Wen stepped out of the study, the heavy scent of copper and fear clinging to his clothes and skin. He felt the weight of his recent actions—not as guilt, but as a chilling, necessary finality.
His eyes immediately locked onto his father, who was standing in the hallway near the main living area. The old man was a shadow of his former self, frail and hunched, but the look in his eyes was anything but weak. It was a raw, naked shock, layered with a fragile, desperate understanding.
Wen watched his father's eyes, those aged, rheumy windows to a soul riddled with secrets, flick from the fresh, dark splatters of blood on Wen's tunic to the doorway Wen had just exited. The question was unvoiced, yet deafening in the silence: Where is your mother? What have you done?
Wen understood the dynamics immediately. In any other circumstance, his father—a man whose pride was as brittle as his bones—would have lunged, challenged him, or at least roared his fury. But Wen was now a wild, unpredictable entity, and the old man was weakened, his body ravaged by a sickness that had stolen his strength long before Wen had arrived. The fear was a tangible aura around him, a shield that paradoxically kept Wen's hand from raising against him for a moment. He is too weak to challenge me, Wen thought, the contempt a bitter taste on his tongue. He knows he would lose.
He turned his face away, intending to leave the toxicity of that house and that blood-soaked past forever. His focus was solely on the exit—a clean break.
But just as his heel pivoted toward the front door, his gaze snagged on the polished antique table near the entryway. There, resting innocently, was a simple off-white envelope.
A cold knot tightened in Wen's stomach. Not again.
This one, however, was different. Stamped clearly on the front, not a crude sketch, but a crisp, black-and-white photograph: a younger, healthier version of his father. The shock was a jolt of icy water through his system. Had the unseen puppeteer behind these missives escalated their terrifying game? Or, more disturbingly, was his father somehow involved, playing a twisted, confusing trick on his unstable son?
He picked up the envelope, the paper feeling cool and smooth against his bloodied fingers. He looked at his father, seeking a flicker of recognition, a guilty twitch, anything to confirm that the old man was the author of this madness. His father merely stared back, his expression a masterpiece of innocence and terror.
This time, there was no haste. The first reading had been a panicked blur. This time, he was deliberate. He tore the seal slowly, making the small ripping sound the loudest noise in the hallway. He pulled out the folded sheet, his eyes never leaving his father's face.
Wen's gaze dropped to the text. The letters, printed in the same unnerving black ink, stared back:
KILL YOUR FATHER. HE, TOO, LIED.
Wen felt the air drain from his lungs. It wasn't just a simple command; it was the final confirmation of his own deeply held suspicions. He looked from the paper, the damning indictment of the man who gave him life, back to his father's frail form.
With a sudden, violent spasm of disgust, Wen flung the paper away. It fluttered in the stagnant air, caught by an invisible draft, a morbid, white butterfly against the dark hardwood floor before finally settling into a crumpled heap.
Wen's eyes narrowed on his father one last time. There, on a small side table—conveniently, sickeningly placed—was a long, wickedly sharp kitchen knife. It was an invitation, a piece of stage setting for the final, bloody act. He glanced at the door, a fleeting thought of simply walking away, escaping this entire, poisoned tableau. He could still do it. He could leave the house, leave the knife, and leave his father to his fading life.
Almost.
Before he could take the definitive step toward freedom, a sound cut through the tense silence—a series of sharp, rhythmic trills. A phone. Someone was calling, or, more likely, his father was initiating a communication. Wen froze, his muscles locking up in suspicious anticipation.
His gaze snapped to his father. The old man, trembling only slightly, held a mobile phone clutched in a pale, shaky hand. Who is he calling? Who is he reporting to? The phone ceased its ringing, the quiet 'click' of the connection being made reverberated in Wen's mind.
"Hello," his father rasped, his voice thin and papery, ravaged not just by fear but by the illness that had consumed his vigor. Wen watched him, his posture tense, waiting for the reveal. There was a strange duality on his father's face—a profound terror mixed with a calculated, almost smug relief that the call had connected.
Then the words came, shattering Wen's brittle self-control.
"Hello? I need to speak to the cops."
Wen's entire body went rigid, a block of ice where his heart should be. The cops. Why? Even if they came, he could argue self-defense, couldn't he? But the rational thought was instantly overruled by the flood of memories: the news reports, the venomous social media posts, the television pundits who had painted him as a monster. He was the hated pariah. If he was caught, the truth of 'self-defense' would be lost under the weight of public condemnation. They would believe the sick old man over the accused killer. Arrest was a certainty.
His eyes fell to the knife. It was a beautiful piece of cutlery, the steel gleaming under the dim hallway light. He picked it up, testing the balance, his thumb tracing the impossibly keen edge. The metal felt right—cold, definite, and purposeful. It was a comfort in the chaos. He calmed the frantic beating of his heart by focusing on the sensation, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
Then his father's voice, strained and accusatory, filled the air again.
"My son is here. He came into our house, killed my wife, and now he is trying to kill me, too. He's a killer, please! You have to help me!"
Wen froze completely. The accusation was a thunderclap. His father wasn't pleading for his life; he was constructing a narrative, a deadly lie that would ensure Wen's destruction. He wasn't just defending himself; he was actively condemning his son.
A profound, bone-deep sense of betrayal, deeper than anything he had felt for his mother, settled over Wen. His father was sacrificing him to save his own skin, cementing Wen's status as a cold-blooded murderer in the eyes of the law.
Wen slowly dragged his finger along the sharp edge of the blade, a tiny bead of crimson welling up on the skin, but he barely registered the pain. He focused on the contact, on the physical reality of the weapon in his hand. He took another deep, controlled breath, summoning a cold, terrifying resolve.
He advanced on his father.
He didn't bother with a blow or a struggle. He didn't want the old man to have the satisfaction of screaming a final word into the phone, giving the police an ear-witness account of the attack.
Wen closed the distance, his movement fluid and precise, born of instinct. The knife moved not with rage, but with a horrifying, clinical detachment. He sent the long, glittering blade straight to the forehead of his father, executing the strike with a brutal efficiency that ended the conversation—and the life—in a single, silent moment.
His father's eyes fluttered closed, the telephone clattering to the carpet, the line still open, broadcasting only the sudden, profound quiet of death.
Wen stood over the body, the blade still embedded. He felt nothing—no guilt, no fear, not even a morbid satisfaction. It was done. It was the only way to silence the lie and ensure his own survival. It was an act of self-defense against a betrayal more lethal than any physical attack.
He checked the immediate area quickly, ensuring no witnesses or security measures he'd missed. Without a word, without a backward glance at the two bodies that now occupied the house—the remnants of the family he was leaving behind—Wen turned and walked out the door. The past was sealed in the blood-stained silence behind him.
The World Turns
But Wen's actions were not happening in a vacuum. Even as he stepped out into the twilight, the world was spinning faster. News of the recent judicial crisis—the corrupt pardons, the public outrage—had reached the highest levels of governance.
The President himself had issued a swift, politically motivated decree: all individuals who had been granted presidential pardons in the last two months, due to the now-discredited commission, were to be immediately rounded up and returned to prison. The crackdown was ruthless and immediate.
The result was predictable chaos. Many recently freed youths, some guilty, many innocent victims of the corrupt system, found themselves dragged back to the iron-barred cells they had only just escaped.
But the most significant, and yet-to-be-discovered, event happened in the dark heart of the maximum-security correctional facility. Within hours of the new decree, a staggering five sets of prisoners escaped. The initial reports were confused, the total number of fugitives uncertain.
The warden on duty, a man named Treston, was incoherent, claiming he had been drugged by the kitchen chef, leading to a catastrophic security lapse. He swore under interrogation that he wasn't sure of the exact number who had fled.
However, a close interrogation of the remaining, bitter inmates finally cracked the case open. The escape was not random. The motive was singular, shared, and utterly terrifying: the escaped prisoners were unified in their goal to find Wen and kill him. They believed he was the ultimate catalyst for their renewed imprisonment, the trigger that had ruined their brief taste of freedom. They saw him as the author of their misery and wanted him to pay with his life.
A Moment of False Peace
Wen was utterly oblivious to this rising tide of vengeance. He hadn't touched a television or radio since the day of his initial ordeal. He was intentionally cut off, seeking oblivion.
For a few fleeting hours, he existed only in the present, an island of numbness. He found himself in a seedy, dimly lit bar on the edge of the city's commercial district, the kind of place where sorrow was cheap and anonymity was free.
He was drinking with the focused dedication of a man trying to wash the blood from his soul. Seventy-two empty bottles, a small, shimmering mountain of glass, were amassed on his sticky table. He released a loud, guttural belch—a sound of pure, alcohol-induced decay.
He squinted at the waitress, a tired-looking woman who avoided his eyes.
"One bottle more," he commanded, raising a dead soldier—a final, empty bottle—into the smoky air.
The female waiter looked at him, her expression a careful mixture of professional obligation and genuine pity. She didn't say a word, only shook her head subtly before turning to fetch the next bottle, her silence a judgment Wen was too far gone to care about.
Wen's attention drifted to the heart of the room: the dance floor. People were writhing under the pulsing, cheap neon lights, dancing away the crushing weight of their mundane, sorrowful lives.
But as the alcohol and the lack of sleep took hold, Wen's perception began to fracture. The haze in the room thickened, transforming the pathetic figures on the dance floor. He saw angels—ethereal, luminous figures descending from the ceiling, their glowing wings catching the light as they joined the mortals in their feverish, desperate dance. It was beautiful and utterly insane.
He picked up his newly delivered bottle of wine, a half-drunk, cheap vintage, and lumbered onto the stage, swaying dangerously. All he could see were the angels, their forms shimmering like heat haze.
Then, one of them caught his eye. A very particular figure. She was at the center of the throng, a radiant core of light. She didn't move with the drunken clumsiness of the mortals; she flowed. Her face, obscured slightly by the light but intensely shiny, drew him like a moth to a flame.
Through the jostling, sweat-soaked crowd, Wen became a man possessed. He shoved, apologized, and stumbled, moving the anonymous dancers aside until he reached his destination.
When he finally got close enough, he froze.
The "angel" was not an illusion of the wine. Or perhaps, she was a terrifyingly real one. Her features, now clear in the close proximity, were breathtaking. He was lost for words, hypnotized by the sheer grace of her movement and the incandescent quality of her skin. He felt a primordial pull, a deep, unsettling connection to this vision.
The nearly full bottle of beer slipped from his nerveless fingers. It hit the wooden floor and exploded into a shower of glass shards, some of which dug into the worn leather of his boot, piercing his skin and drawing a bead of blood. He didn't flinch.
He only kept looking, his hand rising slowly, tentatively. He was going to touch an angel for the first time. His fingers rubbed together, the friction a tiny, nervous heat. He moved his hand, inch by agonizing inch, until the tip of his forefinger landed gently on her shoulder, barely grazing the skin.
All movement on the dance floor seemed to cease. The music faded into a dull roar.
The angel, who had been facing away, slowly turned to face him.