Moonlight washed over the mansion like a blessing it didn't deserve.
It stood tall and proud at the edge of the city—its white stone walls glowing gold from the lights pouring out its windows. Laughter drifted into the night, blending with the soft swell of violins and the clinking of crystal glasses. The driveway glittered with luxury cars polished so perfectly they reflected the stars. Guards in tailored black suits stood rigid at every corner, stoic and silent, their earpieces buzzing with coded chatter.
Inside, the air smelled of expensive perfume and imported wine. Silk gowns brushed the marble floor. Diamonds glimmered. Money breathed in every room.
They had gathered for one reason:
To celebrate the birth of the newest son of Willioms Saint—a name that had clawed its way into every newspaper headline over the past three years. His rise was a story too miraculous to be believable. Three years ago, he'd been a bankrupt drunk—mocked, pitied, ignored. And then suddenly… wealth. Power. Connections born from smoke and whispers.
A miracle to some.A warning to others.
Willioms tapped his gold-rimmed glass.
"Attention! Attention!" he called out, grinning wide enough to show every expensive dental implant he'd bought. "Greetings to all my humble guests. Today, we celebrate the birth of my sweet little angel! I am deeply grateful for your presence—please, enjoy yourselves tonight!"
Applause rippled across the hall. The orchestra swelled. People cheered, toasted, laughed.
But across the room, one masked guard lifted a gloved hand—just a small gesture. Barely noticeable. But Willioms saw it instantly.
His smile faltered for a breath. Then he excused himself, weaving through the crowd until he reached the guard's post in the far corridor.
"What is it?" he demanded in a harsh whisper. "This better be important."
"Apologies, sir," the guard said, voice flat and distant. "But we have reason to believe there is an intruder in the mansion. A dangerous one."
Willioms' face reddened. "Dangerous? Are you mad, boy? Do you even know who I am?"
"…Yes, sir," the guard replied quietly. "Sadly… all too well."
"What—"
A blur.
A sharp strike to the neck.
The world flipped sideways, and Willioms collapsed before he understood what hit him.
He woke with a choking gasp.
His vision smeared over flickering lights and distorted shadows. His head pounded as if someone had slammed a hammer through it. He tried to move—but nothing happened.
CRACK.
A fist collided with his jaw, so violent the world flashed white. Blood sprayed the floor. Teeth skittered across the tiles like pale stones.
"GHHHAAAAAAA!"
"Oh… sorry," the guard said, tilting his head. "Was that too rough?"
Another blow—this one deep in the gut. Vomit burst from Willioms' throat, splattering across his silk suit. He nearly passed out again, but the guard grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up.
"Hey. Don't you dare pass out on me."
Only then—shaking, whimpering—did Willioms look down.
His breath broke.
His arms and legs were nailed to the wall. Thick iron spikes pinned him like a grotesque butterfly in a display case.
"AAAAAARGH! WH—WHAT DO YOU WANT!?" he cried. "MONEY!? I CAN PAY YOU! ANYTHING—PLEASE!"
"Pathetic," the guard said softly. The word was a blade. "Three years ago, you were a washed-up drunk. A parasite who stole his child's food money for gambling."
Willioms coughed blood. "C-child?! What child!? I—I only just had my first baby!"
A low hiss came from behind the mask. "Don't play dumb, you bastard. You had a son long before this. A boy born from a girl you raped. She died giving birth to him."
"I—I don't—what are you—"
"Your son's name," the guard murmured, "was Toka."
The room froze.
Willioms' pupils shrank. His breathing hitched. A cold sweat broke across his skin.
"H-how… how do you know that?"
The guard reached up.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He removed his mask.
Time stopped.
The face beneath it was young but carved hollow. Long, dark hair fell over empty eyes—eyes as dead as a winter night. Eyes Willioms had seen before.
The eyes of a broken woman.
His brother's wife.
His victim.
His curse.
"Y–… Yuri?" Willioms whispered.
Yuri tilted his head slightly. "Haven't forgotten me, huh?"
"Y-Yuri, listen—how could you do this to your own uncle—"
"SHUT. THE HELL. UP."
The walls trembled from the force of his voice.
"I know damn well Henry Saint was never my father," Yuri said, breathing hard. "But that's not why I'm here. I want to know how you—a worthless, filthy piece of trash—got so rich right after my mother was butchered."
"It wasn't me!" Willioms sobbed. "I swear—it was Henry! And someone else—I don't know him! I only saw him once!"
"What guy?" Yuri's voice dropped, cold enough to freeze bone.
"H-he… he was there the day you were born," Willioms stammered. "The day Henry killed his former wife. I—I don't know what happened! But he came back the next day with both you and Lilly. That's all I know—I swear!"
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Then Yuri exhaled slowly. "Good job."
He stepped closer, shadows swallowing half his face.
"But you see… you and Henry are the same kind of filth."
Willioms' breath hitched. "W-what are you talking about?"
"Toka was my friend," Yuri said. "A sick kid. You begged for charity money—crying about medical bills—pretending to be a grieving father… but you never cared. You used every last dime on yourself. And when he died?"
Yuri's eyes darkened.
"You didn't even give him a grave."
Willioms sobbed uncontrollably, blood and tears mixing and running down his chin. "Please… please, Yuri. I made mistakes. I regret all of it. Have mercy—please—"
A whisper of steel.
A cold flash.
Then—
SPLAT.
Yuri dragged the blade clean across his abdomen, splitting him open from hip to hip. Blood rushed like a waterfall, pooling beneath his dangling feet.
"Mercy," Yuri said quietly, turning away, "is for the living."
He walked down the corridor without looking back.
Behind him, Willioms Saint bled out in the dark—just as he'd let every innocent soul in his life bleed before him.