That Night

CHAPTER 3: The Night the World Burned

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I remember that night.

That one, unforgettable night when the universe seemed to pause—just long enough to watch me ruin everything.

It started like any other evening in the Tetsuya household: quietly, tensely, and with the unmistakable air of everyone pretending I didn't exist.

Since the day I was born, I've carried a strange, invisible curse. My older sister, Reika, never tried to hide how she felt about it. Or me. She avoided me like I was radioactive. If I walked into a room, she'd walk out. If I spoke, she'd ignore me. And if she couldn't do either, she'd glare at me like I'd just personally ruined her life. Spoiler: I probably had.

Being her younger brother was like hugging a cactus. Painful. Lonely. Pointless.

And yet… I still wanted her to care.

There were days when I used to dream of her smiling at me—just once. Calling me "little bro" like in those cheesy family sitcoms. But those were just fantasies. Reika's heart was a vault I didn't have the key for.

Truth is, no one ever asked to be born under a stormcloud. I didn't apply to become the "King of Misfortune." But when your birth causes the hospital to short-circuit, three nurses to slip, and the emergency generator to explode—people tend to talk.

Word spread.

Nurses murmured behind clipboards. Doctors sighed when they saw my name. Even babies in the nursery cried louder when I was nearby. I was a walking omen. A bad-luck charm with messy hair and a runny nose.

And worse than the label was how it changed everything. Family, friends, strangers—they all kept their distance. Like I was a disease they didn't want to catch.

But my mother—my beautiful, overworked, miracle of a mom—she never once turned her back.

Maybe she was immune. Or maybe she was just too kind for her own good.

That night, she came home well past dinnertime. Her shoulders drooped, her eyes were half-lidded, and her arms looked too tired to even lift a spoon. She looked like a ghost with a handbag.

And yet, when she saw me waiting near the hallway… she smiled.

The kind of smile that could light up a whole city. Just for me.

"Welcome home, Mom," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

She bent down slowly, ruffled my hair, and said, "Thanks for waiting, sweetheart."

In that moment, I believed the curse might actually skip her. That she was somehow untouched by my chaos.

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Author's note: Oh, sweet summer child.

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After dinner, I followed her into the study. She worked by candlelight—yes, candlelight, because apparently our home was one scented candle short of a house fire. The wax flickered gently, releasing a lavender scent that tried its best to mask exhaustion.

She was surrounded by a mountain of paperwork. I mean literal mountain. Forms. Drafts. Tax receipts. It looked like Mount Fuji, if Mount Fuji was made entirely out of deadlines.

I didn't want anything. I just wanted to be near her. Maybe make her smile again. Maybe… be useful.

So I sat on the floor with my toys, spinning a little plastic top and pretending it was the most important thing in the world.

And then… it happened.

I leaned too close.

My foot slipped.

And like a domino set collapsing in slow motion, I tumbled forward—arms flailing, eyes wide—right into the desk.

The table jolted violently.

The candle tipped.

Flames leapt to life.

In an instant, half the documents ignited. The fire crackled hungrily, devouring paper like a monster finally let off its leash. I screamed. Mom screamed. And the next thing I knew, her coffee mug crashed over, spilling hot liquid all over the chaos, spreading the fire even further.

We scrambled.

She grabbed a towel, swatting at the flames like a panicked firefighter in pajamas. I tried to help—God knows I tried—but everything I touched seemed to make it worse.

By the time the fire was out, the damage was irreversible.

Her reports—gone. Her project proposal—ashes. And worst of all… the photo. That one precious photo of her and her old colleagues, the only memento she had from her dream job before our lives turned upside down.

She didn't yell.

She didn't say a word.

She just collapsed to her knees, staring blankly at the mess—black ash, coffee stains, the scent of burned paper mixing with lavender wax.

And in that stillness, I saw it.

For the first time in my life… I saw fear in my mother's eyes.

Not fear for me. Fear of me.

Like she'd finally realized what I was. What I brought.

I ran.

I didn't wait for judgment or punishment. I sprinted to my room, slammed the door, and collapsed on the floor.

I didn't cry at first.

I just… sat.

Silent. Cold. Hollow.

I kept waiting for her footsteps. For her knock. For something.

But all I heard was silence.

And that silence? It broke something in me.

That night, the world changed. Or maybe I did.

It wasn't just guilt. It was despair. Heavy, suffocating despair that sat on my chest and wouldn't let me breathe.

I stopped eating. Stopped speaking. Stopped moving. Days passed. The maids whispered. The household tiptoed.

The boy who once caused havoc just by walking through the hallways had become a shadow of himself.

There were no more shattered vases.

No flickering lights.

No exploding appliances.

And that terrified them more than my chaos ever did.

It was as if my sadness had swallowed the curse whole. I was no longer a walking disaster.

I was just... gone.

One day, I sat by the window, face pressed against the glass. Outside, the sun was shining like it had no idea how broken I was. Kids were laughing. Birds were singing.

And there she was—my sister.

Reika stood in the yard, surrounded by her friends. She looked so free. So alive.

She laughed.

I didn't remember the last time I heard her laugh like that.

And then, for no reason I could understand…

She looked up.

Straight at me.

Our eyes met for a heartbeat.

I ducked under the windowsill so fast, I nearly knocked myself unconscious.

My heart pounded.

No, no, no. Please don't come. Please forget. Pretend it was a bird. Or a shadow. Or your imagination.

The door creaked open.

I froze.

Footsteps.

Reika.

"Hey," she said. Cold. Sharp. Just like always. "Were you spying on us?"

I said nothing.

"You deaf or something?" she snapped, walking closer.

Still, nothing. I couldn't speak. My throat felt like stone.

"I hate you," she hissed, reaching over and yanking the blanket off me.

And then she saw my face.

Tears.

Raw, ugly, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.

I wasn't just crying. I was breaking.

My sister stood there, stunned. The air thick with something I couldn't name.

And then—without a word—she did the impossible.

She hugged me.

No insults. No distance. No hesitation.

She pulled me close, arms trembling, voice barely a whisper.

"I'm here."

Two simple words.

And just like that, the dam burst.

I sobbed. Loud, messy, gut-wrenching sobs. I buried my face in her shoulder and cried like I was five years old again. Like I'd been waiting my whole life for that moment.

She held me. Not for seconds.

For minutes.

Long enough for me to believe—for the first time—that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't a curse.

Maybe I was still human.

Maybe I was still worth loving.

That night didn't fix everything.

But it changed something.

I was still the King of Misfortune.

But I was no longer alone.