Here you stand—at the edge of the grand staircase, body trembling ever so slightly. The heels press against the carpet, slippery, betraying every step. Breath catches in the throat, not from fear of falling... but from hope. A faint, desperate hope that maybe, this time, someone will finally see.

All this time, you had tried everything. Top grades, trophies upon trophies, choking back tears when exhaustion hit. All for one simple thing: to be seen as a child, not a burden. But all that ever came was coldness. Coldness from the father, from Kavish, a coldness sharper than any wound.

Fingers clutch the edge of the carpet. One small tug, balance vanishes. And then the body is thrown.

**THUD!!*

The body slams against each step—shoulders scraping, knees tearing, head spinning. Pain bursts like fire through the veins, lungs coughing out air in ragged gasps. The world spins; the sound of blood roars in the ears.

The front door creaks open. A tall figure in a sharp black suit appears—the father. His eyes flicker briefly, just for a second. No shock. No panic. Just as if seeing dust on the floor. And then, without a word... he turns away. The door shuts hard, leaving an echo louder than the pain in the body.

Tears blur the vision. Shaking hands grasp the railing, dragging the broken body upward. Every step feels like needles digging in. Feet throb, blood drips, breath trembles. Yet still, forward—because stopping would make it all pointless.

At last, the bedroom door swings open. The body collapses to the floor, coldness crawling up the skin.

Minutes later, footsteps approach fast. The door is flung open, and there stands Kavish. His face is dark, eyes sharp.

“What’s wrong with your stupid brain, huh?!” His voice cracks like a whip. “You wanna die, you little brat?!”

His steps are heavy as he enters. A first-aid kit slams onto the table with a hard clatter. You flinch. “You think Father’s gonna care if you wreck yourself like this?” he spits, bitter, eyes full of disgust. “Dream on.”

Kavish kneels, grabbing your injured limb with a rough grip. The wound is deep, blood still flowing. Without hesitation he opens a bottle of alcohol and pours it directly.

It burns. Skin sears. Nerves scream. Your body jerks up instinctively, mouth choking on a cry. “Don’t cry,” Kavish mutters, voice low, a faint tremor buried under his anger. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

His hand reaches for the needle, the metal glinting under the dim light. He presses your leg down to stop the trembling. His jaw tightens. “No anesthetic,” he says flatly. “You’ll feel everything.”

The first stitch pierces the skin. Pain erupts, a raw ache deep to the bone. Tears spill, breath breaking. “You’re an idiot,” he hisses, every word like a lash. “A stupid kid who can’t do anything but hurt yourself.”

The needle moves, pulling skin together, stitching torn flesh. Every tug is a burn, a flash of agony. Blood mixes with alcohol.