He stood at the edge of the street, shoes heavy with mud from running. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the ground still clung to his soles like a weight.
His chest rose and fell beneath a sweat-streaked, dirt-stained shirt, each breath sharp and uneven.
It took him a moment before he moved. Each step felt heavier than the last as he approached the familiar pub, the only building on the block still lit this late.
Yellow light spilled out through the smeared windows, and behind them, the low rumble of voices and the occasional burst of laughter broke through the quiet night.
He hadn't been back here since the last time.
Just before he could reach the door, it creaked open. A middle-aged woman stepped outside, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes caught his, and she froze for a moment, then rushed toward him.
"Mal, you can't go in there," she said in a low, urgent voice, grabbing his arm. "Your father is here and won't want to see you. You know how he gets when he's drunk."
Mal didn't answer. He didn't need to. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the door behind her, as if staring it down might calm the storm inside him.
The woman's grip tightened. "Please, Mal. Just go home. Come back tomorrow when he's sober. It's not worth it."
He shook his head, slow and stubborn. He appreciated her concern, he always had. She was one of the few who showed him kindness when no one else did. But kindness wouldn't get his money back.
"I can't," he said quietly. "He took everything. I need it."
Her face softened, but there was fear in her eyes too, fear for him.
"I know," she whispered. "But going in now? You'll only come out worse."
He walked past her again. The door had swung shut behind her, muffling the noise inside. But he didn't need to hear it to know his father was there, slumped over the counter, drink in hand, pockets full of the coin Mal had scraped together over months.
His money that was meant for food. For leaving.
He knew what would happen. The yelling. The fists. Maybe worse.
But the decision had already been made. The pain didn't scare him anymore. What scared him was letting it happen again, walking away like he always did.
"The bruises will fade," he said calmly. "But if I let him keep stealing from me... I won't have anything left."
The woman hesitated, lips pressed into a thin line. Then slowly, reluctantly, she stepped aside.
Mal gave her a nod and stepped toward the door.
The wooden handle was cold in his hand. His heart pounded louder than the voices inside. He paused just long enough to steady himself.
Then, without looking back, he pushed the door open and walked in.
There, he saw his father, holding a glass of bear, drinking as if it was his own hardwork.
"Everyone, drink to your heart's content!" his father shouted, raising another glass of beer. "Everything on the table is on me tonight!"
'Thief!'
His jaw tightened as he stared at the man before him.
Resentment burned in Mal's chest like a fire he could no longer contain. He had sacrificed sleep, pride, and youth to keep them both afloat. Only to be repaid with scorn, violence, and humiliation.
"That was my own money!"
Mal yelled loudly, making sure everyone could hear him.
He didn't care anymore what would happen to him after this. He just want to take back something the belonged to him.
"Give my money back!"
His father narrowed his eyes and hurled the glass at Mal, striking him on the forehead.
Mal nearly lost his balance, but someone caught his arm. When he looked up, it was the pub owner's wife, her eyes filled with concern.
"You piece of shit!" his father shouted, slamming the table. "I sheltered you and fed you, and this is how you repay me, you ungrateful son of a bitch!"
Mal drew a deep breath, his fists clenched tightly.
'Fed me? You've never acted like a father to me.' he thought bitterly.
He was actually the one working every day, trying to make ends meet.
It was him who put food on the table. While his father did nothing but sleep all day and spend his hard-earned wages on selfish indulgence.
Every day of Mal's life felt like a living hell. From the moment he could remember, he endured relentless beatings and constant humiliation, all at the hands of his own father, the very person who was supposed to protect and love him.
A father should be a guiding light, someone to lean on through hardship.
But for Mal, that role had been twisted into something cruel. The man who should have nurtured his dreams was the one crushing them, one blow at a time.
It was as if he was trapped in a nightmare he could never wake from, one that repeated itself with brutal consistency.
No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to be good, to earn approval or peace, life remained merciless. The world, it seemed, had decided to be his enemy from the start.
Mal clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding as he struggled to hold back tears. He knew what people would say, that crying wasn't manly, that he should toughen up. But he was only fifteen.
Just a boy.
A boy who had been forced to become a man far too soon.
Life hadn't given him the luxury of growing up gently. It had thrown him into the fire and expected him to survive without complaint.
So he endured.
Bruised, bleeding, but breathing. Fighting quietly against the cruelty of a world that never once gave him a reason to hope.
Regardless of the consequences, Mal thought that he needed to fight back.
"Hey, you fucking thief!"
A heavy arm swung violently through the air, striking the side of Mal's head. He staggered, then crashed to the filthy pub floor. Blood welled from his split lip, and a high-pitched ringing filled his ears as pain throbbed through his skull.
"What did you just say, you little scum?!"
A tense silence settled over the pub. The earlier laughter and drunken chatter vanished, replaced by unease. Several people stood up quietly, slipping out the door with muttered complaints about how the night had been ruined. But no one intervened. No one even looked surprised.
They had seen this before.
In this part of town, everyone knew Aldren, the drunk with the deadly temper. Mal's father. And when he drank, which was often, things broke.
Mal wiped the blood from his lip and looked up, breathing hard. Despite the pain, he forced a crooked smile.
"I said you're a fucking thief," he repeated, loud and clear.
A few of the men seated around Aldren stiffened at Mal's boldness. One subtly gestured for him to stop, to stay quiet. Another turned away, whispering under his breath for the boy to just leave. But no one stood. No one spoke out. Just like always.
Aldren let out a drunken growl and lunged forward, shoving Mal back down onto the floor. His thick arm pressed hard across his son's neck, pinning him in place.
"I raised you!" he spat, eyes wild, mouth twisted with rage. "I should have killed you when you were still a baby, you ungrateful little bastard!"
His voice cracked across the room like a whip.
He punched him in the face like it was nothing. He hit him repeatedly, like he was someone else's son.
And still, no one moved.
Mal was at the edge of losing consciousness, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Blood coated his face, thick and warm, rendering him almost unrecognizable. His father's fists still rained down, merciless and fueled by alcohol and rage.
Then, in the middle of the pain and chaos, he heard it.
[Do you want power?]
The voice echoed, not aloud, but inside his mind, deep and resonant. Mal blinked, confused. He didn't know where it came from. It didn't sound human. Had he imagined it?
'Was this what dying felt like?'
He tried to convince himself it was just the result of his broken, failing body. His mind conjuring strange illusions as the last of his strength slipped away.
But then it came again.
[Do you want to destroy them?]
Something in the voice was ancient... and hungry.
Mal, desperate and half-delirious, clenched his jaw and pleaded, not with his father, not with the people who stood by and watched, but with that unknown voice, wherever it had come from.
'Help me…'
A low, inhuman laugh echoed in his head.
And then, he felt like burning.
It started in his chest, blooming outward like fire stoked in a forge. His skin began to glow, his body trembling as if something deep within him had awakened.
The air around him rippled and warped, thick with energy. The pub's atmosphere shifted sharply, suffocatingly, as if a storm of pure heat had erupted into the room.
Nearby people stepped back in fear, sweat beading on their foreheads. The heat was unlike anything they had ever felt.
Unnatural, otherworldly, suffused with something far more dangerous than fire.
"Worthless, useless brat—" Aldren snarled, raising his fist again.
But before he could finish speaking.
A blinding explosion tore through the room. Searing light bursting outward from Mal's body, vaporizing the table, shattering glass, and hurling his father across the pub.
Screams filled the air as flames reached the walls, and people ran looking for the exits.
In the heart of it all, Mal's body hovered just slightly off the ground, consumed in light, his eyes shut, lips parted in unconsciousness.
Then... everything went black.