The play field stretched wide behind Delvin Orphanage, a patch of uneven grass bordered by a rusted chain-link fence. The sun hung low in the afternoon sky, casting long shadows across the ground. Children ran in every direction, their voices rising in laughter and shouts, their feet kicking up dust as they chased each other in chaotic games.
A group of boys had formed two makeshift teams, playing a rough game of ball with a deflated soccer ball that had seen better days. They passed it back and forth, their movements quick and competitive, their faces flushed with effort.
At the edge of the field, near the fence, stood a small figure—little Owen.
He stood apart from the others, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his shoulders hunched slightly. His face was pale, his eyes darting nervously between the other children. He looked like he wanted to disappear, to fold into the background and become invisible.
But one of the boys noticed him.
"Hey! Owen! Come on, we need another player!" the boy shouted, waving him over.
Owen hesitated, his fingers twisting together anxiously. Then, slowly, he shuffled forward, his steps small and uncertain.
The game resumed.
The ball came toward him—fast, spinning slightly as it rolled across the uneven ground. Owen's eyes widened. He lunged forward, trying to kick it, but his foot connected awkwardly. The ball bounced off at a wrong angle, veering sharply to the left and slamming into the face of one of the boys on his team.
The boy stumbled backward, clutching his nose. "Ow!"
The other kids froze.
Then, the boy who'd been hit—a stocky kid with a perpetual scowl—straightened, his face twisting in anger. He marched over to Owen, his fists clenched.
"You crybaby!" he spat, shoving Owen hard. Owen stumbled back, nearly falling. "Isn't there *anything* you can do that doesn't mess up?!"
The other boys quickly surrounded Owen, their faces hard, their voices rising in a chorus of jeers and taunts.
"Yeah, what's wrong with you?"
"You're useless!"
"Why are you even here?"
Owen's face flushed red. His hands trembled. His eyes began to glisten with unshed tears.
He didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at the ground, taking it all in.
---
(Owen's narration)
The kids bullied me. Every day, they found a reason to push me, to mock me, to make me feel smaller than I already felt.
But I didn't fight back.
I couldn't.
I was too scared. Too weak.
But then… something strange happened.
---
A few days later, little Owen walked quietly down one of the narrow corridors inside the orphanage. The walls were plain and painted a pale yellow, the floor worn and scuffed. The air smelled faintly of cleaning solution and old wood.
He turned a corner—and froze.
Three of the boys who had bullied him on the playfield were standing near the end of the corridor. They were talking amongst themselves, their voices low.
Then, one of them glanced up—and saw Owen.
His face went pale.
The boy immediately looked away, his body stiffening. He nudged his friends, whispering something urgently.
All three of them turned—and when they saw Owen, their expressions shifted. Their eyes widened slightly. Their jaws tightened. They exchanged nervous glances.
Then, without a word, they turned and walked away quickly, their heads down, avoiding eye contact entirely.
Owen stood there, confused, watching them disappear around the corner.
---
(Owen's narration)
I didn't understand what was happening.
Suddenly, the kids who used to push me, mock me, corner me… they started avoiding me. They wouldn't look at me. When I walked by, they'd go quiet, or they'd move away.
It was like they were… scared.
But I didn't know why.
I hadn't done anything to them.
Or had I?
---
At night, Owen had dreams.
They were strange dreams—vivid, almost real. In them, he saw himself standing in the playfield, facing the boys who had bullied him. But this version of him was different. He was taller, stronger, his face twisted in anger.
In the dream, he grabbed one of the boys by the collar and slammed him to the ground. The boy cried out, his face contorted in fear.
"Stop," dream-Owen said, his voice cold and sharp. "Stop bullying me."
The other boys backed away, trembling.
Dream-Owen stood tall, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing.
---
(Owen's narration)
I thought they were just dreams. Lucid dreams, where I could imagine myself fighting back.
But the strange thing was… the kids I dreamed about dealing with were the *exact* ones who started avoiding me.
It still boggles my mind.
Was it all in my head? Did it never really happen?
Or did something else occur—something I can't remember?
I don't know.
I doubt it completely.
But the coincidence was too strange to ignore.
---
As the days passed, Owen became more isolated.
Jessica Simpson, the caretaker who had once been so warm and affectionate toward him, suddenly grew distant. She stopped approaching him, stopped checking on him, stopped offering him the gentle comfort she'd given before.
Owen didn't understand why—until one day, he saw her standing near the entrance of the dormitory, speaking in hushed tones with three children.
A girl and two boys.
The girl's hair was messy, tangled and unkempt, as though she'd been in a fight. The two boys both had black eyes—dark, swollen bruises ringing their sockets. They looked shaken, their faces pale.
Jessica stood before them in her caretaker's uniform—a light blue blouse tucked neatly into dark slacks, a small name tag pinned to her chest. Her face was serious, her brows furrowed in concern as she listened to them.
Then, all three children turned—and pointed.
They pointed at Owen.
Owen stood frozen in place, his eyes wide with confusion. He didn't understand. He hadn't done anything to them. He barely even remembered speaking to them.
Jessica's gaze followed their fingers. Her eyes landed on Owen, and for a moment, her expression hardened. She looked at him like she was seeing someone different—someone she didn't recognize.
Owen opened his mouth to say something, but no words came.
Jessica turned back to the children, speaking softly, comfortingly, her hand resting gently on the girl's shoulder.
Owen just stood there, alone, utterly lost.
---
(Owen's narration)
I became the odd one out at Delvin Orphanage. The kids stopped bullying me openly, but they didn't stop tormenting me.
They just became more subtle.
---
Owen returned to the dormitory one afternoon to find his bed in disarray. The blanket was covered in mud—thick, wet streaks smeared across the fabric. His pillow was missing. His small collection of belongings—a few books, a worn stuffed animal—had been scattered across the floor.
He stood there, staring at the mess, his chest tightening.
He looked around the room. The other children were there, sitting on their own beds, talking quietly amongst themselves. None of them looked at him. None of them acknowledged him.
They simply ignored him.
Owen's hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightened. But he didn't say anything.
He just began cleaning up, silently, alone.
---
(Owen's narration)
Things were tough. I thought it would continue like that forever.
But then… something happened.
Something that changed everything.
---
One afternoon, Owen walked slowly down one of the orphanage's long corridors. The walls were lined with faded paint and old wooden panels. The air was quiet, save for the faint sound of children playing somewhere in the distance.
Then, something caught his eye.
A portrait.
It hung on the wall near the end of the corridor, mounted high above a small table. The frame was ornate, gilded in gold, and the image inside was striking.
It was a family portrait—one of those typical wealthy family photographs. A man stood in the center, tall and dignified, dressed in a sharp suit. Beside him was a woman, elegant and poised, her smile polite but cold. And between them stood a little girl, no more than seven or eight, her face bright and innocent.
Owen stopped walking.
His eyes fixed on the woman in the portrait.
Her face.
That smile.
Something about it made his chest tighten. His breathing quickened. His hands began to tremble.
He felt a surge of emotion—anger, pain, something dark and overwhelming.
Without thinking, he grabbed a nearby mug from the small table beneath the portrait. His fingers wrapped tightly around the handle.
And then—he threw it.
The mug flew through the air, spinning slightly, before slamming into the frame with a loud *crack*. The portrait tilted sharply to the side, the frame knocking against the wall.
Owen stood there, breathing hard, his small chest rising and falling rapidly.
Then—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound echoed through the corridor.
Owen froze. His blood ran cold.
He turned slowly, his heart pounding.
But it wasn't Jessica.
It was a boy.
He looked younger than Owen—maybe eight or nine years old. He was small, thin, with dark hair that fell slightly over his eyes. His face was pale, his expression calm, almost amused.
But there was something else.
A presence.
Owen felt it immediately—a quiet, unsettling pressure that seemed to radiate from the boy. It wasn't loud or aggressive. It was subtle, like the weight of a shadow pressing down on him.
The boy smiled faintly, his eyes glinting as he looked at Owen.
"It appears," the boy said softly, his voice smooth and measured, "you and I are destined to meet each other."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting to the tilted portrait on the wall.
"Because you share a similar sentiment," he continued, his tone thoughtful. "A feeling of loathing… for certain specific people."
Owen blinked, his confusion deepening. He looked back at the portrait, then at the boy, trying to piece together what was happening.
The boy's smile widened just slightly, his eyes never leaving the portrait.
He looked… thoughtful. His brows drew together faintly, his lips pressing into a thin line, as though he were contemplating something deeply personal.
---
(Owen's narration)
That day, when a certain someone's attention turned to me after I hit that portrait… it was a defining moment.
A moment that changed everything.
His name was Lucien Drayke.
And from that day forward, my life was never the same.