It was midnight, in the northern quarter of the capital where the old aristocrats lived, inside one of the grand mansions.
The cold night wind whistled ominously through the dried branches of ancient trees, slipping in through half-open windows. The heavy velvet curtains swayed gently, while moonlight filtered through stained glass, scattering surreal patches of violet, indigo, and blue across the walls and floor.
In the heart of those shifting shadows, Charles — a tall, thin man with a gaunt face and eyes devoid of mercy — moved like a phantom toward the piano, his long black coat trailing silently behind him. He exhaled softly. The silence swallowed everything around him.
With military precision, he sat on the piano bench. For a moment, he listened to the first contact of his fingertips against the ivory surface of the keys. It was as if the piano itself breathed.
At the touch of the first note, the atmosphere changed.
A sharp, cold, merciless sound spread through the air — not music, but the dissection of a soul.
Inside Charles' mind, an old, broken memory reawakened…
The orphanage.
Metal beds, rusted and faded. The stench of dried urine, clouds of cold vapor, and the nightly screams. A child's bare feet trembling on stone floors, while the mocking laughter of older boys echoed.
"Little prince, where's your mommy?"
The merciless fists and kicks rained down on him. Blood dripped from his mouth and face like raindrops onto the floor. Broken teeth, shattered bones — each moment a lifetime of pain no child should endure. A voiceless scream, crushed beneath suffering, endured day after day.
Charles held his breath. His fingers still danced over the keys.
He played a wrong note — deliberately. A controlled error.
"They never understood. They were ugly… vile. But me? I emerged from that darkness… beautiful."
His eyes fixed on the framed portrait of a young woman — his mother. A gentle gaze, a faint smile, dressed in white. Yet in that look, Charles saw nothing but weakness.
The final chords of the piano turned into something like a dark lullaby, a song meant not to comfort, but to put a dead soul to sleep.
And still Charles played calmly, flawlessly — for he had learned that in the human world, only the flawless survived.
When the last chord faded, silence descended upon the mansion like ashes after an ancient fire. Charles rose slowly from the bench, straightened his long, lean body, adjusted the buttons of his velvet coat, and drew a deep breath — as though he had returned from an inward journey.
He walked toward the western wall of the room, where a large family portrait hung. Moonlight through the lattice windows gave life to the painted faces: a young man with a quiet wife, and a shy child standing beside them. Himself. The child who no longer existed.
Charles stopped. He stared at the painted child's face.
What he saw was not innocence, nor a trace of happier days — but the haunting reminder of a living nightmare: a childhood scarred, silenced, forgotten. A childhood devoured, humiliated, broken… leaving behind not a boy, not yet a man — only a survivor. A walking corpse.
Slowly, he reached out to touch the child's face in the painting. His fingertip brushed the stretched canvas with a tenderness that could only come from a man filled with pain. Something like tears welled in his eyes — not out of weakness, but out of mercy for the self that was lost.
In the stillness, another face emerged in his mind. Arthur… and Misha.
Arthur's youthful, determined face. That questioning gaze. That silent fury.
A faint smile touched Charles' lips. Not joy — something closer to hope. A feeling of recognition. Arthur was like him. Not just in intellect or solitude, but in the way he saw the world. A different way of seeing. Arthur was another version of himself — but not yet tainted, not yet broken. Still salvageable.
He pulled his gaze away from the painted child and fixed it on the image of his mother. Her calm face, her faint smile, her gentle eyes. Eyes that had never protected him.
Softly, with a hoarse, trembling voice, he whispered:
"I saw someone… someone who looks at the world like I do, who feels like I do. But he's different… he hasn't reached the darkness yet. It's like looking at my own childhood — only this time… maybe I can save him."
He closed his eyes briefly. Breathed deeply. As though something heavy had been released from within him.
"I want to protect him. To do what no one ever did for me… When I tried to save Misha, I failed. But I won't repeat the same mistake again."
Then he opened his eyes, gazed out the window, and said:
"This is my last act in this world. After I avenge Misha, I'll be free. A new life will begin — one untouched by the past."
Charles drew a long breath. He looked at the moon — full and radiant, its silver light blazing over the city like a second sun. And he knew. Now was the time. The moment to act.
He took his coat and walked slowly out of the mansion.
The air outside was cold; the wind lashed against his face, and his features hardened into something stern, unfeeling. After some time passing through the city streets, he reached a smaller mansion. From afar he watched it: a house with a burnt-brown roof, neo-Gothic design, walls the color of bone. No lights glowed inside. It was clear the place had been abandoned for years.
Charles clenched his fists. His resolve grew stronger.
Suddenly, his body began to change. His features shifted into those of a man in his fifties: white hair, piercing blue eyes. An exact likeness of Marcus — the image Charles wanted his "victim" to see.
Near the mansion, hidden among branches and leaves, lay a small iron door — a secret entrance to a cellar. Charles slipped inside. The underground reeked of rusted iron and blood.
The damp smell of earth, the drip of water striking stone echoed faintly. Charles walked slowly, carefully toward the far end of the cellar, where a scorched wooden door awaited.
As he drew closer, faint screams reached his ears. Screams weakened by pain, carved from open wounds.
Charles pushed the door open. And stepped inside.