Chapter 10

DETERIUS

The boy's days began to blur into a sequence of routine and responsibility. College consumed most of his time, lectures stacking on one another, his mind drifting between academic pursuits and the restless, unchecked impulses that lurked in the corners of his psyche. His interactions with others felt surface-level—smiles exchanged, words spoken, but none of it sinking into his bones. Beneath the steady current of his college life, the undercurrent of his impulsive self threatened to surge forward, gripping him in moments of weakness when he least expected it.

He would sit through lectures, feeling an almost unbearable tension in his chest. It would strike at random, like a thunderclap on a cloudless day. A sharp word from a classmate, a trivial inconvenience, and he'd feel his pulse quicken, his thoughts turn sharp and hostile. The rage inside him, now familiar, lurked just below his polite exterior, a beast waiting to tear through the flimsy veneer of normalcy.

Akari had become a distant figure, her voice only an occasional presence in his life now. The calls were brief, punctuated by silence and strange pauses, where once her voice had been a constant comfort, strong and assured. Now, there was something in her tone—something concerned, something fragile. But the boy, caught up in his new routine and unable to sense the full depth of her struggle, didn't notice the shift as much as he should have.

One day, after a particularly long series of classes, the boy managed to call Akari. He sat in his room, books scattered around him, the sun setting outside the window casting a dull orange light across his face. He dialed her number, the ring droning in his ear for a moment longer than usual until she finally picked up.

"Hey," the boy said, his voice flat with fatigue.

"Hey," came Akari's reply, soft and uncharacteristically hesitant.

The boy leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "It's been a while. How have you been?"

There was a pause on the other end, the sound of her breathing steady but measured, as if she were considering her words carefully. "I'm… fine. Just a lot on my mind lately."

Her voice sounded distant, and not just in the physical sense. Something was off, but the boy, preoccupied with his own whirlwind of emotions and workload, didn't probe too deeply.

"You sure? You don't sound like yourself," he said, though his tone lacked the concern it should have carried.

"I'm okay, really," she insisted, but her words were hollow, her assurance paper-thin. "Just tired, I guess."

The boy let it slide. "Yeah, I get it. College is killing me too. I haven't had a moment to breathe."

Another pause. Her silences were becoming longer, more noticeable, but he chalked it up to exhaustion, both of them caught in the grind of daily life.

"Well, don't let it get to you," Akari finally said, her voice still gentle but carrying a tinge of something unspoken. "You'll get through it. You always do."

The boy chuckled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, I guess. I'll talk to you later?"

"Sure. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will. You too."

The call ended, and the boy stared at his phone for a moment, a faint unease creeping into his chest. But it was fleeting, quickly buried under the mountain of assignments he had yet to finish. He convinced himself that Akari was fine, that she was as strong as ever. She had always been, hadn't she?

Days passed in a haze of monotony. He would wake up, attend lectures, occasionally exchange pleasantries with classmates, and then dive headfirst into his studies. It wasn't that he enjoyed the work—he didn't—but it provided a necessary distraction from the internal storm he was constantly fighting. His impulses flared at random intervals, small outbursts that left him breathless with frustration. He would catch himself snapping at people for no reason, his temper short and his patience thin.

One afternoon, after a particularly rough lecture, the boy found himself walking in his home. He had no real destination in mind, only the desire to escape the suffocating walls of the classroom. As he walked, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, seeing Akari's name flash across the screen. A small smile tugged at his lips as he answered.

"Hey," he greeted her.

"Hey," Akari's voice came through, but there was an undeniable strain this time. She sounded fragile, as if the strength she had always projected was beginning to crack.

"What's up?" he asked, stepping on a stray cockroach on the ground.

"Nothing much… just wanted to hear your voice," she said softly. There was a vulnerability in her words that made the boy pause.

"You need an autograph next?" he asked, frowning slightly.

"Nah, I am good." she replied quickly, too quickly. "I just… miss talking to you."

Her admission hung in the air between them, and for a moment, the boy was unsure how to respond. His own emotions, so often clouded by his impulsive reactions, left him feeling ill-equipped to deal with such tenderness.

"Yeah, I guess," he said, though the words felt awkward, foreign. He didn't know how to express the complexity of his feelings, the push and pull of wanting to be close to her while simultaneously being overwhelmed by his own inner turmoil.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked, her concern evident despite her own struggles.

The boy forced a laugh, trying to deflect. "Yeah, just busy, you know? College life and all that."

There was a long pause. "You know… you can tell me if something's wrong, right?"

Her words cut through him, and for a brief moment, he considered telling her everything—the impulsive anger that seemed to be growing inside him, the way he felt like he was losing control. But the thought of burdening her, of revealing that part of himself, was too much.

"I know," he said simply, avoiding her concern. "I'm good though, really."

Another silence. He could hear her breathing, steady but heavy, as if she were carrying a weight he couldn't see.

"Alright," Akari said, her voice soft but resigned. "Just… don't forget to take care of yourself."

"I can try," the boy replied, and the call ended.

As the days continued to roll by, the boy's conversations with Akari became less frequent, the moments of connection growing shorter and more strained. Her concern for him, though unspoken, was always present in her tone, but he was too wrapped up in his own world to see it clearly. To him, Akari had always been the pillar of strength, the one person who never seemed to waver. He believed that she could handle anything, even as her own silent struggles went unnoticed.

Meanwhile, the boy's impulsive side continued to rear its head in small, destructive ways. He would lash out at the smallest provocations, his temper flaring with little warning. Yet, despite the chaos within him, he buried himself deeper into his work, using it as a shield to avoid confronting the reality of his emotions, or the growing distance between him and Akari.

But the mask he wore, much like the one he had lifted that night in the alley, was beginning to crack, and underneath, the boy could feel something unraveling.

The boy approached Akari's house with an unusual sense of excitement, a lightness he hadn't felt in months. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he had some time to breathe, to visit her. The burden of his chaotic inner life, the constant war between his impulses and restraint, felt distant for once. He thought, maybe, today things would be different. Maybe today, he could tell her everything and apologize for how distant he had been.

As he neared her house, something felt off. The front looked different, more somber, like a black cloud was hanging just above the roof. The curtains were drawn, the flowers in the garden wilted, and there was an eerie quietness in the air. He made a quick joke under his breath, something to dispel the odd atmosphere, "Looks like the house went goth for a day. Maybe Akari's starting a new phase." He smirked to himself, but the humor tasted bitter. Something in his gut twisted.

His pace quickened as he noticed people gathering around the entrance, hushed murmurs filling the air. Faces he didn't recognize, people in black, moving as though in slow motion. His heart began to beat faster, a sinking feeling clawing at him from inside. He ignored it. He always did. Pushing past a couple of mourners standing in his way, the boy moved closer, trying to brush off the heaviness pressing down on him.

Mourning. His mind couldn't process the word, not in this context. He laughed—quiet, under his breath, a reflex. "What is this, a funeral? Did I miss something?" He snorted, finding the absurdity of his own remark momentarily comforting. "I should have texted Akari first. She's probably hiding in her room to avoid all this drama. Or maybe she killed someone…not something totally unnatural for her persoanlity"

He turned toward the crowd, still smiling, but his smile faltered when he saw a man with red, swollen eyes, tears staining his face. The man, older, his expression hollow, nearly bumped into him. "Ah, sorry," the man mumbled, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. There was an awkward exchange of pleasantries—normal words, words that had no weight. The boy's instinct was to console, to play the part of the calm observer. He had seen people mourn before, but this wasn't his scene. He didn't belong here.

"Are you okay?" the boy asked automatically, more out of habit than concern. "Who's—uh, who are they grieving for?"

The man's gaze dropped, his voice choking on the words as they escaped his lips. "Akari."

The name hit him like a physical blow, an invisible fist punching him in the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. The world around him dimmed. Time slowed, and all he could hear was the echo of that name—Akari. It reverberated in his skull, bouncing around, refusing to settle, refusing to make sense. Maybe there were multiple Akaris in this neighbourhood, he thought.

Akari?

He blinked, his smile fading, his heart racing. He couldn't hear anything else. The crowd's whispers, the cries, the condolences—all of it faded into nothing, like background noise in a dream. His mind scrambled to comprehend, to understand what the man had just said, but the words refused to take shape.

"Akari?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, as though saying it out loud would force reality to snap back into place.

"Suicide," the man said, his voice shaking, his eyes glassy with fresh tears. "She… she took her own life."

A wave of nausea hit him. His stomach twisted into knots, his hands trembled. The world tilted, and the boy's legs felt weak beneath him. He wanted to laugh again, to make some kind of joke to dismiss the absurdity of it all. This was a mistake. This couldn't be real. Akari wasn't—she couldn't—

"No." The word slipped out before he could stop it, a whisper of denial. His vision blurred, the edges of his reality collapsing in on itself. Suicide. The word swirled in his head, vicious, brutal, like a storm battering the walls of his mind. His impulses, the dark, violent side of him he had worked so hard to suppress, began to rise like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him.

His breathing quickened, his chest heaving as anger, confusion, and overwhelming sadness collided within him. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms so hard that he could feel the sting of his skin breaking, the warmth of blood.

No one saw it coming—the flood of rage that burst out of him like a dam breaking. His mind couldn't hold back the tide. His impulse was to scream, to hit something, to destroy everything in front of him. He wanted to rip the world apart for taking her away, for letting her slip through his fingers without him even noticing.

How could she do this? He wanted to scream at her, to shake her, to demand why she had left him behind, why she had hidden her pain from him, why she hadn't reached out.

But then a darker thought cut through his rage—How could I not see it? How had he, with all his intelligence, all his supposed understanding of human emotion, missed the signs? How had he let her suffer in silence while he was so caught up in his own turmoil, in his own selfish struggles?

A low growl escaped his throat, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He wanted to lash out, to make someone pay. He wanted to tear down the walls of this house, to find some way to punish the universe for its cruelty. He could feel his pulse in his temples, the rush of blood in his ears, the sharp, burning sensation in his chest as his grief morphed into pure, uncontrollable fury.

He clenched his teeth, trying to hold back the scream rising in his throat. His vision tunneled, his breath shallow. Everything was too loud—people crying, muttering condolences, the air itself suffocating him.

And then, as if on autopilot, he turned away from the crowd, stumbling back into the street. His legs moved on their own, but he had no destination. His mind spiraled deeper into the storm, his body trembling with the effort of holding back the full force of his impulses.

He couldn't stay there—he couldn't look at the people mourning her. He couldn't process the sight of them grieving over someone who wasn't supposed to be gone. Akari was supposed to be invincible, untouchable. She wasn't someone who could be broken, not like this.

The boy staggered down the street, away from the house, away from the truth he couldn't face. His fists were still clenched, his body tense with the effort of keeping his emotions from completely overtaking him. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to destroy everything around him. The pain inside him was unbearable, and it was only growing.

And then, as if on cue, a single tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another, and another. He tried to fight them back, tried to keep his anger as his shield, but it was no use. The grief was too strong. The loss too heavy. He was angry—at Akari, at himself, at the world. But beneath it all, he was just broken. Shattered.

The boy walked home, his body barely holding itself together, his mind trapped in a fog that made it hard to distinguish between reality and the chaos swirling inside him. His steps were uneven, almost limping, each one feeling heavier than the last. His vision blurred, and every thought echoed Akari's name like a haunting whisper. The world around him had no color, no substance—it was as if his existence had collapsed into this one endless moment of grief.

And then, like a shadow in his peripheral vision, J stepped into his path. The younger brother of H. The boy hadn't even registered him at first, too consumed with his own torment to notice the burning rage in J's eyes.

"Hey!" J's voice cut through the silence, sharp and venomous. "I know what you did. You got my brother locked up, didn't you?"

The boy barely looked at him. He heard the words, but they were like distant sounds, nothing that could reach him in this state. His feet kept moving, though slower now, his body sluggish under the weight of it all. He wanted to be left alone, to disappear into the void that Akari had left behind. But deep down, in a part of him he barely recognized, he wanted something to happen. He wanted J to hit him, to knock him out, to make him feel something other than the crushing numbness.

J, sensing the boy's indifference, got angrier. "You think you're some kind of hero, huh? You think you can just walk away after getting my brother locked up? You piece of—" His fists clenched, his knuckles white.

The boy, still not fully engaged with reality, stopped walking. He turned to J, his eyes hollow, his voice quiet but firm. "Say what you need to say. Then leave me alone."

It wasn't a request. It was a warning. But J, fueled by his rage, didn't care.

"What, you think I'm scared of you?" J spat, his fists shaking. "You think you're untouchable just because you got a few bruises and a nice story? You don't know anything, do you?"

The boy just stood there, his gaze almost empty, as if he were begging for something more. He wanted J to lash out, to push him past the edge, to give him a reason to unleash the storm inside him. But on the surface, he remained composed, almost detached. "Leave me alone," he repeated. "Don't leave me alone, act on the impulse you asswipe and hit me." he thought to himself.

J's face twisted in fury, and before the boy could react, a punch came crashing down on him. The force of it sent him stumbling backward, but he didn't block or dodge. He took it, just as he took the next punch, and the next. Each hit landed with brutal precision—one to the ribs, another to the jaw. The boy's head snapped back with the force of the blows, but he didn't move to defend himself. He wanted it. He needed it.

J kept swinging, his fists pounding into the boy's body, his rage growing with every punch that went unanswered. The boy's lip split, blood trickling down his chin, his vision swimming from the impact. His body screamed in pain, but he barely registered it. The physical agony was nothing compared to the storm inside him. Each punch felt like penance, a punishment he deserved.

"Fight back, you coward!" J yelled, his voice hoarse, his fists now trembling from the effort. He landed another blow to the boy's side, but the boy still didn't move. He simply stood there, taking the abuse, his breaths shallow, his mind somewhere far away.

J was tiring, his punches becoming weaker, more erratic. His rage was wearing thin, replaced by confusion at the boy's lack of response. Finally, with one last swing, J's fist connected with the boy's cheek, sending him stumbling back, nearly falling. But still, the boy didn't fight back.

J stood there, panting, his fists hanging limp at his sides, his face red with exertion. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he muttered, more to himself than to the boy.

The boy, now bruised and bleeding, slowly straightened himself. His body ached, his face was swollen, but inside, he still felt nothing. No pain. No relief. Only the same hollow emptiness that had consumed him since he heard Akari was gone.

And then, without warning, the boy's fist shot out, swift and precise. It was a single, devastating punch to J's jaw—a strike that knocked him out cold. J crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the pavement.

The boy stood over him for a moment, looking down at the crumpled body as if it were nothing more than a discarded piece of trash. There was no satisfaction, no release in what he had done. It was just another act, another moment in a life that felt increasingly disconnected from reality.

He turned away from J's limp body and began to walk home again, limping slightly, each step heavier than the last. His body throbbed with pain, but it was dull compared to the chaos still raging inside him. His mind was numb, and as he walked, the streets around him blurred into a haze of gray.

When he finally made it home, his legs gave out as soon as he reached the door. He collapsed onto the floor, his body too tired to go any further. He didn't feel the pain, didn't feel anything at all. All he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. Alone with the weight of what had happened, with the unbearable truth that Akari was gone. He had taken the hits, he had fought back—but nothing could change that fact. And deep down, he knew nothing ever would.

Present

The flashbacks dissolved, like the fading embers of a cigarette, pulling the boy's consciousness back to the present. The weight of his memories still clung to him like a heavy fog, as if the moments of his past were permanently seared into his soul, blending into his every breath. The noise of the party downstairs had long since quieted, but he remained where he always did in times like these—on the top floor, away from everyone, away from himself, as much as that was even possible.

The polluted sky stretched endlessly above him, a sickly orange glow from the city lights, the haze of smog blurring the few stars that dared show themselves. It was a view he had become all too familiar with—a sight that always seemed to mirror his own internal landscape. Polluted, dim, suffocated.

He took another drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke burn his throat before releasing it slowly into the night air. There was a faint wind, but not enough to carry away the thick smoke. It hung in the air around him, just as stagnant as his thoughts.

Below, the door creaked open. His father was coming. He knew the sound of his footsteps. They were firm, deliberate, heavy with purpose. His father had never been one to sneak around; he always approached directly, never afraid to confront anything or anyone head-on. But tonight, the steps seemed cautious, hesitant. Maybe it was the weight of what had happened. Maybe it was the boy's behavior at the party.

The boy felt his father's presence before he saw him. He could feel the tension radiating from the door, the palpable sense of unease that hung between them. Instinctively, and out of respect he couldn't quite define, he flicked the cigarette away. It arced in the air before falling into the shadows below, the last ember glowing faintly before it was snuffed out.

But the boy didn't turn around. Not yet. He couldn't bring himself to face him—not with everything that had happened, not with everything that still lingered inside him. It wasn't fear or shame exactly, but something deeper, something more complicated.

The silence stretched between them, as if both were waiting for the other to break it. And then, his father's voice, deep and measured, cut through the night air:

"Are you going to keep ignoring me, or can we finally talk? Like father and son."

The boy flinched slightly at the sound, but he still didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, on the murky sky that seemed so far out of reach. He didn't want to talk. Talking meant facing things, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that. But his father—his father was never the kind of man you could easily avoid. The boy knew he wouldn't leave until something was said.

After a moment, the boy let out a long, quiet sigh. His voice, when it finally came, was low and tired. "What do you want me to say?"

There was a rustling as his father moved closer, his presence looming behind him. The boy could feel his father's eyes on his back, but he still couldn't turn around.

"You know you've been different, ever since you were a kid" his father said, his tone not harsh, but probing, as if searching for something he couldn't quite put his finger on. "Your mother told me what you said to your uncle, I want you to apologise to him right now."

The boy let the words hang in the air, neither confirming nor denying. How could he explain the storm inside him, the constant battle between who he was and who he had become? How could he make his father understand the things that even he couldn't put into words?

"You can't really say that you did not see me as a kid or a teen or an adolescent," the boy muttered. "As for the apology. Forget it. I don't apologise in situations where I am not wrong."

"No, you're wrong," his father replied, his voice firmer now. He moved even closer, until he was standing right beside the boy, looking down at him. "I give you the time till tonight to apologise to your uncle and if you don't things won't be very good."

His father replied, his tone firm, as if he were laying down the law. "You embarrassed him. You embarrassed this family. You owe him an apology."

The boy scoffed, turning away again. "I don't owe anyone anything."

"Enough!" His father's voice rose, the frustration boiling over. "You think you can act however you please without consequences? You think being rude, being—" He cut himself off, taking a breath to regain his composure. "Your uncle was trying to help. You've been out of control, and he's concerned about you and the family."

"Concerned about the family? If he's concerned about us why the hell were you attacked?" The boy spat the words out, his voice sharp with sarcasm. "Or is he concerned about us the way you've been concerned about me?"

His father's expression darkened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You really don't get it, do you?" The boy's eyes flashed with anger now, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "You're standing here telling me to apologize to some uncle who I hate with every single cell in my body, while you—" His voice cracked with bitterness. "You were never even there."

His father's eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening defensively. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" The boy turned to face him fully, the anger spilling out like a dam breaking. "You think you were there? You think showing up for the occasional school event or making sure the bills were paid means you were present? You weren't! You were never there to actually see me—to see me become whatever it is I am now."

His father's face flushed with a mix of anger and guilt, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I was working. I was providing for this family, for you. Do you think that was easy? I did what I had to do."

"And what about me Papa?" The boy's voice cracked, louder now, the years of resentment bubbling to the surface. "You think money makes up for the fact that I never even knew who you were growing up? I had to figure out everything on my own. Who was I supposed to turn to? You? You were always too busy, too distant. And now you want to act like some kind of authority on how I should behave?"

His father's eyes were blazing now, the control slipping away. "You don't understand what it takes to be a man—to be responsible. You think life is easy? You think it's all about being there for every little moment?"

"Every little moment?" The boy's voice was full of disbelief, shaking with rage. "You missed everything. You missed me, Papa. You missed everything about me."

The words hung in the air like a slap. His father recoiled slightly, his face hardening with a mixture of anger and something else—something deeper, more painful.

"I know I wasn't the best at raising a boy," his father said, his voice strained, as if he were trying to maintain control over emotions he didn't fully understand. "I worked hard. I gave you everything I could. You're selfish if you can't see that."

"You've raised me well Papa…" The boy replied bitterly, running a hand through his hair, trying to hold himself together. "You want to call me selfish however? You never cared about what I needed. You only cared about your own image, about your business, about making sure you looked good to everyone else. But where were you when I was falling apart? Where were you when I needed a father?"

His father took a step forward, his face contorted with frustration. "You think I didn't sacrifice for you? You have no idea what I've had to give up—what I've done for this family."

"And you think that's enough?" The boy's voice was quieter now, but no less intense, the anger giving way to something more raw, more vulnerable. "You think being some distant figure who pays the bills is the same as being there for your son? What time was I born on? How old was I when I first rode a bicycle into that wall splitting my lips? What year did I pass my 10th grade? What was the highest score I ever got? What's my favourite food? You don't even know me, Papa. You never did."

His father opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. The two of them stood there, the silence between them heavy, filled with years of missed opportunities, unspoken words, and deep, festering wounds.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The boy stared at the ground, his chest heaving with the weight of everything he had said, while his father stood frozen, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

Finally, his father's voice broke the silence, quieter now, but still edged with anger. "You don't understand the pressure I was under. The responsibilities. You think I could just drop everything?"

The boy looked up at him, his eyes tired, the fire inside him slowly dimming. "Maybe you couldn't," he said, his voice softer, almost defeated. "But you never even tried."

The father, still standing stiffly near the railing, clenched his fists. His face was growing red, the tension between them thickening with each passing second. He took a deep breath, clearly trying to keep his composure, but his voice trembled with frustration as he spoke again.

"Just stop this already," he said, his tone pleading, but still edged with authority. "This isn't getting us anywhere. I'm asking you, for once, to just be reasonable. Apologize to your uncle. He's family, and you've crossed the line."

The boy shook his head, his jaw set with stubbornness. "No. I don't owe him anything. You can't keep expecting me to fall in line with all these fake apologies. You think I care what he thinks? What any of them think?"

"You should care!" The father's voice rose, despite himself. His hands tightened at his sides, as if he were grasping at control. "You're part of this family, and your actions reflect on all of us. You've embarrassed me—us—again and again."

The boy rolled his eyes, his expression hardening into a sneer. "Embarrassed you? That's what this is about, right? You're just worried about how it looks. I'm the one who embarrasses you."

His father's voice shook, a hint of pleading slipping in, though it was buried beneath his growing irritation. "That's not what I—"

"Isn't it?" the boy cut him off, his voice sharp, full of contempt. "You're embarrassed by me, because I'm not the picture-perfect son you wanted. I never have been."

"Mind your words," his father insisted, but the cracks in his resolve were starting to show. His breathing was labored, and there was a flash of something like guilt in his eyes.

"Oh, it's true," the boy pressed on, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You couldn't handle me. You couldn't deal with a kid who didn't fit into your perfect little world. So, you just disappeared. You were always gone—working, or pretending to work—anything to avoid being a father."

His father flinched, the words hitting harder than the boy realized. He opened his mouth to respond, but the boy continued, his anger boiling over now.

"You want to talk about family, about responsibility?" the boy spat. "Where were you when Harshit's sister was catcalled in the north, you did not come up there to take care of the family, I DID. When I was figuring things out on my own, when I needed someone to tell me how to deal with... with everything? You were nowhere. You were too busy being the big man, too busy to even notice me."

"That's enough!" His father's voice broke, loud, trembling with fury. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't understand the sacrifices I made for you—for this family."

"Here we go again," the boy said mockingly, throwing his hands up. "The great martyr speech. You sacrificed so much, right? But what did you sacrifice, really? You threw money at me. You kept the roof over our heads, sure. But you think that's enough? You think that makes you a father?"

His father's hands shook now, and he took a step forward, his face darkening with anger. "You don't know how hard it was," he said through gritted teeth. "You don't know what it took to raise you. You weren't an easy child. You were trouble from the start."

The words hit like a slap, and for a moment, the boy's face fell. But then, something colder, more dangerous, flickered behind his eyes.

"Trouble?" he repeated softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Is that what I am to you? Just... trouble?"

His father hesitated, realizing what he had said, but the damage was already done.

"No," the boy said, his voice growing louder, sharper, full of venom. "That's all I've ever been to you, isn't it? A problem. A burden. Something you have to deal with, but never wanted."

"That's not—" His father started, but the boy cut him off again, stepping closer, his anger radiating off him in waves now.

"I get it," the boy snarled, his voice shaking with emotion. "You didn't want this. You didn't want me. You just wanted your perfect rich life, and I ruined it. Well, guess what? I'm not apologizing for that. I'm not apologizing to anyone, least of all you."

The father's face twisted with a mix of guilt and frustration. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He took another step forward, his voice lowering, but still filled with anger.

"You don't understand," he said, his words heavy. "I did everything I could for you. Everything. And you just threw it back in my face. Do you know how hard it was to raise a son like you?"

The boy's eyes flared with fury. "A son like me? What's that supposed to mean?"

His father didn't answer right away, the silence hanging thick between them, charged with all the resentment and regret that had built up over the years.

"You were always difficult," his father finally said, his voice quieter now, but no less strained. "Always impulsive, always angry. Nothing was ever easy with you. You never listened, never respected the rules."

"So, what?" the boy shot back. "That's your excuse for not being there? Because I was too hard to deal with? What use is all this money if I can't even use to save my family?"

His father shook his head, his frustration evident, but beneath it all, there was something else—a hint of sadness, maybe even regret. "I tried. I tried to be there, but you made it impossible. You pushed everyone away. And now look at you. You can't even take responsibility for your actions."

"Responsibility?" The boy laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet night air. "You think I don't take responsibility? I've been taking responsibility for myself my whole life, because you sure as hell didn't."

The father's face darkened, his patience worn thin. "You don't know what responsibility means. You've never had to face real consequences for your actions. You've never had to deal with the things I've had to deal with. I take my hand away and you're nothing!"

"I don't fucking care take your money and hand away for all I care," the boy shot back, his voice breaking with anger and pain. "I've faced plenty of consequences, Papa. You just never bothered to notice."

His father's gaze hardened, and he straightened up, as if trying to reassert his authority. "You think I don't notice? I've noticed everything. I've watched you make one bad decision after another, and now you're too arrogant to even apologize when you're in the wrong."

"I'm not apologizing," the boy repeated firmly, his voice cold. "Not to him. Not to you. Not to anyone. I'm done."

The father's face twisted with frustration and something like defeat. He stared at the boy for a long moment, as if searching for something—some sign that his words were getting through. But the boy's expression was set, unyielding.

The argument had reached a fever pitch, the air between them crackling with unspoken resentments and unresolved frustrations. The father's face was a mask of barely contained fury, his eyes blazing as he finally lost his composure.

"You're hardly even human," he roared, his voice echoing off the rooftop walls. "Your actions—your words—how can you even call yourself my son? You've been nothing but a disappointment, a nightmare. Your behavior, your animalistic impulses—what kind of son are you? What kind of human being are you?"

The boy, his own anger simmering just beneath the surface, felt something snap inside him. The father's words, meant to hurt, had struck a chord, and his own rage surged forth with a vengeance.

"Animalistic?" the boy shot back, his voice cold and full of disdain. "You know what Papa, there was a time when I tried so hard to impress you. Trying to get the best grades in my class to get your attention. For me you were the greatest father in the world, growing up I realised how wrong I was. You were not the greatest father in the world, but I…I am the best son in the world and I sure as hell know that for sure."

The father flinched, taken aback by the boy's intensity. But before he could respond, the boy pressed on, his voice dropping to a harsh, almost dangerous whisper.

"And it was me who put H in jail, collecting evidence wasn't hard, his phone is basically a memoire of all the terrible shit he has done." the boy said, his eyes narrowing. "It was me who beat him and his brother, J, to the inch of their lives after they attacked you. I did it. I didn't hesitate, and I wouldn't hesitate to kill them if they ever tried something like that again."

The father's face paled, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to process the revelation. The boy's words hung heavy in the air, a grim testament to the violence and turmoil that had been simmering beneath the surface.

"And now," the boy continued, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation, "I have to ask you something. Am I even your real son? Because at this point, I can't even tell."

The question seemed to hang in the air, a heavy silence falling between them. The father's face contorted with a mixture of shock, fury, and something like heartbreak. His hand flew out in a swift, brutal motion, connecting with the boy's cheek in a sharp slap.

The boy stumbled slightly, but he quickly righted himself, a twisted smile curling on his lips. He raised a hand to his cheek, the sting of the slap still fresh, and looked at his father with a mixture of amusement and defiance.

"Brave of you," he said softly, his smile widening. "Slapping your son at this age. I have to give you credit for that. It's almost impressive."

The father stood there, his chest heaving with the force of his anger, but he couldn't find the words to respond. The boy's calm, mocking demeanor seemed to fuel his rage, making him feel more powerless and frustrated than ever. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with the remnants of their heated argument. The mother, having walked in just as the father's hand made contact with the boy's cheek, stood frozen in the doorway. Her eyes were wide, her face a mix of shock and distress as she watched the scene unfold.

"MAA! LEAVE!" the boy roared, his voice a fierce wave crashing against the walls. The raw intensity of his command filled the room, and he directed it squarely at his mother, the anguish in his tone unmistakable. "Just leave us alone!"

The father, equally furious, turned his anger towards the mother. "No, stay!" he barked, his voice rough with emotion.

The boy, his face contorted with frustration and defiance, glared at his mother. "I finally have some time with Papa, and you're ruining it! Just leave!"

The mother, her face a picture of sadness and confusion, hesitated for a moment before stepping back, the frown on her face deepening. With a final, sorrowful glance at both of them, she complied and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

The father, now left alone with his son, seemed to crumple under the weight of his own emotions. His anger dissolved into a weary sadness as he finally spoke, his voice trembling slightly. "You need to understand something," he said, his tone breaking. "My health is declining. In a few years, I'll lose almost all my cognitive functions. I won't be the man I am now. I'll be... gone. The years of stress really took a toll, I mean i'll still be there I am not dying anytime soon, but someone needs to take over the business, I thought i'd be raising the best man for it and then you go around doing stuff like this…"

The boy's face, which had been twisted in anger and defiance, went pale. The harsh lines of his expression softened, his eyes widening in shock. The anger he had harbored vanished in an instant, replaced by a deep, piercing fear and sorrow.

"You—you can't be serious," the boy stammered, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as the enormity of the revelation sank in. The father's words seemed to strip away all the bravado, leaving the boy exposed and vulnerable. The hardened exterior he had maintained began to crack, revealing the true depth of his love for his father.

The father, his own eyes reflecting the sadness he had tried so hard to conceal, shouted out in frustration. "I'm your father! I'm supposed to be the one who can handle this. I can't be here, taking all your shit while I'm facing this. You can't keep standing here and fighting me!"

The boy, trying to justify himself, stammered, "I'm just trying to make sense of everything. I... I can't just—"

"You can't shoot fate with a gun or beat destiny with your fists," the father interrupted, his voice rising with a mix of anger and desperation. "You're not going to solve everything with violence or rage. You have to understand that!"

The words hit the boy like a physical blow, and he stood there, stunned and silent. His anger had evaporated, replaced by a profound sense of helplessness and grief. He was left grappling with the reality of his father's deteriorating health, a stark contrast to the rage and defiance he had displayed just moments before.

Unable to bear the weight of the situation any longer, the boy turned away from his father. His steps were unsteady as he walked towards the door, his heart heavy with the realization of what lay ahead. The raw emotion he had been holding back now surged forth, and he stumbled towards his mother's side.

The boy found her sitting alone in the hallway, her face lined with worry. Without a word, he collapsed into her arms, tears streaming down his face. He clung to her tightly, gasping for air as his cries wracked his body. The intensity of his sobs seemed to come from a place deep within, raw and unrestrained.

"What…do I do now!?" he choked out between breaths, his voice breaking with every word. "How can I stop this from happening? I don't know how!"

The mother, holding him close, whispered soothing words, though her own tears fell freely. She stroked his hair gently, trying to comfort him as best she could. The boy's cries were a painful, cathartic release, a mix of fear, guilt, and deep, overwhelming love for his father.

As the boy cried, the reality of the situation began to sink in—there was no way to fight this battle with fists or anger. The struggle was against something much greater, something that required acceptance and resilience rather than rebellion. And in that moment of vulnerability, the boy found himself grappling with the complexity of his emotions, the weight of his father's impending decline, and the challenge of reconciling with a future he had never anticipated.