The first shot made me jump so hard I thought my ribs would crack.
I pressed myself into the thick curtains, fingers clawing the rough fabric. My heart was hammering. Smoke, blood, and fear filled the air. Candlelight flickered, throwing shadows that twisted and shivered like monsters.
Screams. Glass breaking. Heavy footsteps pounding against the marble floor. Dad shouted something—then bang! Another scream tore through the air.
I peeked, just a slit.
A man in a black suit moved through the chaos. His face… I couldn't see it. A mask covered everything but his eyes. Sharp lines, jagged edges—a twisted design I recognized, even at ten. It was a Yakuza mask, familiar, but out of place. My stomach turned. Someone from my own clan…?
Then I saw him. Sitting calmly in a chair as if nothing mattered, a gun resting in his hands. A devilish smile curled across his lips. His right arm was bare, a huge tattoo twisting around it, alive in the flickering light. The others moved for him, but he didn't rush. He just… commanded. Killed.
One. Two. Three. Dad collapsed. My stomach lurched, my chest burned from holding my breath. I wanted to run, hide, cry, scream… but I was just ten. Just a child.
Still, my eyes noticed things. The way the attackers shifted their weight, the slight hesitation before each strike, the rhythm of their steps. Something inside me whispered: watch. Survive.
The metallic scent of blood clung to everything. My trembling fingers held the pendant around my neck. My last thread of courage.
Then a hand pressed gently on my shoulder. The butler. Silent, calm, steady. My father's shadow. My protector. He guided me, away from the chaos, the screams, the blood.
The house was quiet now. Nothing moved but shadows.
I was alive.
And only he knew it.