"Mira! What are you doing over there?"
Lucian's voice rang out through the street.
The little girl instantly turned around, her face lighting up like the morning sun.
"Brother! Brother!" she shouted, waving both hands excitedly. "I'm feeding this poor dog. He looked hungry, so I'm doing a good deed. That way I can go to heaven!"
Lucian stopped a few steps away.
A smile tugged at his lips — not the warm kind. Something faint and cynical, like he'd heard that logic before and found it quietly exhausting. It didn't suit someone his age.
But the moment he looked at her, it softened.
He crouched beside her and gently ruffled her hair.
"You know, my dear little sister," he said, his voice calm, "if you do good deeds expecting something in return, then what's the point of doing them?"
The dog ate peacefully while Mira carefully patted its head.
She puffed her cheeks.
"But the adults said they donate to places and stuff so God protects them and lets them into heaven. I'm just doing my part too, you know!"
Lucian let out a small laugh.
His strange habit surfaced again — smiling even during serious moments, even when the smile said something his words didn't.
He got down on one knee and gently caressed her head.
"But my cute little sister can get into heaven with just her cuteness alone."
Mira gasped dramatically.
"What if I get stopped at the gate by the gatekeeper?"
Lucian puffed out his chest in an exaggerated pose.
"Then I'll kick his butt and ask him how dare he stop my little angel."
Mira stared at him for a second.
Then both of them burst into laughter.
Lucian lifted her into the air and made her "fly," while she stretched her arms out and squealed in delight.
Then their mother's voice called from behind.
"Mira! Lucian! Hurry up! Your father brought ice cream!"
Mira immediately jumped out of his arms and dashed toward the house.
"Last one gets nothing! Ehehehe!"
She stuck out her tongue and ran off.
Lucian smiled and followed at a calm pace, watching her tear down the street like something precious and unstoppable.
That evening, the four of them sat together in the living room.
Mira was on her second ice cream, sitting cross-legged on the floor with the focused expression of someone doing serious work.
"Mira, that's enough sugar," Elena said from the couch, though her tone had no real teeth to it.
"I won it fair." Mira didn't even look up. "Racing rules say the winner gets what the winner wants."
"There are no racing rules."
"I made them. They're official now."
Ethan laughed from his armchair, the deep easy laugh he only had on weekends. "She's got you there."
"Don't encourage her." Elena reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Mira's ear without thinking — the kind of small touch that had no reason behind it except habit and love.
Lucian watched from the corner of the couch, one leg folded under him.
He didn't say much.
He didn't need to.
There was something about evenings like this — the ordinary noise of it, the ice cream and the bickering and his father's stupid laugh — that settled something in his chest he couldn't name. He only knew it when he felt it.
Let it stay like this.
The thought came quietly, the way honest things do.
Just like this. Forever.
The Morrow family was nothing special. Middle-class. Living paycheck to paycheck on Ethan's salary while Elena kept the house. There were struggles. Bills. Arguments that lasted too long and apologies that came too slow.
But they were happy.
And they had each other.
Lucian was nearly sixteen. Mira was nine.
To him, that was enough.
He stood and stretched.
"Alright, guys. It's the weekend. I'm pulling an all-nighter in the basement. Good night."
Before he could leave, Ethan's voice stopped him.
"Have you thought about which sector you plan to choose?"
Before Lucian could answer, Elena cut in.
"Come on, Ethan. Let the boy enjoy his weekend. We can talk in the morning."
Ethan sighed helplessly. "You spoil him too much."
Then he pointed a finger at Lucian.
"But you better tell me in two days, young man."
Lucian gave him a mock military salute and blew a kiss toward his mother.
Elena gave him the look that clearly said run while you still can.
Grinning, he headed downstairs.
The basement was his. Small, cut off, quiet. His own kingdom.
He dropped into his chair and let out a long, satisfied sigh.
"Ahh. Weekends. Single-player games in peace."
Hours passed without him noticing. One boss. Same boss. Forty minutes on the same boss.
Only when he glanced at the time did his face go pale.
"Shit — it's almost morning. CURSE YOU BAYLE!"
He shut down the PC, dropped onto the bed, and was asleep before the thought finished forming.
Tomorrow's still the weekend.
He woke drenched in sweat.
A nightmare. He was certain of it.
But when he reached for it, there was nothing. No image. No sound. Just the feeling that something had been warning him and he hadn't listened.
He frowned, drank some water, and headed upstairs.
"Mom?"
Silence.
"Dad?"
Nothing.
"Mira?"
Still nothing.
The silence had a texture to it. Not the comfortable quiet of a sleeping house. Something pressed against it from the outside, wrong and total, like the world had been muted.
He noticed the kitchen chair on its side. A cup of tea on the counter, full and cold.
Something was wrong.
He rushed outside.
And froze.
The sky had changed. Gone was the familiar blue. In its place hung a sick, unnatural crimson-gray, like the atmosphere itself had been wounded.
Then he saw the poles.
Tall. Dozens of them lining the street.
And hanging from them—
His feet moved on their own.
Slowly.
Mindlessly.
"Mom…"
"Dad…"
"Mira…"
He kept repeating the names as he walked. Still smiling. Still fucking smiling. His face hadn't caught up to what his eyes were showing it. His mind was refusing. Negotiating. Not them. Can't be them.
Below the poles, a group of devotees sat around an idol, praying.
One noticed him and laughed.
"Oh, brother, come. You too must be moved by our god's greatness."
Another pointed upward.
"Don't be like these fools who worshipped another god."
Then one of them chuckled. A wet, delighted sound.
"The little one screamed the loudest."
Lucian stopped.
His eyes slowly lifted.
The man continued, almost proudly. "We made her watch first."
Another joined in, grinning.
"We tore open the mother first." He licked his lips. "Her intestines were still warm."
A third one smiled.
"We used them as a rope."
Silence.
Lucian didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The devotee laughed harder.
"Wrapped them around the little girl's neck while she screamed for her brother." He tilted his head. "Brother! Brother!" The mimicry was cheerful. Fond. "She kept crying while choking. It was fucking beautiful."
Another added: "The father kept crawling toward them even after we broke both his legs."
They laughed.
Like men sharing a favourite memory over drinks.
Lucian's body trembled. Once. Twice. Then violently, like something inside him was trying to tear free of his ribcage.
His knees hit the ground.
His fingers dug into the dirt until his nails tore and the blood came.
"Mira…"
A whisper.
Then louder.
"Mira…"
His shoulders shook.
The devotees grinned. They thought he was crying.
Then the sound came.
A laugh.
Broken. Hollow. A sound that should never come from a human throat — the sound of something that had been warm and was now permanently cold.
Lucian dropped his forehead into the dirt.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Blood scattered across the ground with each impact.
"Why."
Bang.
"WhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhyWhy—"
Bang.
"WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THAT?"
Bang.
Then silence.
He raised his head slowly.
Blood ran down his face. Tears moved through it. His expression was open in a way that faces aren't supposed to be — everything stripped out, every layer gone, down to something raw and ancient and ruined.
And then—
He smiled.
Not the habit. Not the awkward reflex.
This was something else entirely.
A smile so wrong it made the devotees step back without deciding to. Like a door opening onto a room that shouldn't exist.
Lucian rose to his feet.
The air around him changed. Not aura. Not magic. Something darker and more personal than either. It poured off him in waves — formless and enormous, the feeling of a human being who has decided that nothing matters anymore except the thing he is about to do.
His voice came out low. Barely a sound.
"You fucking bastards."
He looked at them. Then at the sky. Then up at Mira.
"You should never have fucking done that."
The smile widened.
"Now every single one of you is going to die."
One step forward. The ground fractured beneath his foot.
"Your families. Your children. Your fucking gods."
His eyes lifted toward the heavens.
"I'll climb into your heaven and tear those gods apart with my bare hands."
His voice became a roar — not rage, something worse than rage, something that had passed through rage and come out the other side.
"I'll make even death refuse to take you."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a sound surfaced. Clean. Almost cheerful. Completely wrong for this moment.
Ping.
He didn't hear it. All he could hear was her voice.
Brother… Brother…
And something inside Lucian Morrow broke beyond repair. Not pulled out slowly. Not melted. A chain buried deep in his soul, ripped free and turned into a weapon.
The first one lunged with a crazed scream, knife aimed for Lucian's throat.
Lucian tilted his head slightly.
The blade missed by inches.
His hand shot out and caught the man's wrist. A sharp twist. Bone cracked clean.
The scream that followed was almost musical.
Lucian smiled.
He didn't kill him. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he dragged the knife across the man's palm.
The fingers dropped one by one.
The devotee collapsed, shrieking into the dirt.
Lucian crouched beside him. Brought his face close.
"Does it hurt?"
His voice was gentle. Curious. Like he genuinely wanted to know.
Before the man could answer, Lucian rose in one smooth motion and drove the blade into the second attacker's knee. The blade sank in with a wet, sickening crunch. The scream tore through the street.
Lucian watched them both writhing below him.
Then he smiled wider.
He was just getting started.