February 25, 1996**
February was supposed to be the month of love.
Warm colors in shop windows. Paper hearts. Cheap roses. Lovers arguing about nothing and making up over everything.
But for Asher Di Diavolo, February wasn't hearts and roses.
It was blood.
It was fear.
And it was the month that would carve a scar through his life so deep that years later, a forest full of corpses would still tremble at his name.
The morning started calmly.
Asher sat at the small wooden table in their cramped kitchen, sipping tea while flipping through a newspaper that never had anything interesting. His little brother, Arsen, sat across from him, chewing cereal like he was trying to solve a puzzle by biting into it.
"Asher," Arsen mumbled through a mouthful, "did you eat all the sugar again?"
"I didn't eat it," Asher said. "I just used it… responsibly."
Arsen frowned at his brother. "You put half of it in your tea."
"That's responsible."
"No. That's illegal."
Asher chuckled, shaking his head. "Eat your breakfast."
He looked at Arsen for a moment—small, sharp-eyed, too smart for his age, and yet still soft in the ways that mattered. Asher always told people that Arsen annoyed him, but deep inside, the boy was the only reason Asher woke up every morning with purpose.
Their parents had vanished years ago—no explanations, no clues—only whispers about something "dangerous," something "unnatural." But Asher was determined that Arsen would never know that kind of abandonment again.
He set his tea down and smiled faintly at the boy.
And that's when the knock came.
Sharp.Cold.Precise.
Not like a neighbor.Not like a visitor.
Like someone knocking on the door of a coffin.
Asher's muscles tightened instantly. Something in the air changed—he felt it before he understood it. A heaviness, like the world itself was warning him.
He rose from his chair slowly. Arsen blinked at him.
"Asher?"
"I'll get it," Asher said quietly.
He walked to the door, each step feeling heavier. His hand hovered over the doorknob.
Something inside him whispered—
Don't open it.
But he did.
And the world shifted.
A man stood on the doorstep dressed entirely in black—coat, gloves, even his hair seemed unnaturally dark. His skin was pale, his posture straight, and his eyes—
His eyes were wrong.
Cold.Empty.Studying Asher like a scientist studying a specimen pinned to a board.
"Asher Di Diavolo?" the man asked, voice calm, almost bored.
Asher didn't answer. His instincts were screaming, louder than any thought in his head.
Arsen peeked from behind the doorway.
The man's gaze slid to the boy.A slow, chilling smile touched his lips.
That was enough.
"Asher?" Arsen whispered.
Asher's voice tore out of him like gunfire:
"RUN, ARSEN!"
Arsen froze. His small face twisted with confusion, then fear.
"Asher—"
"GO!"
The man in black reached inside his coat.
The metallic click of a gun being drawn rang through the doorway.
Asher moved without thinking, slamming the door partially shut as he shoved Arsen toward the back of the house.
"Don't look back! Run for the bike—NOW!"
Arsen hesitated only one second.
One terrible, precious second.
Then he ran.
The man in black forced the door open again, raising the gun. Asher lunged at him out of sheer desperation.
BANG!
Arsen screamed and pedaled away on his bike as fast as his shaking legs would allow. The pavement blurred beneath him. His breath came in gasps. His heart thundered in his chest like it was trying to escape.
He tried to convince himself everything would be okay.
"My brother is a black belt," he panted. "He knows martial arts, he can fight—he'll be fine—he'll be fine—"
But then another thought, darker and sharper, cut through his mind.
What if he isn't?
He slammed the brakes so hard the back wheel lifted off the ground. Gravel skidded. His bike nearly toppled.
He turned.
His house was only a few streets away.
"What if he needs me?" Arsen whispered.
Then—
BANG.
The gunshot echoed like death itself calling his name.
Arsen's stomach twisted.His breath broke.
He pedaled back, not caring how fast, not caring if he fell, not caring if the man in black was still there.
But when he arrived—
Everything was wrong.
His house was silent.The door hung open.There were no bullet holes.No blood.No broken furniture.No signs of a struggle.
Nothing.
It looked exactly as it had twenty minutes ago.
Like he had never eaten breakfast.Like Asher had never gotten up.Like the knock had never happened.
But one thing was missing.
"Asher?" Arsen whispered.
His voice cracked.
He stepped inside, trembling.
"Asher…?"
Cold silence answered him.
He searched every room — the kitchen, the hallway, the backyard — but each step only made the silence louder. Nothing was broken. Nothing was out of place. The world looked the same.
Except Asher wasn't in it.
Arsen's knees buckled.
He sank to the floor, hands shaking uncontrollably. His vision blurred as tears welled and spilled over, dropping onto the wooden boards below.
"Asher…" he whispered again, but this time it wasn't a call.It was a plea.A desperate, shattered plea.
His chest tightened until breathing hurt.His throat burned with sobs he couldn't contain.The house felt colder, emptier — like someone had carved out its heart.
And his.
He hugged himself, rocking slightly, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Please… come back," he cried softly. His voice cracked in the quiet. "Please…"
There was no hatred.
No anger.
Only an unbearable sadness that swallowed him whole — a grief so heavy it pressed on his small shoulders like the entire world was collapsing.
That day, the world didn't gain a monster.
It lost a child.
And Arsen lost the only person who had ever made him feel safe.