?????????????? 1: The birth of a Demon?

  The morning air was cool and sharp as it slipped through the cracks of the worn wooden door. Otosu lay awake long before the sun had risen high enough to matter. Sleep had become something fragile in this house, easily broken, rarely deep. He remained still beneath the thin blanket, staring at the ceiling where faint stains mapped out years of neglect. His breath rose in pale wisps, even the air felt tired. Beside him, his mother slept on her side, facing away. Her breathing was shallow but steady. In the faint gray light, her face was smaller than it did during the day. The lines beneath her eyes seemed permanent now, carved there by something far heavier than age.

  Otosu watched her for a long moment. Every morning he asked himself the same question. How did it come to this? He did not remember a time when the house felt warm. If such a memory existed, it had long since faded beneath the weight of routine. The smell of mildew lingered in the walls. The floor beneath him was cold enough to numb his skin. Even when summer came, the cold never fully left. It lived here, inside these walls, inside him. Slowly, he pushed himself upright. The blanket slipped from his shoulders, and the floor’s chill seeped into his bones. His ankle twinged sharply when he shifted his weight, a reminder. Not long ago, he had tried to run. Not from the house, from the room. His father had been angrier than usual that night. The belt had come down faster, and harder. Otosu had misstepped in the dark and twisted his ankle against the frame of the door. He had not cried, he had learned that crying only prolonged things.

  He looked down at his hands now, thin, calloused, dirt beneath his fingernails that never seemed to fully wash away. For a moment, he clenched them, then relaxed, there was no point. From the other side of the house came the sound of shifting weight. Floorboards creaked, heavy, uneven steps. Otosu froze instinctively. His father was awake. The familiar tightening settled in his chest. It wasn’t panic yet, it was anticipation. The kind that came before a storm you already knew would hit. The door to the other room opened with a harsh scrape. A cough followed, rough, irritated, then silence. Otosu exhaled slowly through his nose. Maybe today would be quiet. Maybe today—

  A bottle clinked against wood. The sound was small. But in this house, it was louder than thunder. His mother stirred beside him. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a brief second, confusion crossed her face before memory returned. She did not speak. She rarely did in the mornings. Instead, she slowly pushed herself up, adjusting the thin fabric around her shoulders.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “I’ll make something,” she whispered softly, though there was nothing to make. Otosu shook his head slightly, but she had already stood. He wanted to tell her not to go. The words stayed lodged in his throat. From the next room, a chair scraped violently across the floor.

  “What took you so long?” his father’s voice growled. There was no answer. There was never an answer that satisfied him. Otosu’s jaw tightened as he told himself not to move, not yet. The argument began the way it always did, low, sharp words exchanged like blades testing each other’s edge. Accusations, blame, a life that had not turned out the way one man had expected.

  “You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” Silence followed by a crash and ceramic shattering. Otosu flinched, he could picture it without seeing it. The broken cup. The spilled liquid soaking into wood already stained from other nights. His breathing grew shallow as he told himself to stay still and unnoticed. Not long after, a slap echoed through the house. His mother stumbled back into the wall. He heard it, the dull impact of bone against wood. His body reacted before his mind did. He was on his feet now, ankle protesting sharply.

  “Don’t,” he whispered to himself. Another blow followed, a choke of breath, then something changed. The shouting stopped, replaced by struggle, a different sound. Otosu stepped toward the doorway, each movement heavier than the last. He could hear it clearly now. His mother’s hands clawing against fabric. The scraping of feet against the floor. And then, a strangled sound, not a scream, not words, just air fighting to pass through a throat that would not open. His heart began pounding violently in his chest. He reached the doorway and saw it. His father’s large hands wrapped tightly around his mother’s neck with her feet barely touching the floor and her fingers digging into his wrists. He could see her face reddening.

  “Stop!” Otosu shouted, though his voice cracked halfway through. His father did not even look at him. Otosu rushed forward and grabbed at his father’s arm, pushing, pulling, striking with fists that felt like nothing against a wall. “Stop! You’ll kill her!” His father finally glanced down. There was no hesitation in his eyes, only annoyance. With one sharp motion, he shoved Otosu backward. The boy fell hard, pain flaring through his ankle as he hit the floor. He gasped. But he forced himself up again. His mother’s movements were slowing, her fingers were no longer gripping as tightly. Her eyes, wide moments ago, were beginning to lose focus. Something inside Otosu cracked, not loudly, not violently, but silently. His ears began to ring. The room felt distant, as though he were sinking underwater. He watched his mother’s hands fall away and her body begin to go limp. And in that unbearable stillness he felt it, for the first time in his life the trembling stopped...