Draven knew he had crossed a line the moment he slid the vial of clear liquid into Esmeralda's glass. His hands didn't tremble, nor did his resolve falter, but somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered that there was no going back. He ignored it. This wasn't about morality—it was about justice.
Esmeralda's flirtatious laughter echoed in the dimly lit room, her wine glass raised in a toast to herself. She was far too preoccupied basking in her own self-assured charm to notice anything amiss. Draven leaned back, feigning interest in her meaningless chatter, and watched as the liquid disappeared past her lips.
Minutes later, the transformation began. Her sharp words became slurred, her confident posture melted into languid movements, and her gaze turned hazy. Draven felt no guilt, only cold satisfaction.
"You feeling okay?" he asked, his voice dripping with faux concern.
Esmeralda giggled, her voice thick with intoxication. "Better than okay. I feel… amazing."
What followed was a performance. Draven staged the room meticulously, adjusting the angle of the camera and his positioning to capture every compromising detail. He didn't touch her—he couldn't stomach the thought—but the photographs told a story of intimacy, of betrayal. Exactly the kind of story his father deserved to see.
When it was done, he left her sprawled on the bed, unbothered by the consequences of the drug coursing through her veins. Serves her right, he thought, shutting the door behind him without a backward glance.
---
The cybercafé was dim and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Draven worked quickly, uploading the photos to an anonymous website and attaching them to a scathing email. The caption was simple but devastating:
"This is how one toys with both father and son."
He hit send and leaned back, imagining his father's face contorted with rage and humiliation. The thought brought a smile to his lips.
---
Draven arrived home later than usual that evening, deliberately dragging his feet to give the storm time to brew. When he stepped through the door, the tension in the air was suffocating. His father sat rigid in the armchair, fists clenched, his expression a mask of fury barely contained. His mother stood nearby, wringing her hands, while Brandon lounged against the wall, his face a mask of disinterest.
"Draven," his father said, his voice deceptively calm, "do you mind telling us where you've been?"
Draven shrugged, slipping off his jacket. "Visiting a friend."
His father's lips curled into a sneer. "A friend? Or should I say… your girlfriend?"
Draven froze, then turned to face him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Wow, Dad, are you a magician or something? How did you know?"
The calm shattered. His father's fist slammed onto the armrest, his voice rising. "Don't play games with me, boy! I know she's older than you, and I know her name is Esmeralda!"
Feigning shock, Draven widened his eyes. "Come on, Dad, she's not that old. Seven, maybe ten years? That's nothing, really."
His father shot to his feet, towering over him. "How long have you been… involved with her?"
Draven held his gaze, savoring the moment. "Seven months," he lied, his voice trembling just enough to sound convincing.
The room erupted. His mother sobbed, collapsing into a chair, while his father launched into a tirade about morality, shame, and betrayal. The irony of being lectured on sin by the man who had destroyed their family wasn't lost on Draven.
When his father's words faltered, Draven struck. "How was I supposed to know she was yours, Dad? She never mentioned you. In fact…" He let out a low chuckle. "She spoke highly of me. Said I was better than you in every way."
The punch came fast and hard, knocking him to the ground. Pain exploded in his jaw, but Draven barely flinched. He spat blood onto the floor and looked up at his father with defiance.
"You're defending her?" he spat. "That cheap, lying excuse of a woman? Do you even know how many men she's been with behind your back?"
His father roared, kicking him in the chest. The blows came relentlessly—sharp, brutal, unforgiving. Draven curled into himself, shielding his ribs, but the pain was overwhelming.
"Stop it! You're killing him!" his mother screamed, throwing herself between them.
The room fell silent, save for Draven's labored breathing. His father stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
---
Draven lay on the floor, every breath a struggle. His mother knelt beside him, her tear-streaked face filled with anguish. "Why did you do this?" she whispered.
"For you," he rasped, each word laced with bitterness. "I sent those photos to him because he insulted you. He doesn't deserve your loyalty."
Her expression softened, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Then we should tell him the truth. Clear this misunderstanding—"
Draven shook his head violently. "No. I don't care what he thinks. If you side with him, you'll never see me again."
His mother recoiled, torn between her sons and her husband.
Brandon, who had watched the scene with detached amusement, finally spoke. "You should clear this up with Dad, or he might throw us out."
Draven glared at his brother, hatred simmering beneath his bruised exterior. "You're only worried about the house," he hissed. "You've changed, Brandon. All you care about is yourself."
"And you've become a monster," Brandon shot back, his voice cold.
Draven forced himself upright, his vision swimming. "Watch your tongue," he growled. "You don't know what I'm capable of."
Brandon laughed, a hollow sound that grated against Draven's nerves. Without another word, he walked away, leaving Draven seething.
As he sat there, battered and broken, Draven realized something chilling: he was losing what little humanity he had left. And worse, he didn't care.