"Why do bad things happen to good people?" Rin Hakai whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames. He held his father's lifeless body in his arms, his fingers trembling as he gripped the bloodstained fabric of his shirt. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the overwhelming grief consuming him.

---

Eighteen-year-old Rin Hakai lived alone in Denver City, working a part-time job to support his schooling. His parents had always told him not to overwork himself, promising to send money for his education. But Rin didn't want to be a burden. Instead, he moved to the city where he had been admitted to school, renting a small apartment and juggling work to make ends meet.

It was just another ordinary afternoon. During recess, Rin sat outside under the shade of a tree, watching his favorite conspiracy podcast on his phone. The host, a man known for his wild theories, spoke with urgency.

"I'm telling you, witches live among us. People think it's just a legend because they've never seen one, but I have. They look just like us—normal, human—but they possess terrifying powers. Unlike vampires, they aren't weakened by sunlight. They walk among us, unnoticed, feeding on blood."

Rin smirked. He didn't believe a word of it. But he enjoyed the podcast—it was entertaining, even if it was all nonsense. Just as he was about to close the video, a familiar voice interrupted him.

"Rin!"

He turned to see Eva, a girl from his class, standing nearby. "Recess is over. Let's go."

He nodded, tossing the wrapper of his finished steamed bun into the trash. But just as he stood up, the podcaster's voice turned grave.

"Breaking news, everyone! I just got word from a reliable source—witches have struck again. But this time, it's not just one or two murders at night. No, this is a full-scale massacre."

Rin frowned, hesitating. A few students walking by slowed down, curious.

"Right now, the government is trying to cover it up, but my sources say an entire village was wiped out."

A comment popped up in the live chat: "If this is true, where did it happen?"

The podcaster leaned forward, checking his screen. "Hold on, I'm getting the name now... Yes, I have it! The attack happened in—"

He paused. Rin felt a strange sense of dread creep up his spine.

"Ashton Village. South of the city."

Rin's blood ran cold. His body froze as the words sank in.

Ashton Village?

His hometown. Where his parents lived.

"No… it must be a mistake," Rin whispered, his hands shaking. Desperately, he typed into the chat: "Are you sure? Are witches real? And are you absolutely certain it was Ashton Village?"

The podcaster read his comment aloud. "Yes. If you don't believe me, check NVX News. They're covering it right now, though they won't tell you the real cause."

Rin's breath caught in his throat. His fingers trembled as he exited the podcast and quickly searched for NVX News. A paywall blocked the live stream. He didn't hesitate. He tapped the payment button. A chime sounded, and the broadcast loaded.

The moment the screen came into focus, his world shattered.

Aerial footage from a helicopter showed Ashton Village engulfed in smoke and flames. Corpses littered the streets. Blood painted the walls. And in the center of the village square, a chilling message was scrawled in crimson:

"They didn't put up much of a fight."

Rin staggered back, his breath ragged. His vision blurred with tears.

No. This can't be real.

His legs moved before his mind could catch up. He bolted toward his classroom, ignoring the confused stares of students and the teacher's reprimand. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and ran.

He didn't care about school. He didn't care about anything except getting home.

The nearest train station was packed, but he pushed through the crowd, shoving his way to the ticket counter. "One ticket to Ashton Village. Now."

It was a six-hour ride. Six agonizing hours of uncertainty.

By the time he arrived, police and investigators had already sealed off the area. Yellow barricades surrounded the remains of the village, and officers prevented anyone from entering. News reporters swarmed the perimeter, broadcasting their sanitized version of events.

"Authorities suspect this was a terrorist attack, a violent demonstration of power. No suspects have been identified, but investigations are ongoing."

Terrorists. That was their explanation. A convenient lie.

Rin clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. His whole body shook, not just with grief—but with rage.

He had to see it for himself.

Ignoring the warnings of officers, he ran forward.

Rin pushed through the barricades, ignoring the shouts of officers behind him. They gave chase, but this was his hometown—he knew every alley, every shortcut. He weaved through the wreckage, losing them with ease.

As he sprinted through the ruined streets, his breath hitched. Bodies lay scattered across the village—familiar faces he had known all his life. Neighbors who had watched him grow up. Shopkeepers who had once given him treats. Elders he had promised to repay for their kindness.

But nothing prepared him for the sight that made his heart shatter.

Mia.

A small girl, only six years old, lay lifeless on the ground.

She had always called him "big brother." Rin, being an only child, had cherished her like a real sister. Her parents had often let her stay at their house, and he had promised her—that one day, he would make something of himself, return to the village, and take her on adventures around the world.

He had even joked about finding her a good husband when she grew up.

Now, she would never grow up.

His knees buckled as he collapsed beside her, his hands trembling as he reached out. "Mia… wake up," he whispered, gently shaking her. But there was no response.

He already knew the truth.

Yet, he refused to accept it.

Tears blurred his vision as he hugged her tiny body, rocking slightly as if that could bring her warmth back. But the warmth was gone.

A choked sob escaped his throat before he clenched his jaw, wiping his tears away with the back of his sleeve. He couldn't break down here—not yet.

He forced himself to stand and ran toward his home.

When he arrived, his chest tightened.

His house was in ruins, more destroyed than the rest of the village. Smoke still lingered in the air.

"Mom! Dad!" he shouted, sprinting inside.

The moment he stepped into the living room, his world collapsed further.

His mother lay slumped against a wall, her once-warm eyes now empty and cold. Above her, a message was scrawled in blood:

"How weak. Not even worth calling a toy."

Rin's breath caught in his throat.

"No… no, no, no…" He ran to her, dropping to his knees. His fingers lightly touched her face. She was still warm. His mind screamed that if she was warm, she could still wake up.

"Mom, wake up. Please…" His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

But she didn't move.

The grief threatened to consume him, but then a thought struck him—his father.

"Dad!"

He staggered to his feet, scrambling through the house. He ran into the kitchen—only to freeze.

His father lay on the floor, barely clinging to life. Blood pooled beneath him, his breathing shallow. His fading eyes met Rin's, and he weakly lifted a shaking hand, pointing toward something beside him.

A book.

Rin rushed forward, crouching next to him. He picked up the book—his father's old journal. The pages were soaked in blood, but on the very last page, one final message was scrawled in desperate, unsteady handwriting.

"Don't seek revenge. Live your life."

His father managed a faint, sorrowful smile.

Rin shook his head violently. "No! I will take revenge!" he shouted, his voice raw.

His father struggled, his lips barely forming words. "If… you really want to choose this path… head to the attic…"

Then his body fell still.

Rin's heart pounded. "Dad? Dad—!"

But it was too late.

His father was gone.

The weight of everything crashed down on him at once. His chest tightened so painfully he could barely breathe. His hands trembled, his entire body shaking as grief and rage swirled into something unrecognizable.

After crying for several hours, his tears had finally dried, leaving behind only the hollow weight in his chest. He walked forward, slow and steady—like a man whose soul had already been carved out, His movements were slow, mechanical like a puppet with its strings cut.

But step by step, he climbed the stairs.

He was heading to the attic.

He no longer cared what awaited him there.