Chapter 1 – The Dark Room
The room was cloaked in darkness, heavy with tension. Investigators, policemen, and officials crowded in, all eyes locked on the young man sitting alone in the center. Tar.
"Sir… his background…" a junior officer said hesitantly, stepping forward. "We've checked everything—family, school, friends. Normal upbringing. Nothing unusual. No records, no… anything."
The senior officer slammed his palm on the table, the sound echoing sharply. "Nothing? Nothing? How is that possible?"
"He's eighteen!" the officer continued, pacing. "And we can't find anything unusual about him? A boy who just… stabbed someone seventeen times in the chest… comes from a normal family?"
The junior stammered. "Yes, sir… everything seems normal."
The senior officer's face twisted in frustration. "Normal? Normal? This isn't normal! You need to dig deeper, find more! I don't care how long it takes!"
Then the senior officer stormed into the dark room, the door creaking behind him. Tar sat in the center, trembling slightly but perfectly still, his expression unreadable. Lips straight, jaw firm, eyes focused somewhere far away, untouched by the chaos around him. No sweat, no twitch, no fear. Only quiet, unnerving calm.
"Do you know who you killed?" the officer shouted, his voice cutting through the thick silence. "Do you feel any guilt? Anything at all?"
Tar said nothing. Not a word. Not even a blink. His stillness unnerved everyone in the room. How could someone so young, barely eighteen, sit here as if nothing had happened? How could someone commit such violence and remain untouched by fear, shame, or remorse?
"Seventeen stabs," a junior officer murmured. "He didn't leave the body… he just stayed there. Calm. Relaxed. As if it was… a goal completed."
Even the senior officer was silent for a moment, disbelief etched into every line of his face. Tar's composure was unnatural, impossible, and deeply chilling.
The room buzzed with whispers, the news of the case having already spread through the city like wildfire. Everyone was talking about the boy from a normal family who had stabbed a man seventeen times and then… done nothing. He hadn't fled, he hadn't panicked, he hadn't even moved the body. He simply sat, calm and composed, as though the act itself was merely another step in some private mission.
Then the door opened again. A young man stepped in—Win. He stopped a few meters from Tar, leaving the tense space between them unbroken.
"Hello," Win said softly.
Tar did not respond. Not a word. Not a glance. His eyes stared straight ahead, as if Win were invisible.
Win didn't take another step. He didn't raise his voice. "I'm not here to question you," he said gently, deliberately. "Not about why, not about what… I'm just here."
Tar shifted slightly, the faintest acknowledgment of Win's presence. Then, without looking at him, he said, "I don't want to talk to you right now."
Win held Tar's gaze anyway. "Really?" His eyes searched Tar's, steady and calm.
For two, maybe three seconds, their eyes met. Four… five… until it felt like ten. The silence between them was electric. Tar's face remained perfectly neutral, but inside, a flicker of something—emotion, memory, warmth—stirred in his chest. He did not move. He did not speak. He did not even breathe differently. Yet, for the first time since the room had become chaos, he felt something.
Outside, the officers whispered to one another.
"Sir… why did we let him meet Tar? Isn't it against protocol?" the junior officer asked cautiously.
The senior officer shook his head. "It's not against the rules… technically. But Win… he comes from a rich family, powerful connections, political influence. If he wants to meet him, we can't stop him. All we can do is let them talk—and monitor closely. Nothing more."
The junior officer swallowed nervously. "Understood, sir. But… still…"
"Still what?" the senior officer said sharply, though his gaze softened slightly. "We watch them. That's all. Just… watch."
Back in the room, Tar remained still. The presence of Win drew something quietly from his chest. His mind began to drift, away from the shouting, the disbelief, and the suffocating tension. A memory began to rise—a past shaped by pain, struggle, and endurance. A life carefully hidden behind a mask of composure and survival.
And in that memory, there had been a spark. Someone who had made the impossible feel possible. Someone who gave him a place where he could exist without the weight of the world pressing down. A presence that had quietly created a world of his own.
And now, standing there in the dark room, looking at Win, Tar remembered. Despite the chaos, the violence, the blood, and the shadows, this presence reminded him that something real could exist. Something alive. Something human.
He remained outwardly composed, showing no emotion, but the feeling inside him was undeniable. A small warmth, forbidden yet comforting, flickered quietly in his chest. He let himself stay in the moment. Not thinking of the act, the questioning, or the horror behind him. Just existing. With someone.
And in that quiet, almost sacred connection, the memory of everything that had led him here began to surface. The shadows, the silence, the fear, and the pain—all of it melted away as Tar allowed himself to remember who he had been, who he had endured, and the world he had quietly built for himself.
In the stillness of that dark room, Tar finally allowed himself to drift into it—to imagine, to feel, to exist. And in that imagined
space, his story began anew.