The silence in the kitchen was heavy, the kind that usually preceded an explosion. But for Veles, silence was never truly silent. It was just a breath held before the inevitable scream.
He stood over Brayden, the Miller family's "golden child," who was currently clutching a bloody nose and wailing like a banshee. The linoleum floor, usually pristine, was marred by a few drops of bright red.
"Oh my god! Brayden!"
Mrs. Miller rushed in, her floral apron blurring as she dropped to her knees beside her son. Mr. Miller followed a second later, his face flushing a dangerous shade of purple as his eyes locked onto Veles.
"What did you do?" Mr. Miller roared, stepping into Veles's personal space. "Did you hit him? Answer me!"
Veles clenched his jaw. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, a hot, expanding gas that clawed at his throat. It was the Curse. The Flaw.
Don't say it, Veles begged himself. Just look down. Look remorseful. Say it was an accident. Say you were playing.
If he lied, he could stay. He could have a roof over his head and food that wasn't scavenged from a dumpster. The survival instinct he had honed since he was eight years old, running from shelling in Kharkiv, screamed at him to lie.
But the System didn't care about survival. It cared about the Truth.
The pressure turned into a physical burn, like acid rising in his esophagus. His tongue felt like it was swelling, pushing against his teeth. If he didn't speak, he would choke.
"I punched him," Veles said. His voice was calm, devoid of the panic he felt internally.
Mrs. Miller looked up, eyes wide with horror. "You... you animal! Why? He was just sitting there!"
Lie, Veles's mind screamed. Say he insulted your dead parents. Say he threatened you.
"He was stealing money from your purse," the words tore themselves out of Veles's mouth, bypasssing his filter entirely. "He's been doing it for three weeks to buy vape pods. I caught him. He told me if I snitched, he'd tell you I hit him. So I hit him. If I'm going to get punished, I wanted to earn it."
The room went dead silent again. Brayden's wailing stopped abruptly. He looked up, blood smearing his upper lip, panic flashing in his watery blue eyes.
"Liar!" Brayden shrieked, his voice cracking. "Mom, he's lying! He's crazy! You know he's crazy!"
Mr. Miller grabbed Veles by the collar of his faded t-shirt. "You think you can slander my son after breaking his nose? You ungrateful little parasite. We took you in when no one else wanted a broken refugee kid!"
The burn returned. Hotter. Sharper. Veles bit the inside of his cheek, tasting iron. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
He looked at Mr. Miller. He noticed the way the man's eyes shifted away, the way his grip wasn't actually angry, but... relieved.
"You don't care about the nose," Veles said, his voice monotone, his eyes dead. "You're happy I did this. You've been looking for a reason to get rid of me since the state check bounced last month. You don't want a son; you want a tax write-off. My existence is no longer profitable for you."
Mr. Miller froze. The truth hung in the air, radioactive.
It was the specific type of truth that people spent their entire lives pretending didn't exist. It stripped away the polite veneer of suburban charity and exposed the ugly, transactional rot underneath.
Mrs. Miller stood up slowly. She didn't look at Brayden. She looked at Veles with pure, unadulterated hatred. Not because he was violent, but because he was a mirror she didn't want to look into.
"Get out," she whispered.
"I can't go anywhere," Veles said, his mouth moving on its own, answering the implication rather than the command. "I have fourteen dollars and no legal guardian. If you kick me out, you violate your contract with the agency."
"I don't care!" she screamed, her voice shrill. "Get your things and get out of my house! I'll call the police! I'll tell them you threatened to kill us!"
Veles looked at his hand. On the back of his right palm, invisible to everyone but him, a tattoo seemed to pulse. It was a stylized wooden totem, the face of a frowning god—Veles, the Slavic shepherd of the dead.
[Flaw: Soul's Echo active.]
[Observation validated.]
There was no rush of power. No reward. Just the bitter aftertaste of a bridge burned to ash.
"Fine," Veles said, the pressure finally receding, leaving him hollow. "I'll pack."