The storm chewed at night. Rain slammed the roof, thunder barking over it all. A man pushed through the door, shoulders hunched, face swallowed by shadow.

He hadn't been home in months. The sofa sagged under him as he dropped down, letting out a long breath that felt heavier than it should've. His eyes dragged across the walls. Familiar, but empty. The place still smelled like his father somehow.

Then—something off. A faint glow. A door cracked open.

That door was never supposed to move. His father once swore it was sealed, locked by hands older than them.

His chest pulled tight. He drew a pistol and crept closer. The hallway bulb barely worked, flickering against the dark. The air turned sour, wet, like something rotting.

And there it was—a figure, crouched low.

"Hey," he barked, moving quickly. He circled. Nothing. Empty space.

Click.

The metallic snap froze him. He spun. Another man stood there, gun up, aimed at his head. For a moment, no words—just two sets of eyes still holding.

"Who the hell are you?"

The stranger's reply was quiet and steady. "The owner of this house. The old man's gone, so I came back for what's mine."

His throat went dry. "Owner? I'm his son. This house isn't abandoned. So tell me—what are you doing here?"

The stranger's mouth curled into something like a smirk. "That saves me the chase. I was looking for the culprit. Seems the culprit walked straight to me."

Confusion broke across his face. "Culprit? I've done nothing. You're the one sneaking around here."

A short laugh, sharp. "Don't play dumb. You being here is proof enough."

He snapped back, "Proof? My father told me this room was locked—sealed by you. How would I even know it existed?"

The man's tone dropped low. "Locked, huh? Stop with the lies. Tell me instead—what did those women… those kids… those men do to you? Why did you and your father cut them down?"

His stomach knotted. He couldn't move.

The lights kicked on.

And the nightmare spilled out.

Corpses. Everywhere. Men, women, children. Heads lined across the desk, trophies. Bodies crammed into fridges. Blood still wet, stench crawling down his throat until his knees wobbled.

His hand shook around the gun. Breath ragged.

"You killed them!" the stranger's voice broke into a roar.

Darkness crashed back down.

From that darkness, the story began.

Far away, across the desert, another city pulsed alive—Alitera. Bright, young, noisy. Days hot, nights cool. A king on the throne, peace running in the streets.

A man in a white three-piece suit bent to press coins into a beggar's palm.

The city thrived. Money flowed.

More beggars rushed him. His manager shoved forward to block them.

"Wait," the man said. He waved him back and gave to them all, smiling as if he meant it.

This was Akira, head of the Akira family. Richest in Arabia, but known more for giving. A fifth of his fortune went into charities. People whispered his name with respect, sometimes love.

But kindness draws eyes.

Among the crowd, a man stood still. Tall, built heavy, black suit, glasses flashing. A mask across his face. He lifted a walkie-talkie, whispered into it, and disappeared.

They called Alitera the city of kindness. A place where no beggar would be left behind. That was Akira's dream.

His driver's voice broke the thought. "Sir, time to get Ren?"

Akira smiled. "Yes. Let's go."

The car pulled up outside the kindergarten. Ren waited at the gate, five years old, shoes scuffed, eyes wide. When his father stepped out, every child rushed toward him. Ren tripped on a stone, but Akira scooped him up before he hit the ground. Both laughed loud enough to draw smiles from the teachers.

People said Ren would inherit TAF, carry his father's shadow.

The car rolled back to the mansion—the grandest in Arabia.

Inside, light lived. Ren ran into his aunt Naomi's arms, then to Aya, his mother, who rested her hand on her swollen belly. Another child almost here.

They ate. They teased. They laughed. A house of warmth.

But where light burns, shadows creep.

Night laid itself across Alitera. Kids still played, laughter drifting through the streets. The city shone.

Far away, a thin beam cut the dark.

Through a scope, a man in a black coat watched the mansion.

He spoke into his walkie-talkie. "Target still inside. No TAF seen leaving. Do we move? Over."

A cold voice answered:

"Not yet. When it's time… it will be fatal. Over."

The Akira mansion never had alarms. No yelling either. It just… woke up. Like it was alive somehow.

Sunlight spilled in through the tall glass, making the floors shine too much, almost like someone polished them all night. The whole house carried old whispers—paintings, stairs, doors—all of it felt like it remembered things.

Ren Akira yawned in the middle of all that. Bed too big, hair like a bird's nest. He sat there rubbing his face, blinking at a ceiling painted with clouds that didn't even look real.

Then—smell.Bread. Something buttery. Something sweet too.

"Mama's cooking!" he whispered, grinning, already up.

He nearly slipped running out the door, socks sliding. The hallway stretched forever, sunlight on one end, laughter echoing on the other.

"Ren!"

His mom's voice. Aya. Long hair over her shoulders, one hand pressed on her belly like she was protecting it.

"Mama!" He bolted, smacking feet on marble. Straight into her arms.

She kissed his messy head. "Good morning, my little star."

And before he could answer—whoosh—uncle Hiroshi scooped him up, spinning him like a wheel.

"Don't forget your uncle, huh?" Hiroshi boomed, nearly dropping him.

Ren screamed laughter. "Good morning Uncle Hiroshi!"

"That's better." Hiroshi crouched, tickling until Ren squealed and hid behind Aya.

Aya shook her head. "Don't wear him out before breakfast."

"Alright, alright," Hiroshi grinned, hands up.

They went to the dining hall. Chandelier glowing, big table shining. At the head—Akira himself. Straight suit, slicked hair, papers in front of him. Looked more like a king than a dad. Until Ren ran to him.

The papers disappeared. The man melted.

"Come here, son."

Ren climbed onto his lap, puffed up with pride. "Papa! I didn't trip today!"

Akira chuckled, low and warm. "Then you're stronger than yesterday." He tapped his son's chest. "But strength means nothing without kindness."

Ren nodded like he understood. He didn't. But he liked the sound.

Naomi entered then. Hiroshi's wife. Pretty in the way people train themselves to be. Straight posture, smile placed perfectly. She set food down, looked at Ren.

"Kindness comes natural to him," she said. "That's your heart, Akira."

Ren blushed. Aya smiled small. Breakfast carried on.

Hiroshi leaned in, voice heavier now. "One day, little man, you'll protect TAF. Future of our family rests with you."

Ren clenched his fists like a warrior. "I'll protect everyone! Mama, Papa, Uncle, Aunt Naomi… and my little sister too!"

Laughter. Aya rubbed her belly, cheeks soft. "She'll be proud of you."

Ren tilted his head. "She's really in there? Can she hear me?"

Aya pressed his hand against her stomach. They all held still. Then—kick.

Ren gasped. "She said hello!"

The room exploded in laughter. Naomi laughed too. Except her eyes, for just a second, turned sharp as glass. Cold. Then gone, mask back in place. Only Akira noticed.

Ren tugged his sleeve. "Papa, did I do good?"

Akira kissed his hair. "Perfect."

Later, Ren dragged Naomi into the garden to water flowers. She helped, her soft hands guiding his small clumsy ones.

"You'll be strong one day," she said, almost whispering. "Strength… opens doors."

Ren blinked at her. "Like a hero?"

She smiled bright. Too bright. "Yes. Like a hero."

Her eyes told a different story.

That night Aya lay on the sofa, stroking her belly like guarding something. Akira sat with Ren curled on his chest, reading. Hiroshi and Naomi's voices drifted across the room, laughing.

Ren's eyes closed, smile still there. Aya smiled too but hers was tighter, worried at the edges.

Akira met her eyes. His stare said: nothing will hurt them.

The mansion glowed like it always did. Light everywhere.

But light always means shadow too.

And Ren—he had no clue about the storm already waiting outside.