The room was dark. Silent.
Only the pale glow of a night lamp lit the corners.
Framed family photos sat crooked on the dusty shelf, their smiles frozen in time.
A boy slept restlessly beneath a heavy blanket, his face twisted in pain.
"Mom… don't go… I love you, Mom… I didn't kill youuu…"
His murmurs broke the stillness.
In his dream—no, in his memory—he stood in a hallway of shadows.
His mother appeared, trembling, tears falling like rain.
"You killed me… My son… you killed your own mother."
"No! Mom, please—!"
Then the image shattered.
A hammer.
Swinging.
His hand.
Her scream.
"YOU KILLERRRRRRRRRRRR!"
RING! RING! RING!
The alarm shrieked like a warning.
The boy jolted upright in bed, gasping for air. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
Just a dream… again.
He reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, hands trembling, trying to chase the echoes of her screams from his mind.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
A firm knock on the door.
"Son! Son! Wake up already!"
"Y-Yeah… I'm up…"
His voice cracked. His head still echoed with screams.
Downstairs, the scent of eggs and warm bread filled the air.
His father sat calmly at the table, dressed for work. His usual smile never quite reached his eyes.
"Breakfast is ready, my dear," he said softly.
"I'm not really hungry…"
"Please, just a little."
They sat. The silence between them was louder than words.
DING-DONG.
The doorbell cut through the tension.
Father rose without pause.
"I'll get it. Finish eating—you're always so slow."
So slow? But I'm the only one…
The boy looked up, confused. Before he could speak, the front door creaked open.
A young woman stood there.
"This is Mariya. She'll be working here from now on," his father introduced.
Mariya bowed politely.
The boy said nothing—just stared, a strange pressure building in his chest.
His father adjusted his tie, briefcase in hand.
"I'll leave the house to you. Take care of my son."
"Of course, sir. You can count on me," Mariya replied.
The man turned to his son and opened his arms.
"Come here."
They hugged. Then, with a low whisper, his father leaned in.
"Your next target. Meet me in the second room when you're done."
The boy didn't flinch. He simply nodded and watched the door close.
After some time:
A cup tipped over. Water ran across the table.
"Oops… sorry, Mariya. I'll start calling you sis, okay?"
She laughed kindly, crouching to clean the spill.
"It's fine. Go study. I'll clean this."
Her back was turned.
Kind people… they always turn their backs.
Claut's hand hovered over the hammer by the counter. His fingers brushed the cold metal, trembling. He froze, staring at his reflection in its head—wide eyes, pale skin, sweat dripping down his cheek.
I could run… but something deeper in me wouldn't let me.
Don't do it. Drop it. Just drop it.
But Father's whisper pressed against his skull.
Your next target.
His grip tightened. His arm shook.
"Stop… please… stop…" Claut's lips moved, but the words never left his throat.
Mariya hummed softly as she wiped the table. So ordinary. So human.
The hammer rose. A pause. A heartbeat. A war inside him.
Then it fell.
BAM!
The sound was sickening—like smashing a ripe fruit.
Her scream split the silence—piercing, raw:
"AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Then… nothing. Only the heavy thud of her body collapsing. The carpet drank the blood in silence.
Claut stood frozen. The hammer slipped from his hand. His breath was uneven. His stomach twisted, but his legs moved on their own.
He dragged her across the floor. Every step felt heavier. Every drop of blood screamed louder than her voice had.
The second room door creaked open.
Inside, Father stood waiting. Two knives gleamed in his hands, edges catching the light like silver fangs. His smile stretched across his face, too polished, too perfect—like something he had practiced a thousand times in the mirror.
"Well done, my son," he said softly.
Claut's eyes burned. His hands were sticky with blood. His chest felt like it was caving in.
He looked at the body. Then at his father. Something inside him broke.
"This is my life now," he whispered. "This is my father…"
He raised his eyes, empty yet burning.
"My name is Claut. The boy who killed his mother. The boy raised to kill again."
His voice cracked, but he forced the words out, like a confession carved into his own soul.
"And this man—this smiling man—is my father. His name is Kim."
The scream that tore from him shook the walls. Rage. Grief. Hatred. All twisted into one sound that no human throat should carry.
A scream that would never end.