Liu walked home alone.
Not that it was anything new.
The school day had ended, and students flooded the streets, laughing, chatting, shoving each other in that casual way friends did. The air smelled like rain, fried street food, and damp concrete. But the moment Liu stepped into view, the energy shifted.
The laughter dimmed. The conversations hushed.
People moved out of his way like he was diseased. Mothers gripped their children's hands tighter, yanking them closer, their eyes flickering toward him with a mixture of fear and disgust. A group of students ahead had been goofing around, but the second they spotted him, they fell silent, parting instinctively as if an invisible force had pushed them aside.
He didn't react. He was used to it.
But that didn't make it any less shitty.
He could hear them whispering.
"There he is. The cursed one."
"I heard his father tried to drown him once. Shame it didn't work."
"His mother died the second she gave birth. That's not normal."
"You think he can actually control it? What if he snaps?"
They never said these things loud enough for him to call them out, but just loud enough to make sure he heard. Just loud enough to remind him what he was.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his gaze down. His school uniform hung loosely off his frame, the white fabric slightly yellowed from too many washes. His wrists looked too thin, almost breakable. His dark hair was unkempt, falling into his face, but the horrifying part—the part that always made people uneasy—was his eyes.
Deep, dark circles clung to his skin like bruises.
He looked sick. Haunted.
A walking corpse.
And the worst part? He felt like one.
As he made his way through the streets, he noticed an old woman clutching a bag of vegetables, staring at him like he might explode any second. Her eyes flicked to the sky—like she was expecting a bolt of lightning to strike down just because he was near.
Liu smirked bitterly. Yeah, lady, let me just summon a thunderstorm real quick.
A child—a little girl, probably no older than five—pointed at him, tugging at her mother's sleeve.
"Mama, why does he look so tired?"
The mother gasped and yanked her away. "Don't look at him!"
Liu Xian clenched his jaw and walked faster.
He was almost home. Just a few more streets. A few more alleyways.
But home wasn't exactly better.
Home was a shitty, rundown apartment that smelled like cigarette smoke and old beer. Home was a place where his father waited, where disappointment and hatred had a permanent seat at the dinner table.
Home was where the real nightmare began.
The apartment building loomed ahead, the paint peeling, the windows streaked with grime. The narrow stairway leading up to their unit was cracked, and he had to step over a pile of cigarette butts near the entrance.
He hesitated. Just for a second.
Then, taking a breath, he climbed the stairs.
The closer he got, the heavier his chest felt. His hands twitched slightly, an old habit he hadn't been able to shake—his body bracing for whatever mood his father would be in today.
He reached the door.
It was slightly open.
That was never a good sign.
Liu pushed it wider, stepping inside. The smell hit him first—stale alcohol and burnt food. The small living room was a mess, beer cans littering the table, cigarette ashes dusting the floor. The TV was on, playing some old news broadcast that no one was watching.
And there, slouched in the armchair, was his father.
Zhou.
The man who had spent the last eighteen years reminding Liu that he never should have been born.
His father wasn't fully asleep, but he wasn't fully awake either. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a scarred, muscular chest—evidence of a life that had been rough long before Liu ever came into it. His head was tilted to the side, eyes half-lidded, a cigarette still smoldering between his fingers.
Liu Xian kept his steps light, slipping toward his room.
Almost there.
Almost safe.
"Oi."
He froze.
The voice was slurred but sharp, like a blade dulled from overuse but still dangerous.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Liu turned slowly, keeping his expression blank. "To my room," he said flatly.
His father snorted. "Too good to say hello to your old man now?"
Liu didn't answer.
He had learned long ago that nothing he said ever mattered.
His father took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke before chuckling darkly. "You look like shit. What, did the kids at school finally beat the freak out of you?"
Liu Xian's jaw tightened. "No."
"Shame," Zhou muttered, leaning forward. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Liu, scanning him, picking him apart the way he always did. "You know, if you had any damn use, you could've at least scared some of those bastards into giving you money."
Liu didn't react but his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
His father laughed again, but it was humorless. "You're weak. Frail. Like some half-dead rat crawling around waiting for someone to step on you."
He stayed silent.
Because silence was safer.
Because silence meant his father might get bored and let him go.
But today, Zhou wasn't in the mood to let things slide.
In a single motion, he shot forward, grabbing Liu by the collar and yanking him close.
"You listening to me, you little shit?" His breath reeked of alcohol. "You think I like coming home to this? To you? To this pathetic excuse of a life?!"
Liu didn't struggle. Didn't flinch. He just stared back, eyes dull.
That only pissed his father off more.
With a growl, Zhou shoved him back, hard.
Liu Xian stumbled, catching himself against the wall.
"You should've died," his father muttered, rubbing his temples. "Should've died with her."
Liu didn't respond. He just turned and walked to his room, shutting the door behind him.
And then—only then—did he let out a breath.
His hands were shaking.
He clenched them. Unclenched them. Clenched them again.
It didn't stop.
Finally, he sank onto his bed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. His whole body was thrumming, an ache curling under his skin.
Not from the shove.
Not from his father's words.
But from the thing inside him.
The thing that always wanted to get out.
The electricity hummed in his veins, crackling just beneath the surface, waiting.
Waiting for him to lose control.
Waiting to prove them all right.
And maybe—just maybe—one day, it would.