Brago was never fucking normal.
His world was a shithole of pain. His father, a drunk piece of garbage, beat him bloody every night—fists, belts, whatever was in reach. Bruises layered on bruises. Broken ribs. Black eyes.
At school, it wasn't any better. Kids smelled his weakness, his quiet rage, and pounced. They'd shove his face in the dirt, laugh as he choked on dust and blood.
Pain wasn't a surprise anymore. It was his pulse. It chewed up his emotions, left his heart a cold, hard knot. Humanity? That was long gone.
---
One night, it all broke.
His father staggered in, reeking of cheap whiskey, eyes wild. He swung a bottle at Brago's head, screaming about some bullshit—money, failure, who cares.
Brago didn't flinch this time. No fear. No tears.
Something snapped deep inside, like a wire cutting loose.
He grabbed a kitchen knife, its blade dull and rusted, and drove it into his father's chest. Once. Twice. Again. Blood sprayed, hot and sticky, painting the walls. His father gurgled, eyes wide, then collapsed in a heap.
Brago stood there, knife dripping, feeling… nothing.
No regret. No panic. Just a quiet hum in his skull.
---
He left the house, blood soaking his shoes, and walked into the night.
The city was a blur—neon lights flickering, horns blaring, the stench of piss and garbage in the alleys. He wandered until he reached a bridge, its rusted railing overlooking a black, churning river.
He leaned over, staring into the void below.
"Should I jump? End this shit?"
The thought was calm, almost curious.
Then he noticed an old man nearby, hunched and shuffling, muttering to himself. His face was a mess—sagging skin, yellowed teeth, eyes like piss-holes in the snow.
"He's so fucking ugly. Pointless. Why's he even alive?"
The thought twisted in Brago's mind, sharp and cold.
He stepped toward the old man, who didn't even notice, lost in his own mumbled bullshit.
"Can I kill him first? Would it feel… good?"
No hesitation.
Brago grabbed the man's coat, yanked him to the railing, and shoved him over. The old bastard screamed, a wet, pathetic sound, before splashing into the river. Gone.
Brago stared down, waiting for guilt, fear, anything.
Nothing came. Just that same hum, louder now.
---
He climbed the railing himself, the cold metal biting into his hands.
The river churned below, black and endless.
And the hum?
It wasn't in his head anymore.
It was calling.