"Kill them all. Leave no one alive—neither young nor old. Move!"
"Protect the young masters!"
"Marcus… Marcuuus!"
"Don't be afraid, my love. Take the children and escape through the secret passage. I'll follow you shortly."
The beautiful woman wept bitterly, her eyes reddened as if filled with blood.
Because she knew.
She knew very well that he would not keep his promise.
He would not catch up to them.
Her childhood friend, her husband, her beloved, her companion through life—she was seeing him for the last time.
No matter how much she looked at him, it was never enough.
"Rosaline… the children."
The man gently wiped away her tears, his touch filled with worry and love.
He did not cry—not because he did not want to, but because he had to be strong for his family, for his wife, for his children.
"Hurry now, before they reach this place."
"Mom… Mom…"
The woman wiped her tears, bit her lip, and tightly grasped her child's hand as she ran with all her strength.
Refusing to look back.
Afraid that if she did, she would return—and she would not survive his loss.
"Mom… Dad is still there. Mom, let's go back."
"Dad…"
Aren remembered every moment, every second of that cursed day.
His brothers had always envied him for his sharp, photographic memory.
But only he knew how much pain that memory had caused him.
When the agony became unbearable—
How he wished he could forget everything.
How he wished he could lose his memory, so he wouldn't have to see those images of his family, that tragedy repeating itself day after day in his mind.
How he wished…
"Mom… let's go back to Dad."
"We can't, Aren. Your father wants us to live. We must live. Yes—we must survive, no matter the cost."
Aren stared at his mother's face as they ran together through the vast corridors of the palace.
Then suddenly, raging flames erupted, swallconsumingpalace and everything insidwithin
The fire burned fiercely, the blaze completely devouring his mother's image.
"Mom… Mom… no… no!"
"What's happening to him?" Harry asked, staring at Aren, who was crying, screaming, and thrashing in his sleep.
They were now in the villa arranged by the production team.
They had arrived two hours earlier, but Aren still hadn't woken up.
Even after being treated and reassured that he was fine, he remained asleep.
Worried, everyone stayed in his room.
The five of them pulled up chairs and waited for Aren to wake.
David had gone to speak with the show's producers.
The incident with that hunter had spread rapidly, and the internet was in an uproar, demanding to know the hunter's fate—and Aren's as well.
Although the program was a live broadcast, it did not air 24 hours a day.
Only certain hours were streamed live; the remaining footage was recorded, edited, and released once a week as a long episode.
They were still recording now, but the live broadcast had been urgently cut off after Aren's incident.
No one knew what would become of the variety show—but none of the Spark members seemed to care.
The band members, who had been watching over the sleeping boy for hours, gathered around the bed, trying to hear what Aren was mumbling in his sleep.
Silence filled the room, broken only by faint sounds and the boy's breathing.
"Mom… Dad… please… no… don't—don't leave."
When they finally heard what the boy was saying—what he was dreaming of—they couldn't help but draw in a cold breath.
Especially Albert.
Albert looked at the boy's delicate, fragile hands and listened to his muffled sobbing. He could only blame himself, guilt crushing his chest for having reopened a deep wound inside the boy.
Even his blue hair couldn't hide the guilt written all over his face.
Mel sighed and sat beside Aren's bed, lifting his hand hesitantly, trying to touch Aren's hair and comfort him, if only a little.
But just a second before his hand reached the boy's head, Aren's eyes snapped open—wide and sharp.
Then—
Smack.
Aren slapped Mel's hand away.
Mel hissed in pain as his hand quickly reddened, visible to the naked eye.
Everyone froze, shocked by Aren's reaction.
Harry was the first to respond. He pointed at Aren, who was sitting upright on the bed, and cursed angrily:
"Damn it, Aren! What's with the attitude?! Mel was just trying to comfort you—you looked like you were having a nightmare! Is this how you thank him?!"
Harry was about to lunge forward and grab Aren by the collar when Gil grabbed him from behind.
"Hey—hey, calm down. Can't you see the kids in terrible shape? He was probably trapped in a nightmare just seconds ago. He didn't mean to hurt Mel."
As if to prove his words, in the very next second, they all saw the boy sitting on the bed begin to cry.
Yes—cry.
Tears streamed down endlessly from his eyes.
Everyone in the room was stunned.
Gil, his sharp green eyes fixed on the sobbing boy, released Harry without realizing it.
He had been suspicious of Aren since the moment he saw him.
The boy didn't seem like an ordinary teenager.
And having seen all kinds of people, Gil trusted his ability to read a person's aura—their inner nature.
But now, for the first time, he doubted his judgment.
Before, he had sensed something dangerous about the boy—something blood-soaked and ominous clinging to him.
But now…
The boy looked like a broken doll.
Even after being released, Harry didn't move. He, too, was shocked by the scene before him.
Not just him.
Mel.
Albert.
Nathan.
All of them were transfixed by the heartbreaking sight.
Suddenly, the boy seemed to be in immense pain.
Aren clutched his chest, breathing with extreme difficulty, as if he were suffocating.
"H—haah… huff… ngh…"
Mel was the first to understand what was happening. As someone with a degree in psychology, he shouted immediately:
"Damn it—he's having an episode. It's a PTSD episode!"
"What? Trauma? What do you mean?" Harry asked hesitantly.
"There's no time to explain. It's a severe one—we need to wake him up, now!"
Aren's body shook violently, his breathing broken and shallow, as if air could no longer reach his lungs.
His eyes were red and vacant, staring at something—and nothing at all. His pupils trembled, unfocused.
He was muttering barely audible words.
But they could still hear him screaming certain names—
His parents' names.
And other things…