Warmth.
Real, gentle warmth.
Adam remembered it before he even realised he was remembering. The world tree forest dissolved for a moment, replaced by sunlight on pavement, the smell of fresh burgers drifting from the corner shop, the chatter of children racing home before the streetlights flickered on.
He was small again.
A boy holding his mother's hand.
Her fingers were warm — not soft, warm — the kind of warmth that made the entire world feel safe for just a few seconds. Jessica ran circles around them, laughing with that cracked little laugh of hers, the one that always broke halfway through like she couldn't choose between breathing and giggling.
Home was brighter back then.
Not perfect — just bright.
Their mother would cook stew with too much sage, humming off-key to whatever played on the radio. Jessica would sneak crayons into Adam's pockets so she could draw moustaches on him while he slept. They'd chase each other around the living room, socks sliding across the hardwood as their mother shouted at them not to knock over her plants.
Warmth.
Laughs.
Colour.
And innocence.
There were nights, back then, when he heard shouting from his mother's room and thought it was play.
The thuds reminded him of him and Jessica jumping on their beds.
The loud voices sounded like the pretend arguments they acted out during games.
He would smile, thinking his parents were just "being silly."
He was too young to understand the difference.
Too innocent to realise not every loud sound meant laughter.
Too trusting to know that not every raised voice came from love.
Then the front door opened.
And all the colour drained.
Even now he remembered the sound of it: the metallic click that froze him and Jessica like prey. Their father didn't say hello. He didn't take off his shoes. He just entered — heavy steps, sharp breathing, the smell of alcohol trailing behind him like a curse.
Shouting followed first.
Then screaming.
Then the crash of a plate against the wall.
Adam grabbed Jessica's wrist, pulling her under the desk, both of them covering their ears as their mother cried behind a thin bedroom door. The thud of a fist hitting the wall echoed through his bones. Jessica trembled against him, tiny fingers gripping his sleeve like he was the last safe thing in the world.
As he got older, the sounds stopped feeling like games.
He began to recognise the tone — the bitterness, the venom, the way his father dragged cruelty into every syllable.
The truth slipped in slowly:
The things he thought were harmless when he was little
were anything but harmless.
And the man he once tried to love —
the man he convinced himself was just "having a bad day" —
wasn't complicated.
Wasn't tragic.
He was foul.
Rotten.
A human being with no softness in him at all.
Fear.
It didn't end there.
School was supposed to be safe — the place where kids laughed, traded stickers, complained about tests. Adam tried to blend in, tried to smile, tried to be the version of himself the world wouldn't immediately recoil from.
But there were days he remembered in flashes:
A hand slapping the back of his head.
Glue smeared into his hair.
Being shoved backward into a thorny bush.
Hearing a kid hiss a word he didn't even understand yet but knew was meant to hurt.
And the worst part—
the friends who watched.
The ones who smiled with him in the morning but laughed when he was thrown in the dirt.
Warmth.
Then cold.
Always.
Everywhere.
That was how innocence died.
Not suddenly — slowly.
Fear taking root in the empty spaces it left behind.
The memory fractured like cracked glass—
And the present snapped back.
Kang gripped his carrot blade so tight his knuckles turned white. The forest around him felt too alive, too still. The tree monster towered ahead, its scarlet eyes burning through the gloom, watching him with a slow, deliberate curiosity.
Not aggressive.
Not mindless.
Just watching.
The same way the older boys used to stare before grabbing him.
The same way his father would stand silent for one second before the storm hit.
The same way fear always announced itself — slow, quiet, certain.
Kang's breath thinned.
His heart wasn't pounding because of the boss.
It was pounding because the feeling was familiar.
Too familiar.
His hand shook against the carrot hilt.
A tremor ran up his arm — not from the cold, not from adrenaline — from memory.
From fear.
Words slipped out of him before he even realised he'd spoken them, barely louder than a breath:
"It's happening again."
He swallowed, throat tight.
His fingers trembled harder.
…When's the last time I stopped shaking?
He didn't have an answer.
And the monster's scarlet eyes kept watching.
Silent.
Unblinking.
Like it could see every childhood fear he never escaped.
The warmth was gone.
The forest waited.
And the world tree boss…
finally began to move.