Father and Son

The moment I heard that voice call out to me, an overwhelming urge to slash at the person who dared speak my name consumed me. That disgusting mouth of his, spewing fake love and concern—it made my skin crawl. I didn't need to hear him.

I turned toward the voice, my eyes locking onto a man sitting in the very corner of a cell. His face was partially obscured by an unkempt beard and tangled hair, a shadow of the person I once knew. I hadn't seen this beast in years, and now, seeing him like this—a broken, pitiful mess—I savored the sight.

"Father," I said coldly, my voice devoid of any warmth. Slowly, I walked toward the cell and wrapped my fingers around the cold, rusted metal bars. My gaze met his, unflinching and sharp as a blade.

"My precious daughter, you…" his weak voice trembled. "You, what are you doing here? What happened to you? Why do you look like that?" There was something foreign in his tone—concern?