[Location: Earth, United Kingdom]
[Year: 2037]
[Date: 20th of April]
The house was never silent.
Even at midnight, when the street outside lay empty and the wind ceased its restless sighs, whispers lingered within its walls. They were not true whispers, but echoes—echoes of shattered glass, of broken words, of rage too heavy to dissipate.
April had learned early that silence was an illusion. A fragile mask that cracked at the faintest touch. Beneath it always lurked his voice. His fists. His presence.
Once, she had been told he was different. That long ago, he had been gentle. Her mother used to insist on it—used to smile as though memory could shield her. But smiles wear down. Her mother's had crumbled piece by piece, until it became a mask stretched thin across hollow eyes. A woman who tried to protect her daughter, yet had no strength left to save herself.
One night, she simply vanished.
No one asked. No one came knocking. The police did not inquire, and the neighbors looked the other way. It was easier, after all, to ignore a bruised woman than to confront the man who caused it. Easier to forget her absence than to acknowledge the truth.
That left April alone with him.
She never called him father. The word carried warmth, protection, something he never offered. To her, he was simply him—drunk, unpredictable, and violent.
When she was small, she tried to vanish. To shrink herself until she was a shadow slipping between the cracks of the house. Breathless when he came home. Wordless when he shouted. Motionless when his anger searched for a target.
But small was never small enough. His rage seeped into every corner, finding her no matter how carefully she hid.
A careless word earned a slap.
A delayed step, a shove.
And when the day had been especially cruel to him—his fists.
She stopped crying eventually. Tears drew his fury like blood in water. Better to go still, to become a stone in the tide.
She endured. Day after day. Month after month. Until April turned twenty years old.
April was now a young woman of 175 cm, her figure striking—curvy and full-bodied, with a generous F-sized chest that strained subtly against the loose fabric of her white blouse. She dressed carelessly, the blouse hanging open enough to give her breathing space, but even its looseness couldn't quite hide her shape.
Her hair flowed down her back in a cascade of silky strands, blonde at the roots and fading into a vibrant violet at the ends, tied loosely into a thick braid that reached her lower back. Stray strands framed her face, softening her otherwise confident, almost sultry demeanor.
Her eyes were pale pink, long-lashed and luminous, accented by subtle but deliberate makeup. Her lips were naturally soft, painted with a faint shade of pink that completed the image of someone both alluring and untouchable.
Until the night the cage shattered.
The stench of cheap beer and unwashed sweat clung to the house. April sat on the couch, her eyes fixed on a television screen that showed colors without meaning. The volume was low, the noise serving only to fill the oppressive void.
He had been gone all day. She prayed he would not return. Sometimes, he would vanish for nights—drowning in bars, swallowed by whatever misery kept him tethered to life. Those were the merciful nights.
But not this one.
The door slammed against the wall, shaking the frames that still held photographs of a family that no longer existed.
April froze.
Boots struck the floor with heavy, uneven rhythm. His voice soon followed, thick with alcohol, sharpened by cruelty.
"Where are you?"
Glass shattered against plaster. The sound splintered through the room.
She held her breath. If she stayed quiet, perhaps he would collapse. Perhaps he would forget her existence for a night.
But his gaze found her.
The man at the door was 182 cm tall, his frame well-proportioned and athletic without being overly bulky. His build suggested strength born from activity and natural ease rather than rigid training—broad shoulders tapering into a lean waist, giving him a balanced, commanding presence.
His hair was dark brown, thick and messy, strands curling loosely around his temples.
His eyes were his most striking feature—sharp and narrow, colored a vivid green flecked with gold. Once they had glinted with wit and mischief. Now, they were dull and lifeless, filled only with regret and simmering anger.
Framed by dark brows that slanted downward, his gaze carried the shadow of his former self. A faint stubble traced his jawline, blending into a short, well-kept beard that sharpened his masculine features.
A single gold hoop earring gleamed from his left ear, catching the light whenever he moved. His lips curved into a sneer, the kind that promised only venom.
He wore a simple black button-up shirt, nearly all of its buttons undone, the sleeves rolled to his wrists. The dark fabric clung lightly to his form, hinting at the musculature beneath without revealing too much.
"There you are." He staggered closer, his shirt stained, his breath sour. "Sitting there like a ghost… just like your mother."
Her hands curled into fists.
He hated that she resembled her. The same dark hair, the same quiet eyes. A curse that chained her to memories he could not stand.
"Come here."
She did not move.
His face twisted. He seized her arm, yanking her up, pain lancing through her shoulder.
"I said—"
"Let go."
She did not know why she spoke. The words slipped out, edged with something long buried. Years of swallowed pain. Nights of silence. The weight of her mother's absence.
Maybe she was simply tired.
His grip tightened. "What did you say?"
Her pulse roared in her ears. She should have bowed her head, should have swallowed the words like always. But she didn't.
"Let. Go."
The slap came swift and merciless. Pain exploded across her face, knocking her to the ground. Copper filled her mouth.
He loomed above, chest heaving, his eyes darker than rage. They carried a weight she had never seen before—something that whispered of endings.
"You dare talk back now?"
He knelt, fisting her hair, forcing her gaze upward. "You think you're strong?"
Her vision blurred. She knew what followed. She thought she knew.
But nothing could prepare her for the way he pressed her down. For the way he stole the last fragments of her being. For the way she broke—quietly, irrevocably.
That night, she did not sleep. She lay upon the bed like a corpse abandoned by its soul, her eyes open to the dim ceiling, blood seeping slowly between her legs.
He had done it. The unthinkable. The taboo no father should ever commit.
Empty. Hollow. That's how April felt inside.
When the sun crept through the curtains, something within her stirred. Not the girl she had been—that one was gone, extinguished.
What remained was something else.
Sharper. Hungrier. An endless abysmall hunger.
A whisper curled in her heart.
Kill him.