Chapter 0.1

He stepped out, his feet whispering against the cracked wooden floor. Where was everyone? Where was anyone?

"Mom…?" he whispered, his voice tiny, almost scared to be heard. But the word just floated up and vanished into the dark, like a puff of smoke swallowed by night.

He turned, glanced back. His room was still there, a hollow box. But the house—no, it wasn't a house. It was something else. Something bigger, something…breathing. He could feel it—each creak, each groan, each shadow that seemed to crawl just out of sight.

And then—slam!

The front door swung open, light flooding in like a dagger slicing through the dark. A tall figure stood in the doorway, hunched and trembling, wrapped in a long, heavy coat. His mother. Her face was hidden, twisted in shadows, her hair hanging like wet seaweed.

"YOU!" Her voice snapped through the air like a whip, sharp and mean. "What are you doing here?"

The boy froze, his heart clenching tight. "I—I was just—"

"Standing there, like a useless sack of nothing?!" She stepped closer, her movements jerky, like a puppet with its strings pulled too tight. "You think you can just stand there and exist?"

"I—I'm sorry—" he whimpered, his throat tight, the words coming out like little gasps of air.

"SORRY?" She lunged forward, and his body shrunk back, shoulders curling in. Her face leaned in close, eyes wide and glaring, mouth twisted in a grin that wasn't a grin. "You think sorry is good enough? What did I tell you, huh?" Her voice dripped with something nasty, something bitter, like poison. "You think you can cry? You think you can whine? Who gave you permission?"

The boy's eyes stung, his cheeks burning. Tears started to well up, his face crumpling.

"Don't you dare," she hissed. "Don't you dare cry."

But he couldn't stop. The tears came, spilling down his cheeks like little glass beads. And before he could even blink, SLAP. Her hand shot out, a hard, burning sting across his face. His head snapped to the side, his vision blurring.

"Who said you could cry?" she spat, her voice rising higher, sharper. "You think you have the right? The right to cry? You don't get to cry, not until—" She leaned down, her breath hot and sour against his skin, words thick and slimy. "—not until your father and I are dead."

His breath hitched, the words ringing in his ears. Dead. Dead. The room seemed to twist around him, shrinking and growing, shadows warping into strange shapes, clawed hands reaching out from the walls.

But then, something caught his eye—a small, sad little cake sitting on the table. A birthday cake. His birthday cake. A single candle, melted down to a twisted stump, wax dribbling down the sides like blood. There were no words, no decorations. Just the lonely little cake, sitting there.

He stumbled forward, his vision swimming, his face hot and sticky with tears. His mother's voice was still there, sharp and mocking, but it was distant, far away. The cake was closer. He reached out, fingers trembling, then—

He opened his mouth wide, wider, his jaw stretching, and then—sploot—he plunged his face into the cake, mouth first. The icing was cold and soft, the sponge pressing against his face. He didn't bite. He just...stayed there. His mouth full of sweet, mushy cake, eyes closed tight.

"Pathetic," his mother sneered, but her voice sounded hollow, empty, like it was coming from the other side of a long, long tunnel.

The boy didn't move. He just breathed in, his breath muffled by the cake, the taste of sugar and cream filling his mouth. Everything else melted away—the cold, the darkness, his mother's hateful words. It was just him and the cake. Just...stillness.

And then, slowly, sleep crept in. Heavy and thick, like a blanket made of fog. His eyelids drooped, his body sagged. His mouth still full of cake, he let himself drift—down, down, into that quiet, soft, empty place.

The house sighed, walls shifting, the shadows growing longer and darker. The cake was the only bright thing left, a strange, lonely spot of color in the dark.

And as he fell asleep, his mouth still pressed into the sweet, sticky icing, the TV in the corner of the room flickered again.

The night was thick and heavy, like a blanket soaked in murky water. Everything was drenched in stillness, the silence twisting around the boy like a snake. He lay curled up on the cold floor, his mouth sticky and dry from the dried-up cake bits clinging to his lips. His breathing was shallow, tiny puffs of air.

But then—a sound.

A soft bzzt bzzt, like a television struggling to find a signal. The boy's eyelids fluttered, half-open, just a sliver of sight. And there he was.

Mr. Static.

He stood right in front of the boy, towering and wrong, his long coat hanging like a shroud. The eye on his TV head spun and spun—round and round, faster and faster, like a whirling, frantic carousel. Colors flickered, electric light flashing in bursts—red, blue, green, red, blue, green—until everything blurred.

The boy's breath hitched, his heart thumping like a moth trapped in a jar. He couldn't look away. The eye spun wildly, the air thick with the smell of burnt plastic. And then—

Crack!

The TV screen splintered, a jagged line snaking across it. Sparks flew, tiny fireworks bursting out, filling the room with sharp, blinding light. The eye kept spinning, faster, faster, FASTER—until—

BOOM.

The screen shattered, glass flying everywhere, shimmering like tiny stars. And there—through the shattered TV face—a face looked out. The boy's breath caught.

It was...him.

His own face stared back at him—pale, wide-eyed, cheeks smeared with leftover cake crumbs. But the eyes—those weren't his eyes. They were dark and empty, hollow pits, with a tiny spark flickering deep, deep inside.

The boy's stomach twisted. His own face—stretched tight, a grin creeping up, slow and sick. And then—

"Hello, sparklers!" The voice crawled out of the cracked TV, a whispery hiss. "It's all you. Always has been. Always will be."

And then, with a jolt, the boy's eyes slammed shut. When he opened them again—Mr. Static was gone. Only the shadows remained, watching, waiting.

Morning came, but it wasn't morning. It was just a dull, gray smear of daylight, like someone had painted the world with dirty watercolors. The boy trudged through the empty house, his body heavy, his head buzzing. He didn't want to go. But he did.

School was a place made of long hallways and low ceilings, smelling like chalk dust and sour milk. The kids moved like robots, heads down, voices low. The boy slipped into his seat, staring blankly at the desk. The teacher entered—a sharp, thin woman with a face like a knife, eyes hard as marbles.

"Where's your homework?" she snapped, voice cutting through the air like a blade.

The boy looked up, mouth dry. "I—I forgot—"

"Forgot?" Her voice rose, sharp and shrill. "You forgot? What kind of excuse is that?"

She snatched his notebook off the desk, her fingers digging into the pages. "This is worthless!" she hissed. And then, with a quick, cruel twist, she hurled the notebook—whoosh!—right out of the window. The boy watched, his heart sinking, as the notebook sailed through the air and landed outside, crumpled and broken.

"Go get it," she spat, voice dripping with disgust. "And don't come back until you've learned your lesson."

The boy's legs felt numb as he stumbled out of the classroom, his ears ringing. He picked up the notebook, fingers trembling. But he didn't get to leave. He didn't get to go home. The teacher's voice rang out behind him.

"Detention. Now."