" Revenge can also make a hero the villain."
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Ayato Pov:
I prepared to sleep, the weariness of the day clung to my bones like an unwelcome guest. The events at the gym and the impending "talk" with Hoshino Agawa had left me drained.
I went through the motions of getting ready for bed, the monotony of it all doing little to ease the restlessness that gnawed at the edges of my consciousness.
Finally, I slipped into my nightwear, ready to escape into the oblivion of sleep.
Just as I settled under the covers, my phone chimed, breaking the fragile silence of my room.
Groggily, I reached for it, not expecting anything of significance at this late hour. But when I saw the sender's name, a chill ran down my spine, and my drowsiness evaporated.
The contact was saved simply as "FATHER."
My expression, usually a mask of indifference, shifted to something colder and more ruthless. My heart, however, betrayed me by quickening its pace.
"What does he want?" I muttered to myself, my voice barely above a whisper.
The message that awaited me provided little solace. It was a command, not a request: "Visit home for lunch tomorrow."
The emptiness that had taken root in my chest expanded, leaving me feeling hollow and numb.
With a deliberate calm, I read the message and then, without a reply, left it on "seen."
"Ill deal with it tomorrow" with that slipped into my usual nightmares.
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I woke up the next morning, my mind still lingering on the disturbing dream of my childhood.
It was a vivid memory, one that never seemed to fade, and it haunted me in the quiet moments of the night.
As I slowly rose from my bed and went about my morning routine, the image of that young, innocent version of myself stayed with me.
That little Ayato, isolated in a room, drawing a picture with crayons.
I saw him so clearly, huddled in the corner, sketching a scene of what should have been a happy family. A man, a women and a child, all together.
A family drawing.
But as my eyes met the crayon lines on the paper, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming wave of pity for that innocent child, for the dreams he clung to so desperately.
Suddenly, the dream shifted, and I was no longer just an observer. I was there, in the memory, watching my younger self.
The young Ayato heard the commotion from the main family hall, the bustling return of his father from wherever he had been.
And then, he did something that pierced my heart. He clutched his drawing close to his chest, a look of pure joy and excitement on his face, and he ran.
He ran to find his father, the man who should have been his source of love and validation.
My father, a man in his early thirties with silverish eyes resembling my own and dark brown hair neatly styled, exuded an aura of elegance.
But as the young Ayato approached, holding out his precious drawing, my father barely spared a glance.
He gave a mechanical "good job" without even looking at the art, too preoccupied with discussions about schedules with the butlers and maids.
The little Ayato stood there, his joy turning into confusion and sadness.
I wanted to shout, to scream at him to stop, to not seek approval from a man who was incapable of giving it.
But my voice was silent, unheard.
And then, one of the maids approached, her kind smile lighting up her face as she complemented the drawing.
"Oh, young master," she said in a soothing, motherly tone, "what a wonderful drawing you have there! It's simply marvelous. You're quite the little artist, aren't you?"
The child Ayato, unable to bear the disconnect between his expectations and reality, whispered a barely audible "I see".
With a swift, emotionless motion, he tore the drawing in half and handed it to the maid to dispose of.
I watched helplessly as he walked back to his room, his small shoulders slumped, the light in his eyes extinguished.
I wanted to reach out, to comfort him, to tell him that he didn't need validation from someone so heartless. But I couldn't.
As the dream dissolved, I found myself back in the present, sitting on the edge of my bed, hugging my knees to my chest.
A subtle tear slid down my cheek, and I whispered to the empty room, "I told you to stop."
The alarm clock on my bedside table interrupted my thoughts, its shrill sound pulling me back to reality.
I groggily pulled myself out of bed, wiping away the lingering tear.
My feet carried me to the bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face, attempting to wash away the haunting memories that clung to my consciousness.
As I stared into the mirror, the reflection that gazed back at me was not just my own.
An illusion emerged, superimposed over my own reflection, and it was a sight from my darkest memories.
A young, weeping version of myself appeared in the mirror, his tears falling like rain. He was wrapped in the comforting embrace of a beautiful girl with short, light brown hair.
She was dressed in a maid's outfit, but her presence was far from ordinary.
Blood trickled down from a wound on her head, staining her uniform, yet her motherly smile remained intact as she held the little Ayato close.
Anguish coursed through me, but this time, it ignited a different kind of fire within me.
My hands clenched into fists, and I could feel the bloodlust surging through my veins. The mirror couldn't contain the intensity of my emotions.
In a single swift motion, I threw a punch at the mirror. It shattered into a thousand glittering fragments, leaving my hands bloodied and raw.
But the pain was inconsequential compared to the rage that consumed me.
With a voice that was both ruthless and determined, I whispered, "I swear on my life, I'll make them ALL pay. I'll bring you ALL to your knees."
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They say "An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind."
But I believe it just makes the idea of vengeance even more interesting.
isn't that just the most beautiful place to live in?
A Blind World.
the shattered mirror reflected my unwavering resolve.
I knew that I would stop at nothing to confront the demons of my past
And ensure that justice was served.