Ty was seven when he realized people around him were pieces on a board, and he was the one moving them.
Everyone praised him for being such a quiet child. His teachers called him "mature for his age." His adoptive parents smiled when neighbors said, "He's so polite." But behind his silence, Ty was always watching. Always calculating.
Insects were his favorite. He'd catch them in jars, pierce them with sewing pins, and study the way they writhed. The twitching, the shivering—proof of power in his small hands. When the neighbor's cat hissed at him, Ty narrowed his eyes and thought about the satisfying sound it would make when its bones snapped.
That night, in the bathroom, Ty brushed his teeth and leaned toward the mirror. He grinned at himself, lips stretched wide. But the reflection didn't grin back.
It looked softer. Hesitant. Its eyes was full of something so close and raw to sadness.
Pity.
Ty froze.
Slowly, his grin faltered. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he whispered, his eyes squinting as he glared at himself.
The reflection didn't answer. It only blinked. A slow, deliberate blink, as though it understood something Ty did not.
Ty's stomach twisted. His skin prickled hot. He slammed the toothbrush onto the counter and stormed from the room, but even in the dark of his bed, he could still feel those pitying eyes on him.