"So, what happened next?" the little boy asked in a small, uncertain voice, his eyes wide and fixed on me.
I leaned back, my posture a study in casual menace, and let my lips twist into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Well," I began, my voice soft, like a promise whispered in the dark, "if you're that curious, I'll tell you. But first—does my tale sound familiar to you?"
He furrowed his brows, thinking hard. The late afternoon sunlight, thin and tired, barely reached the corners of the alley. It caught the worry etched into his features. "Umm… yes… but not completely. I… I haven't been abused."
I let out a soft, amused hum, a low sound that seemed to vibrate in the air between us. "Good to know. But the question is, my little friend… how long do you think that will last?"
His head tilted, his voice tightening with a new fear. "I don't understand."
"Oh, I think you do." My tone cooled, dropping a few degrees like a shadow stretching across the floor. "How long do you think anything stays the same, boy? Your family's hanging from a frayed rope, and you're the one holding the scissors. Only problem is—you're tied up, too."
"W-what are you talking about? That doesn't even make sense now." He clutched his hands together, his knuckles white.
I chuckled quietly, a sound devoid of warmth. "It makes perfect sense. Tell me—how many times has your father stolen the money you've worked for?"
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Um… four… no, six times."
"And has he ever… let his hands do the talking?"
Silence. The air grew thick and heavy, a pressure that seemed to flatten the boy's shoulders. The way his eyes shifted away from mine, darting to a faded bruise on his arm, told me everything.
"He did, didn't he? Or maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was your sister. Or your sick, half-breathing mother. Did he threaten them too?"
His throat bobbed, a single, sharp motion. His silence was louder than any confession. It was a symphony of fear and shame.
"Tell me, boy—when did you start stealing from others? A week ago? A month? Or was it the day you realized your mother's medicine wasn't enough… or that your sister's stomach growled louder than your conscience… or maybe just to keep dear old Dad drunk enough to forget your name?"
"It… it's not like that," he choked, his voice trembling on the edge of sobs.
I smirked, leaning just enough for him to see the faint, cruel amusement in my eyes. "Oh, come on. You're trying to hide it, but I can see the bruises beneath your rags. We're not so different, you and I—you're just still drowning in the gutter I crawled out of."
I reached out, my movement slow and deliberate, and gently brushed the tears from his cheeks. My voice dropped to a whisper, a venomous intimacy. "Do you want to get out? I can show you the way I escaped. The same method that ended my nightmare in a single night. All you have to do… is ask."
The air between us thickened with his desperate need. I could see it in his eyes—the hope, the fear, the desperation warring for control.
"All that pain you swallow every day, all the torture you keep tucked away in silence—it can vanish. All you have to do is ask." My voice was a siren's call, promising salvation.
"Pl-please…" His voice trembled like a leaf in a storm. "Tell me how."
"Good boy." My smirk widened into a predatory smile. "But you see… I'm not much of a storyteller when it comes to endings. I'm more of a… demonstrator."
My hand slipped into the folds of my long, dark robe, fingers curling around something cold and familiar, something I'd kept close for years. I pulled it free just enough for the metal to wink in the dim light, its polished surface catching the shadows.
"Here," I said, extending it toward him. "Take a look."
He reached out with trembling fingers, his hand a leaf in the wind, and wrapped them around the handle.
"Go on. Pull it out."
The blade slid free with a soft shhhk, a whisper of steel on leather that seemed to echo in the quiet room. It caught the light, gleaming with an almost unholy hunger.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" My voice carried a strange, possessive fondness.
His gaze traced the edge, the sharp, silver line of it. "It's… sharp, smooth… and so light," he murmured, mesmerized.
"Mm. And do you know what makes it special?"
He looked up at me, his eyes wide and questioning. "What is it?"
I smiled, slow and deliberate, and the smile didn't reach my eyes. "It's the same knife I used to kill my father."
The blade slipped from his trembling hand, clattering against the hilt, but I made sure it didn't fall far. My fingers were there, steadying it, and I pressed the cold hilt back into his palm like I was returning a sacred gift.
"Y-you… you did what?" His voice quivered like a snapped violin string.
I tilted my head, feigning a gentle curiosity. "Apparently, my little friend, that was the only option left. No guardian angels were coming for me. No one was going to swoop down and drag me out of that pit… so I took matters into my own hands."
I let the words hang, a poison in the air, then chuckled softly. "Literally."
His eyes widened, but I didn't stop. The story was flowing now, and I was reliving it with a cold, detached pleasure.
"One night, he was passed out drunk—mouth open, snoring, stinking like a brewery. I crept closer. My fingers wrapped around the knife, my heart pounding so loud I thought it might wake him. Then… I pushed. Slowly. Right into his neck."
I paused, my gaze drifting for a moment, like I could still see the scene playing out in the dark.
"The blood came out warm… thick… with that same reeking tang of alcohol. It was almost funny. Like he'd been fermenting himself from the inside all those years."
A faint smile, cold as ice, tugged at my lips.
"The next morning, I woke up to silence. No curses. No fists. Just… quiet. I was free. I had crawled out of my little corner of hell, and for the first time… there was air in my lungs that didn't taste like fear."
I leaned closer, the edge of my voice turning into a conspiratorial whisper meant only for him. "And trust me… freedom is addictive."
"So," I began, my voice low and steady, a new, final push, "if you want to taste that feeling… you already hold the choice in your hands. Freedom, or a cage. A savior, or a prisoner. Every path is yours to walk… or to rot in."
I leaned back slightly, watching his eyes flicker between the knife and my face.
"I'm not telling you to follow the exact same steps I did. But…" I let the word draw out, curling into the air like smoke, "…who knows what might happen if you try?"
His breathing hitched. Perfect.
"Unlike me, you've got something worth protecting, right? A family. Your mother, your sister… You never know when things will turn bad. Sometimes it's not a matter of 'if,' but 'when.'"
He was listening—too intently. Almost hypnotized. Just one more push to seal his fate.
"Listen," I said softly, my voice taking on a cruel tenderness, "how about I add one more thing to sweeten your choice?"
I reached into my coat and pulled out a small pouch. I didn't offer it; I just held it.
"Take it. It's yours."
His eyes widened, fixed on the pouch. "R-really?"
"Yes. Open it."
He did. His breath caught as he saw the gold coins inside, gleaming under the dim light, a small fortune.
"Let's say you manage to steal this from me," I continued, my tone flattening into something colder. "And I don't come after you. You'd be happy, wouldn't you? Thinking, 'This is enough. I don't need to steal again. My mother can live. My sister can study. And maybe, just maybe, I can finally think about myself.'"
I let the words linger just long enough for the warmth of the thought to take root… and then cut it. The sweet fantasy was an arrow, and his hopes were the target.
"But then," I whispered, leaning close enough for him to feel the heat of my breath, "your drunk father walks in. He sees the pouch. His hands get there before your thoughts do. And the rest…"
I let the silence gnaw at him, dragging it out until his knuckles went white around the gold.
"…you can imagine, can't you?"
"It's fate, my friend, that put me here to tell you this," I said, my voice calm yet heavy, like a noose tightening. "But I'm not your guardian angel… I'm just a choice giver."
I set the weight of the gold pouch in his trembling hand, then slid the cold knife into the other. "Both paths are in your grasp. Freedom… or the same chains you've always worn."
I turned, my coat shifting as I began to walk away, my boots making a soft, rhythmic sound on the ground.
"W–wait!" His voice cracked, a plea filled with desperation and terror. "Why are you leaving?"
I didn't stop. I just let my words drift back over my shoulder, final and cold.
"Because the rest, boy… is yours to write. Or to ruin."
After that, I walked away, leaving the sound of his shallow breathing behind me like a heartbeat fading into the shadows.
The streets stretched under the afternoon sun, a faceless expanse of cobblestone and commerce. But I moved through them like a shadow with purpose, my steps deliberate, measured. The day had tipped past noon. I made my way toward the carriage, the only thing that mattered now was what came next..
"Did you enjoy your time, young master?" the driver asked, polite curiosity in his voice.
"Yes," I replied, sliding into the cool leather seat. "Enlightening. But it's time to head back."
The doors shut, cutting me off from the city's hum, leaving only my own thoughts echoing in the carriage.
The boy. That trembling little thing. I could still see him—the way his eyes darted between the knife and me, how easily he had hung on every word, how completely I had pulled him into my web. There was art in that. True art. A story spun in a single moment, yet heavier than most people's lives. I almost admired myself. Almost.
Funny, isn't it? How fragile people are. How little it takes to push, to pull, to twist them into something new. And yet, how easily they cling to hope, even when it's coated in danger. That's the beauty of it. That's the elegance of control.
I leaned back, letting the sway of the carriage become a metronome to my thoughts. The weekend was ending, and the academy awaited. I should prepare, attend to my duties… or I could play with Lucas, continue the little games I'd promised my fiancée I wouldn't. Promises. Such delicate things. Meant to be broken when convenient, bent to my will.
I allowed a smirk, small, sharp, predatory. The world moves blindly, people like ants scurrying over a floor, each unaware of the hands that guide or crush them. And I? I am the hand.
A story left in a boy's hands, a choice pressed against his skin, gold and steel cold and real… and he had no idea how much of himself he had just handed to me. That's what I love most—how willingly they fall into the trap, thinking it was their idea all along.
Outside, the city carried on, oblivious to the quiet chaos left behind in alleys and hearts. And I carried on, detached, amused, and fully aware that every encounter, every whispered word, is a thread I can pull. And when I pull… everything bends to my design.
Yes… stories are addictive. Choices, sharper still. And I? I will always be the one handing them the knife.