Chapter 4: Shadows of the Past
The boy stood frozen in shock, the pale light of the secret room still burning against the shadows. His brother's face lingered in his mind—the camera flashes, the silence, the way he had just walked out.
With trembling fingers, he switched the light off and closed the hidden door. He couldn't bear to look at the room anymore. The suffocating air pressed in around him as he turned, walked down the hallway, and stopped outside his brother's room.
Pushing the door open, he entered. His brother was there, leaning against the desk, his expression cold.
"Why are you doing this to me?" the boy demanded, his voice raw with anger. "What do you want? Dad already gave you the company, he gave you everything. What more do you want?"
His brother's eyes narrowed. A cruel smirk touched his lips.
"I want to make your life hell… just like you made mine."
The boy's breath caught. "What are you talking about? What did I ever do to you?"
"You still don't understand?" his brother's voice rose, sharp and bitter. "The day Mom died—it was because of you. It was your fault she's gone!"
The boy's heart pounded in his chest. His mouth opened, but no words came out. For a moment, silence hung between them, thick with old wounds and unspoken truths. Then, in a sudden burst of rage, his brother shoved him, forcing him out of the room, and slammed the door shut.
The echo of that door closing burned in his ears all night.
The next morning, the boy walked into school with tired eyes and heavy steps. He hadn't slept; the weight of his brother's words pressed against his chest like chains.
As he entered his classroom, a faint surprise flickered across his face. Sitting at a desk near the window was a girl he had seen the night before—her presence calm but radiant. Now, she was here, in his very class.
Their eyes met. A small smile curved her lips.
"You're here too," she said softly.
"Yeah," he replied awkwardly. "Looks like we're classmates."
Through the morning, they exchanged small introductions, quiet words, and cautious glances. For the first time in a long while, his world didn't feel so suffocating.
But peace never lasted. At break time, a group of bullies cornered him in the corridor. Their laughter was cruel, their words sharper than knives.
"Pathetic," one sneered. "Can't even stand up for yourself."
Before the boy could react, the girl stepped forward. Her eyes blazed with defiance.
"Back off," she snapped. "If you've got nothing better to do, don't waste everyone's time."
The bullies faltered at her boldness, muttered curses, and finally scattered. The boy stood stunned, his fists clenched at his sides.
"Why don't you ever stand up for yourself?" the girl turned to him, her voice gentle but firm. "You can fight back. I can see it in you. So why don't you?"
He looked down, his voice low. "I… I could. But…"
"But what?" she pressed.
He fell silent, unable to open up. He couldn't tell her—not yet.
And then, a memory struck him like lightning.
His mother's voice. Her hands adjusting his stance in the garden as she taught him martial arts. Her movements were sharp, disciplined, graceful. She had once been a fighter—a true warrior—and she had passed her strength on to him.
"Always trust your strength," she used to say, her eyes warm with love.
Unlike him, his brother had never mastered it. Fighting had come naturally to him, his mother's lessons etched deep into his blood.
The memory broke him. His lips trembled as he whispered under his breath:
"If Mom were alive today… she'd be ashamed of me."
Shame burned through him, but so did a flicker of determination. He straightened, picked up his bag, and returned to the classroom with silent resolve.