"...!"
Two years old boy woke up with a start, drenched in sweat in his bed.
He instantly threw away his blanket and touched his shins to check whether the thick scars were still there or not – but of course, there weren't there.
After all, the high schooler who got his tendons cut with the gardening sheers was long dead – his head crushed under the motorcycle wheel in a different world.
|Well then... I guess that those nightmares are a standard now...|
"...!"
A voice inside of the boy's head sighed, making him flinch and grit his teeth.
|True... but it's all because you told me that I can't kill that pile of human waste...|
The boy responded, sighing internally as his face twisted in a terrible grimace of pure hatred that no two years old should be even capable of making.
