The maid's trembling, her quick escape, the way she had refused to meet his gaze, it was nothing new.
Nothing surprising.
Nothing worth reacting to.
This wasn't the first time.
It wasn't even the hundredth.
If he were to count, it had probably happened over a thousand times by now.
The fear.
The disgust.
The desperate need to avoid him, to escape his presence as quickly as possible.
It followed him everywhere, clung to him like a permanent shadow.
Whether it was the maids who brought his meals, the servants who cleaned his room, or the occasional unfamiliar face that entered the mansion, their reactions were always the same.
Some were too terrified to speak, others tried to suppress their fear and act as if nothing was wrong, but it was always there, lurking beneath the surface.
And then there were those who weren't just afraid.
The ones who glared at him with barely restrained hatred, who whispered behind closed doors when they thought he couldn't hear, who muttered words like monster when they thought he wasn't listening.
But he always heard them.
Every single one.
They hated his existence.
Ralt didn't flinch at the word anymore.
He didn't react when their voices shook, when their hands trembled, when their footsteps grew hurried the moment they finished their tasks.
He didn't respond to the way their eyes darted toward the door as if making sure their only escape route was still open.
Because this was his reality.
It had always been this way.
People feared him.
Some hated him.
Others wished he didn't exist at all.
At first, a long time ago, he used to wonder, why?
What had he done?
What was so wrong with him?
Why did their faces twist in fear when he walked past?
Why did they avoid his gaze, as if just looking at him would bring them misfortune?
But those questions had long since faded.
Because, in the end, the answer didn't matter.
He looked at his food plate, wondering how he was going to eat it.
Ralt exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
His fingers hovered just above the table, mere inches from the silverware.
The flickering light from the television cast long shadows across the room, but his focus wasn't on the broadcast anymore.
It was on his own hands.
Hands that had never held anything without consequence.
His ability, Death Touch.
It was an extremely rare ability.
He even doubted anyone had it.
Anything he touched, anything his bare skin made direct contact with, would die. Instantly.
Without exception.
The spoon resting on the tray, the fork beside it, the plate holding his food, they were all ordinary objects, but if he dared to reach out without caution, they wouldn't be for long.
The moment his skin met them, they would rot, decay, crumble into nothingness.
Just like everything else.
That was why the maid had asked if he needed help earlier.
Not out of kindness.
But because that was her job.
She knew...
She knew what would happen if he use his hand for anything...
It would just die.
That is why she had been terrified, not because of anything, but of the idea that he could kill her with ease if he wanted to.
But yet, tonight, Ralt had refused her.
Not because he is annoyed.
Not because he believed he could be free of his ability.
But because he wasn't a child anymore.
He had to start putting his training to the test.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
He couldn't keep relying on others forever.
He couldn't let fear dictate his every move.
If he was ever going to have control over his own life, he needed to start here, now.
Ralt sat still, staring at the spoon lying before him.
The television flickered in the background, but he no longer paid attention to the superheroes battling on the screen.
Right now, his focus was on something far less dramatic yet infinitely more important.
Slowly, he lifted one hand, the tips of his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the spoon.
He had trained for this.
Not with teachers or guides, no one would dare come close enough to help him.
He learnt it alone, in secret.
He had spent countless nights practicing, testing himself, forcing his ability under control.
Most of the time, it worked.
But sometimes, it didn't.
Sometimes, the object he touched would begin to wither immediately, breaking apart before his eyes.
Sometimes, no matter how much he tried, the overwhelming force of his power would slip through, unchecked, uncontrollable.
And now, as he reached for the spoon, that same fear crept into his mind.
'What if it happened again?'
'What if the moment my skin met the metal, it crumbled into nothingness just like usual?'
'What if i failed?'
His fingers hesitated, hovering just a breath away from contact.
His heartbeat quickened, his breaths shallow.
But he couldn't stop now.
He had to try.
It would be a shame for him to fail.
With a deep inhale, he steeled himself and closed the distance, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the spoon.
For a split second, he braced for it to happen.
For the metal to blacken, rust, turn brittle and collapse into dust.
But it didn't.
The spoon remained intact.
He stared at it, wide-eyed, waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for that familiar sense of decay to creep in.
Seconds passed.
Still, nothing.
A breath of relief slipped past his lips.
'It worked.'
His grip tightened just slightly, making sure he wasn't imagining it.
He could feel the smoothness of the metal, cool against his skin, yet it did not break.
"I did it." He muttered.
But he didn't have time to celebrate.
His ability was unpredictable.
At any moment, it could spiral out of control, and if that happened, the spoon wouldn't be the only thing in danger.
Without wasting another second, he scooped up a bite of food and quickly brought it to his mouth, chewing hurriedly.
One bite, then another, and another.
His heart pounded, but not from fear anymore.
From relief.
Ralt grinned slightly, and muttered
"I could do it"