You can call me Han. People at school call me a "pretty boy," whatever that means. My long black hair, which I keep tied neatly in a ponytail, apparently gives me some kind of otherworldly vibe, but I think they're just trying to make me feel awkward. I'm eighteen, in my last year of high school, and to be honest, I don't know what comes next. Not many people know where they're going in life at my age, but for me, it's not about direction—it's about survival.
I live in a small apartment, tucked away behind the city's older neighborhoods. It's not much, but it's home, thanks to Mrs. Carter. Every morning, she's always out on the porch, wrapped in a faded shawl no matter the weather, sipping tea.
"Good morning, Mrs. Carter," I say with a small bow. Respect is something she taught me early on.
"Good morning, child," she replies, her voice like a warm, crackling fire. "Off to school?"
"Yes, ma'am." I hesitate, turning back for a moment. "Thank you…for everything."
She waves her hand, dismissing the sentiment, but there's a twinkle in her eyes. "You don't need to thank me. I just did what anyone with a heart would've done."
But that's not true. Most people would've walked away the night she found me.
It was late, and the streetlights cast long, flickering shadows across the cracked pavement. Her dog, an old mutt with a bark much bigger than its bite, was growling at something in the darkness. Mrs. Carter had stepped outside to investigate, muttering about raccoons, when she spotted me.
I must have looked pitiful—a scrawny kid, barefoot, trembling, and soaked to the bone in a rainstorm that had started minutes earlier. My clothes were torn, my knees scraped and bleeding.
"Lord, have mercy," she said, crouching down to meet my gaze. "What are you doing out here, child?"
I couldn't answer. My throat was dry, and my chest heaved with the effort of keeping myself upright.
She didn't press, just softened her voice. "You've been running, haven't you? From what?"
My lip quivered, and for a moment, I thought I'd burst into tears. "I… I don't know."
Her brow furrowed. "What's your name?"
"Han."
"Alright, Han," she said gently. "Why don't you come inside? I've got some tea and a warm blanket."
But I couldn't move. My feet felt glued to the ground, my legs locked in place. All I could see, all I could feel, was him.
It started like any other night. I was eleven, still small for my age, with dreams no bigger than a bowl of ramen before bedtime. I woke up in the middle of the night, stomach growling. The house was dark, and the faint hum of the fridge called to me.
"Mom? Dad?" I called softly, rubbing my eyes as I shuffled to their bedroom. The door was ajar, the faint light from the hallway casting long shadows.
"Are you awake? I'm hungry."
No answer.
Pushing the door open, I froze.
The metallic stench of blood hit me first. My mother's body lay crumpled on the floor, her limbs bent at unnatural angles. Her chest was a hollow cavity, ribs exposed like the jagged remains of a broken birdcage. Her organs were scattered, some half-devoured, her face frozen in a silent scream.
And crouched above her was my father—or what was left of him. His body was grotesquely swollen, veins bulging under his skin like angry rivers. His eyes glowed pale and empty, two ghostly orbs fixed on something I couldn't see. His ears were sharp, almost elven, and his mouth hung open, dripping with blood and saliva. Between his teeth was my mother's heart, still faintly pulsing.
"Han," he said softly, his voice unnervingly calm. "Come here."
I stepped back, my foot crunching on a shard of broken glass. His head snapped toward me, blood-streaked lips curling into a snarl.
"Come here, Han," he repeated, the softness gone, replaced with something primal and hungry.
I turned and ran.
The house was a labyrinth of horrors, every corner filled with shadows that seemed alive, reaching for me. My father's heavy footsteps thundered behind me, growing louder with each passing second. I ducked under tables, squeezed through narrow gaps, anything to slow him down.
"Don't run from me!" he roared, his voice reverberating through the walls.
I could hear furniture crashing as he bulldozed through obstacles, relentless in his pursuit. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Every glance over my shoulder revealed his monstrous form, his bloodied hands outstretched.
The front door was in sight, but it felt miles away. My legs burned, my vision blurred with tears.
Just as I reached the door, his hand brushed the back of my shirt. I threw myself forward, landing hard on the concrete outside. Scrambling to my feet, I ran into the night, the sound of his enraged howls echoing behind me.
"Han?"
Mrs. Carter's voice brought me back to the present.
"Y-yeah," I stammered.
"You were shaking again," she said, her tone soft but concerned. "That boy's still inside you, isn't he?"
I nodded, unable to meet her eyes.
"Keep walking, child," she said. "The past might haunt you, but it don't own you."
Her words gave me something to hold onto, but I knew the truth. The past was still out there, somewhere in the dark, waiting for me.