I was seven when they buried me alive in a cemetery.
Seven.
Thrown into a coffin like I was already dead.
My father had enemies—enemies with no mercy, no conscience, no hesitation.
He taught me to be sharp, alert, observant…
but what can a seven-year-old observe from inside a wooden box?
The coffin was warm.
Warm from the sun.
Warm from my own breath.
But that warmth only made my skin turn cold with terror.
I remember scratching at the lid until my fingers bled.
I remember the sound of dirt raining over me—soft, final, suffocating.
I remember the moment my lungs stopped fighting.
I would've died there…
If not for her.
My angel.
Small hands. Tiny fingers.
A faint, trembling grip on me as I was pulled out of that grave barely in time.
Her touch was the only warmth in that endless cold.
The only thing that kept me from vanishing.
When I woke up, she was gone…
all that remained was the necklace I had been clutching from her tiny hand.
A silver half-moon.
For twenty years, that pendant was the only proof that she existed.
The only way to find her again.
The only anchor I had while my mind tried to rot itself from the inside.
Twenty years of searching.
Twenty years of emptiness.
Twenty years of hunger.
And now—finally—
I have her.
My angel.
My moon.
My missing half.
All mine.
But these bulldozers—
these pathetic intruders—
they're tearing through my home, destroying everything I built, everything I own, everything that leads back to her.
I should be giving orders.
I should be tearing someone's throat out for letting this happen.
But I'm not.
I'm staring at the screen.
Unmoving.
Cold.
Calculating.
Trying to decide who I will kill first.
And then—
I realize something else.
My grip.
Too tight.
I look down.
My gloved hand is clamped over her mouth, sealing her screams.
Her eyes wide.
Her body trembling.
Her weight sagging slowly against me as consciousness slips from her like sand through fingers.
My angel, going limp in my arms.