"I've cornered them. They're here. Good thing that man told us about every exit and hidden passage in this villa—otherwise they might've escaped."
"Hah. Finally caught the runaway rats."
"Don't come any closer. Stay away from us!"
"Oooh, look at this kid's eyes," one of them sneered. "That's seriously creepy."
"I know, boss," another laughed. "I'm about to piss myself from fear."
"Hahahahaha."
Their laughter echoed through the narrow, illuminated tunnel, bouncing off the stone walls like a curse.
The space filled with bodies, shadows, and the stench of smoke—along with the sound of people who found joy in terror.
On one side stood those people—no, those cold-blooded killers, weapons raised, faces twisted with delight.
On the other side roared a wall of fire, raging like hell itself.
The flames devoured everything behind them, crawling closer with each passing second, crackling hungrily as if eager to claim its prey.
"N-No… don't…"
A child's broken voice trembled in the chaos.
"Stay away… please… leave my mom alone… no—!"
Aren lay on the ground, his body heavy, his limbs refusing to respond as the men closed in.
He wanted to fight.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to tear them apart.
More than anything—he wanted to save his mother.
He wanted to save his family.
This was why he had grown stronger.
Why had he trained, bled, and hardened himself?
Why had he turned into a skilled killer, so he would never be forced to face this kind of helplessness again?
A million ways to slaughter those bastards flashed through his mind—quick, brutal, merciless.
Yet his body betrayed him.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't stand.
Couldn't even crawl.
Frozen in place, Aren could only watch, powerless, as his world collapsed.
Suddenly, gunshots tore through the tunnel.
"Rosaline—run!" a voice roared through the smoke.
"Take the children and run now, Rosaline!"
Aren saw his father.
The man who had always stood tall and composed. Clean, dignified, noble to the core.
None of that remained.
His father's body was soaked in blood, skin burned and torn, stumbling forward from the flames that had devoured his flesh, his hair—his very existence.
Smoke clung to him like a shroud, yet his eyes burned with unwavering resolve.
Even then, he refused to fall.
Even then, he refused to die without buying his family a chance to live.
"Damn it," someone cursed. "Didn't we finish him off already? How is he still alive?"
"Move!" another barked. "Don't let them escape—kill them quickly!"
The world dissolved into noise.
Fire roaring.
Gunshots cracking.
Screams tearing through the air.
Aren's ears rang until everything blurred together into one endless nightmare.
Then—suddenly—warmth.
An embrace.
No.
It wasn't arms.
It was blood.
Warm blood flows over his face, dripping down his skin.
Hot.
Burning.
"M-Mom…?" Aren whispered weakly. "Mom…?"
"No… no… no…"
His breath shattered.
"Not again… please… not again…"
He saw her then.
His mother's smile—gentle, trembling, filled with love and sorrow—burned itself into his memory.
With shaking hands, she pressed the small body of his three-year-old sister into his arms.
Her fingers moved to the wall.
A click.
A hidden door slid open.
She met Aren's eyes one last time.
Then she shoved him backward.
The world tilted as Aren fell, the door slamming shut between them.
Yes.
That was the last time.
His mother sacrificed herself for them.
His father gave his life as well.
The entire Viremonth family was wiped out—young and old alike.
On that cursed night, no one survived except the two of them.
Him.
And his little sister.
As for his sister—
"Aren! Pull yourself together! Wake up!"
Mel's voice shattered the darkness.
"This isn't real. You're safe—wake up!"
Aren thrashed violently at the edge of the bed, his body twisting in panic, sweat soaking through the sheets as if he were still trapped in the flames.
"No—no!"
His voice cracked.
"Let me go! Let me go! Mom—Dad—!"
Mel grabbed him, struggling to keep him from falling.
Panic flashed across his face as he turned to the others.
"Hurry! Help me restrain him! If this continues, he might hurt himself!"
They moved at once, forcing themselves to remain calm as they pinned Aren down.
"One of you, call the doctor," Mel ordered sharply. "Tell him we need a sedative injection immediately."
"I—I'll go!" Harry stammered, bolting out of the room as if chased by death itself.
His face was pale. Terrified.
The scene inside the room was surreal—almost absurd.
Four grown men are thrown onto a bed to restrain a single person.
And yet, even then, they struggled.
"Aren… Aren… Aren…"
Mel kept calling his name, gripping his face, slapping him lightly—desperately—trying to anchor him to reality.
He had studied psychology.
He knew this condition.
Only those who had stood at the edge of life and death—those who had witnessed unimaginable horror—could suffer trauma this severe.
Mel was apprehensive.
But more than that, he was disturbed.
Aren wasn't even eighteen.
What kind of hell had this boy survived to bear wounds like those of soldiers returning from war?
This wasn't ordinary PTSD.
This was deep. Rotten. Scarred into the soul.
The kind that left hallucinations, violent breakdowns, and endless nightmares.
Gil tightened his grip on Aren's hand, holding his shoulder firmly.
His green eyes never left Aren's face—not even for a second.
The playful, teasing man was gone.
In his place stood someone dangerous.
Silent.
Unyielding.
If Aren had been conscious, he would have noticed immediately.
No one sensed changes in people better than him.
But Aren was still trapped.
Still drowning in his nightmare.
Still reliving those dark days.
Those years when he had been nothing more than a walking corpse.
Breathing.
Eating.
Existing.
Feeling nothing.
Nothing at all.
Pinned down, his mind shattered and body restrained, Aren could do nothing but suffer.
And he did not suffer quietly.
"Mom…"
"Dad…"
"No… don't do it…"
"Please… leave them alone…"
His voice was hoarse, shredded raw by screams.
Every word reached Mel, Albert, Nathan, and Gil clearly—painfully.
"Don't hurt them…"
"Don't touch my family…"
"I'll kill you…" Aren whispered, his voice shaking with hatred.
"I'll bury every single one of you…"
"I won't spare...no...one…"
"I...promise…"
The hatred in those words chilled them to the bone.
No one spoke.
They could only exchange stunned glances.
Not long after, Harry returned with the doctor.
There was no time to speak of what they had seen—or what they had heard.
With great difficulty, Aren was given the sedative.
His body finally went limp.
This time, he slept without dreams.
Without fire.
Without screams.
He slept in complete silence for more than six hours.
And when he woke up—