the despair in his heart consume him.
Hatred burned in his blood. He hated Ben, hated those who had beaten him, hated Eric's indifference, and hated this system that played with his life even more!
Power. He needed power. Even if it meant making a deal with the devil!
At ten o'clock at night, the house finally fell completely silent.
Shawn emerged from his room like a ghost. He first went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The cold water washed over his bruised body, making his teeth chatter, but it also brought a strange, sacrificial sense of cleanliness.
Then, he returned to his room and locked the door.
It was time.
He stripped off all his clothes and stood naked before the full-length mirror. The mirror reflected a contradictory body—a bone structure that should have been a masterpiece of God's creation, now wantonly destroyed by bluish-purple bruises and swelling. That face, with its classical, aggressive beauty, was now filled with humiliation and a near-maniacal resolve. His deep-set blue eyes, like two pools of dead water before a storm, had lost all their light.
He held a utility knife he had found in the toolbox tightly in his hand. With a forceful push of his thumb, the sharp blade, glinting coldly, slid out with a soft "click."
In the dead-silent room, the sound was like the whisper of death.
He held out his left hand, palm open. The lines there were clear, as if they were the veins of fate itself.
No hesitation.
He aimed the blade at his palm and sliced down hard!
"Argh—!"
An explosion of pain, like a bolt of lightning, shot through his entire body. He could clearly feel the nauseating sensation of the blade cutting through skin, tearing through muscle. A wound over an inch long gaped open, the skin and flesh curling back.
After a brief pause, warm, thick blood gushed out, dripping from the edge of his palm and his fingertips.
Drip.Drip.
The blood hit the wooden floor with a regular, gruesome sound.
The intense pain made his whole body tremble, and a cold sweat broke out. He looked at his own face, twisted in agony in the mirror, gritted his teeth, and cursed under his breath, "Are you satisfied now? You bastard system."
Perhaps it was the blood loss, or perhaps the pain was beyond his limit, but a strong wave of dizziness washed over him. Shawn's vision went black, and his body fell forward uncontrollably.
"Thud!"
A dull, heavy sound as his body hit the floor hard.
In the living room downstairs, his mother, who had been dozing on the sofa, was startled awake by the loud noise, her heart clenching violently. She ran barefoot up the stairs and pounded on Shawn's door. "Shawn! Shawn, what's wrong? Answer me!"
The room was dead silent.
She began to hammer on the door, her voice cracking. "Shawn! Open the door! Open the door!"
Still no response.
She turned and rushed to her younger son's room, her voice shrill with extreme fear. "Get up! Get up now! Something's happened to your brother!"
When Shawn regained consciousness, the first thing he smelled was the pungent scent of disinfectant. The first thing he saw was the white ceiling of a hospital. A thick, throbbing pain came from his bandaged left palm.
His mother was slumped over the side of the bed, her brow furrowed even in sleep. An immense wave of guilt almost drowned him.
Just then—
[Ding!]
[Detecting host's strong desire for combat and revenge, the blood contract has been fulfilled.]
[Reward has been distributed: New skill has been unlocked.]
A stream of information flooded his mind.
Skill Name: Charm Lash. Effect: Attacks made with a whip-like weapon (or similar object) will no longer be perceived by the target merely as a hostile act. Each successful strike will inject a powerful, cumulative positive emotion into the target's psyche, including but not limited to affection, loyalty, and morbid pleasure.
[Warning]: The artificial emotions produced by this skill are highly addictive, potentially causing the target to develop obsessive infatuation and psychological dependence. The user is not exempt from the ethical and social complications arising from its use.
Shawn read the description word for word, and a chill shot up from his spine, instantly freezing him to the bone.
Attacking someone would make them fall in love with him?
This was the twisted, vicious ability he had gotten in exchange for self-harm and his family's worry?
This wasn't power at all.
This was a curse.