Chapter 1: A Life Already Lost

The rooftop was slick with rain, the neon lights casting distorted reflections across the puddles. The cold night air burned in his lungs, mixing with the coppery taste of blood on his tongue. His body ached, bruised and battered, but he refused to fall. Not yet.

Across from him, his opponent stood tall, barely winded. A seasoned fighter—stronger, faster, relentless. He didn't even look impressed, just mildly inconvenienced.

The boy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his chin. His vision swam, but he forced himself to focus. He had taken worse beatings before. He could still fight.

"You're persistent, I'll give you that," the man muttered, rolling his shoulders. "But this is over."

The boy exhaled sharply, planting his feet despite the way his knees trembled.

"Then finish it."

The man sighed. "Suit yourself."

The attack came too fast. A heavy fist slammed into his face before he could react. Pain exploded through his skull, blinding white, before his vision swam in a sickening blur. His head snapped back, his ears ringing with the impact.

Then came the second blow—straight to his stomach. The force knocked the air from his lungs, his body folding inward. His legs buckled, but he forced himself to stand.

He couldn't fall.

Not yet.

A foot lashed out, striking his ribs with a sickening crack. His body twisted from the force, stumbling dangerously close to the rooftop's edge.

He barely had time to process it before the final strike came. A brutal roundhouse kick to the temple.

The world tilted violently.

His feet left the ground.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then—air rushed past him, cold and unforgiving.

He was falling.

The neon lights above blurred into streaks of color, growing smaller as the darkness of the city streets below rushed toward him. The sound of wind roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.

He had always known he would die like this.

Alone. Forgotten.

There was no fear. No regrets.

Just—

Darkness.

The first thing she heard was screaming.

Shrill, angry voices cut through the suffocating darkness, dragging her into the world with an unfamiliar, aching awareness. The air was thick, damp, and reeked of sweat and something rotting. Her tiny, fragile body trembled as the echoes of those voices rattled inside her skull.

"Shut your damn mouth, woman!" a man's voice roared.

A sharp crack followed—a sound so sudden and violent that she instinctively flinched. A dull thud came next, then muffled sobbing. She didn't understand what was happening, but she knew pain when she heard it.

"Filthy whore," the man spat. Heavy footsteps stomped toward the door, the rusted hinges shrieking as it was yanked open. "I'll be back when you stop sniveling like a damned dog."

Then he was gone.

The silence that followed was worse.

The woman on the floor whimpered, breathing raggedly. Then, with sluggish movements, she dragged herself up. For the first time, the woman's gaze settled on her.

There was no warmth. No love.

Only disgust.

Her mother—if she could even be called that—stared down at her with unfocused, bloodshot eyes. Her lips curled, nose wrinkling like she was looking at something repulsive.

"A filthy, dirty thing," she whispered.

Then louder.

"A filthy, cursed thing."

The words hit sharper than a blade, but she didn't understand why.

The woman's fingers twitched like she wanted to hit something—but not yet. Not this time. Instead, she staggered away, muttering curses under her breath.

She was alone again.

And it would be the kindest moment of her life.

The first time her mother wrapped her hands around her neck, she had been three.

She had tried to help.

The woman had been lying on the floor, unmoving, an overturned bottle beside her. She had thought something was wrong. So she shook her gently and whispered, "Mama, wake up."

And the next thing she knew, there were hands squeezing the life out of her.

"Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!" her mother screamed, her nails digging into soft flesh, bruising the delicate skin beneath her fingertips.

The little girl didn't fight back. She didn't understand what she had done wrong. She only gasped, kicked weakly, and stared up into furious, hollow eyes.

Her mother let go before she could die.

Then she laughed.

"Still breathing?" the woman muttered, wiping sweat from her brow. "Damn shame."

That night, she learned something important.

Kindness didn't work. Love didn't exist.

And yet, despite everything, she still tried.

She tried to be useful. She fetched things when her mother barked orders. She cleaned what little she could with shaking hands. She stayed out of the way, curling into a corner of their rotten shack to avoid her mother's hazy, unpredictable moods.

It wasn't enough.

It never was.

The beatings became routine.

Her mother would come home in a drunken rage, fists already swinging before she could say a word. She was thrown against walls, dragged by her hair, beaten with whatever was closest—a wooden spoon, a belt, the back of a heavy hand.

It didn't matter.

Her father was no better. When he came home, she prayed that he would ignore her, that he would be too tired to deal with the thing in the house. But when he was in a bad mood, when the weight of his failures settled too heavily on his shoulders, he took it out on her.

His hands were larger than her mother's. Rougher. Stronger.

One slap could send her sprawling to the ground. One kick could leave her wheezing for breath, curled up and trying to shield herself from the next.

She cried at first.

She begged.

But that only made it worse.

So she stopped.

The day she turned four, her mother grabbed her by the hair and shoved her face into a basin of dirty water.

"You're a burden," she hissed, keeping her down, pressing harder, waiting for the struggling to slow. "I should've drowned you when you were born."

Her lungs screamed, but she didn't thrash. She didn't fight.

For a moment, she thought she might die.

She wasn't sure if she cared.

Then her mother yanked her back up, shoving her away like garbage.

"Tch," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "Too much damn trouble."

The girl sat there, coughing, shivering, water dripping from her face. She stared at the cracked floorboards, mind blank, vision hazy.

Something inside her had broken.

Not her body—though that, too, would break soon enough.

But something else. Something deep.

Something that would never heal.

From then on, she was no longer a child.

She was no longer human.

She was just a thing.

And things did not feel.

The first time she thought about killing them, she smiled.

It was small, barely there, but it was real. A twisted, fragile thing that curled at the edges of her lips.

Because the thought felt good.

Not just the idea of making them die, but making them suffer.

She had been five years old when she understood the truth.

The weak exist only to be hurt.

She had been weak. Small. Powerless. A thing to be kicked, beaten, strangled, and cursed at.

And she had accepted it.

At first.

She had tried to be good. She had tried to obey. Tried to love.

And she had been rewarded with broken ribs, bruised flesh, and hands squeezing her throat until she saw nothing but black.

So, she made a choice.

If the weak were meant to suffer—Then she would never be weak again.

Her father struck her across the face that night. A careless, lazy hit, one meant to shut her up for simply existing.

She did not flinch.

She did not cry.

She only watched.

The sting bloomed across her cheek, spreading like fire under her skin.

But the pain did not fade.

No. It clung to her. A deep, pulsing ache that throbbed beneath her skin. It did not heal like it should have.

And she wondered—

What if they felt like this, too?

What if she could make them feel this pain forever?

A sharp shiver ran down her spine, a thrill unlike anything she had ever known.

It made her smile.

She needed a weapon.

Not just any weapon. Something small, sharp, deadly.

And then she saw it.

The butcher's knife gleamed in the dim light of the market. A perfect, wicked thing, meant to carve through flesh with ease.

Her mother was too busy screaming at a vendor to notice when her small hands snatched it.

The weight of it in her palm felt right.

She brought it home, hiding it beneath the loose floorboards of the shack.

And then, she waited.

Her mother was the easiest to study.

She was sloppy. Always drunk, always reeking of cheap alcohol. Her movements were clumsy, her mind slow.

She lashed out without thinking, striking whatever was in reach. Sometimes a slap, sometimes a kick, sometimes a fist wrapped around her throat, squeezing.

It hurt.

But it taught her.

A slap to the face? Weak.A hit to the stomach? Not enough.A kick to the ribs? Messy.

But a knife?

A knife could peel flesh away.

A knife could slice tendons, sever nerves, carve pain into bone.

She pressed her fingers to the bruises on her skin, memorizing.

Her mother had soft spots. The fragile curve of her throat. The delicate veins along her wrists. The tender flesh beneath her ribs.

Her father was different. Stronger. Meaner. But even he had weaknesses.

The base of the spine.The inside of the thighs.The flesh just above the collarbone.

Yes.

If she was careful, if she was slow, she could make them feel everything.

Not just pain.

But suffering.

Agony.

She imagined her mother screaming as her skin peeled back, layer by layer, never healing, never fading.

She imagined her father writhing as his flesh tore open, as phantom pain clawed at him even in death.

A quiet thrill ran through her.

She liked the thought of it.

She loved it.

And she couldn't wait.