They grew up together, side by side, as if the outside world didn't exist.
They played in the yard, shared silly secrets, laughed at anything and everything.
And with time, they weren't just siblings — they were best friends.
Rodrigo was the shield. Luciana, the light.
He protected her in school fights, she helped him with homework.
He wiped her tears, she made him laugh on his worst days.
They lived as if they'd been made for one another — not as lovers, but as mirrored souls. As if one had been born to give meaning to the other's existence.
And for a time, that was enough. It was enough for Rodrigo to keep going.
But then, as if the universe had decided to rip everything away from him…
That night came.
The cursed night.
The night when everything was taken.
The night when joy turned to mourning.
The night when the promise was broken, and Rodrigo was forced to witness the fall of everything he loved most.
Like a dark mist swallowing a blooming field, the happy memories were consumed, smothered, drowned — replaced by screams, blood, and death.
That night.
The cursed night that stole his family.
The night that took everything.
The night that changed him forever.
The door crashing open.
Like thunder inside the house, ripping apart the silence of dinner.
Rodrigo remembers.
He remembers every detail.
The four masked men storming into the house, their eyes hidden behind cowardice.
He remembers the muffled sound of boots striking the floor, the glint of weapons under the hallway's dim light.
And then — the first shot.
No warning.
No threats.
Just the dry bang and a scream of pain.
His father fell to the ground, a bullet through his leg.
Blood spread fast, running across the tiled floor, as if the house were being marked by some cruel, inevitable ritual.
Rodrigo was back there.
Paralyzed.
His body shaking, his mind in shock, unable to tell if it was real or just a nightmare.
And then, a forgotten memory surfaced — something he hadn't recalled until now.
His mother.
She didn't hesitate.
As the shots rang out, as chaos exploded around them, she ran to him.
She didn't flee.
She didn't hide.
She ran to protect him.
Even knowing what that meant.
He saw her stretch out her arms as if to shield him, to push him out of the line of fire.
And for a brief second, he felt the warmth of an embrace that never happened.
Then came the second shot.
The sound was different. Heavier. Closer.
The impact spun her body in the air before it hit the floor.
In the chest.
Rodrigo saw it.
With his own eyes.
That expression — pain and love blended together.
As if she still said, without words:
"Run, my son."
"You need to live."
But he didn't run.
He only screamed.
And that scream still echoed inside him. Even now.
Maybe that trauma had been so unbearable that his mind, in a final act of self-preservation, decided to bury it.
Hide the scene.
Erase the sound.
Mute the horror.
But now…
Now it was too late.
The memory had returned.
And with it, the words.
His mother's last words.
Words that echoed, slicing his soul with the cruel precision of a blade:
"Please, don't hurt my children!"
She yelled that as she ran.
Ran with the desperation of a mother who no longer cared for herself.
She ran to protect them.
Rodrigo and Luciana.
And then... the shot.
That harsh, violent blast in the dining room.
Her body thrown forward — a dull thud on the cold floor.
The bullet hit her square in the chest.
Rodrigo saw it.
Saw the blood soaking through her blouse.
Saw her lips part, trembling.
But no sound came.
Only silence.
Her eyes, once alive, now began to fade.
But even in that final sliver of life, she looked at him.
She looked at him.
And her lips, stained with blood, moved...
Slowly...
Trembling...
And he understood.
Even without hearing, he understood.
"I love you."
Those three words weren't spoken aloud.
But in that moment, they screamed inside him.
They screamed with a pain deeper than any wound.
And in that instant, something inside Rodrigo died too.
His eyes met Luciana's.
And in that moment frozen in time, Rodrigo saw everything.
The fear.
The terror.
But above all, a silent plea for protection.
She didn't need to speak.
The look of a child who fully trusted her brother said everything:
"Save me."
"Please, protect me."
And then, something inside him snapped.
There was no more room for fear.
Only instinct.
Only impulse.
He ran.
In a desperate, irrational, brutal act — he charged at the attackers who were already slipping away through the door, like shadows fading into the dark.
He lunged at one, tackling him with all his strength, with rage, with everything he had.
It was a clumsy, dirty, unbalanced fight — but he managed.
He tore the mask off the man who had shot his parents.
And then the world stopped.
Time froze.
His heart almost forgot to beat.
Lucius.
The man he had always called "uncle."
The one who came to family barbecues.
Who smiled at him, brought him birthday gifts.
The man his father called brother.
Rodrigo dropped to his knees.
There were no words.
Only a question.
Not spoken aloud.
But echoing brutally, endlessly in his head, like thunder that never fades:
"Why?"
The betrayal wasn't just in the blood.
It was in the trust.
In the love Rodrigo once had for that man.
And now... now he was there, stained with his parents' blood.
Then he heard it:
"We have to kill both of them. They saw my face."
That phrase, said with coldness and ease, yanked him from his daze like a cruel slap of reality.
Rodrigo didn't have time to think — only to react.
He turned with his heart racing and ran.
Ran toward the only person he had left.
His sister.
Luciana.
He wanted to protect her.
To hold her.
To cover her with his own body, if he had to.
But it was too late.
A shot.
The blast cut through the air.
Pain exploded in his back — violent, burning, like fire tearing through flesh.
Rodrigo fell.
The ground welcomed him like a premature tombstone.
Even fallen, he tried to crawl.
His arms trembled.
His body refused to move.
But his mind, his soul, had only one goal: to reach her.
Luciana.
Then... the second shot.
And this time, it was her.
Rodrigo heard the dull sound.
Then silence.
He looked ahead and saw.
The blood trickling.
Her body falling.
Her eyes, once full of fear and life, now fading, distant, empty.
She was leaving.
Right there, before him.
And he... he could do nothing.
With the last strength he had, Rodrigo reached out his hand.
Tried to touch her.
To save what remained.
But all he managed...
Was a whisper.
Low. Weak. Full of pain and regret.
"I'm sorry."
Those were his last words before the darkness took him.
Before the world completely collapsed.
Rodrigo screamed.
Or at least tried to.
But no voice came from his throat.
No sound. No syllable. Not even a breath.
His mouth dry. The silence suffocating.
His eyes wide open, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest.
The owl was there — motionless, imposing, staring at him with golden eyes that pierced through his soul.
Then, in a burst of desperation and pain, he mouthed the words, even knowing no one would hear:
"Why? Why are you doing this to me?!"
It was more than a question.
It was a plea.
A cry from someone who no longer knew if he was alive, dead, or condemned to madness.
But there was no answer.
Nothing but the absolute silence that ruled that impossible place.
Nothing but his own conscience — cruel and relentless — as his only companion.
And then came more memories.
Not as flashes. Not as dreams.
But as wounds being ripped open again.
As if the owl, with its severe gaze, was digging into his mind, uncovering everything he had tried to bury.
Rodrigo was trapped.
Not by chains.
But by everything he had done.
By everything he failed to stop.
And the owl… it only watched.
As if it were the reflection of his sins.
Now, the memories that surfaced were no longer about childhood, family, or grief.
They were about death.
About blood spilled by his own hands.
Rodrigo tried to look away.
Looked at the owl again, his eyes begging, pleading like a terrified child:
"No. Please. Don't show me this."
But it remained unshaken.
Still.
Unyielding.
And then, the first scene came.
As if his mind had been ripped from his body and thrown back into the past.
A past he avoided facing… until now.
They were in a narrow alley in a neighborhood ruled by fear.
A stifling night, the distant sound of loud music, and the bitter stench of sewage in the air.
There he was, Rodrigo, just eighteen years old, holding an iron bar.
Waiting.
His heart pounding, hands trembling — not with fear, but anticipation.
The victim was a boy. Nineteen. Thin, with a distracted look, too innocent for the world he lived in.
Rodrigo didn't ask anything. Didn't hesitate.
He struck the boy's head with all his strength.
The dull thud echoed in his mind like a hammer.
The body dropped, and he dragged it into the bushes like trash.
Cold.
Focused.
With fury in his eyes.
The memory intensified.
Rodrigo saw himself splashing cold water on the unconscious boy's face.
Then slaps.
Then questions.
"Do you know Lucius? Who do you work for?"
Nothing.
Denials.
Silence.
Rodrigo didn't believe it.
He didn't want to believe it.
So, he kept going.
Pliers on the nails.
Punches to the teeth, until they came loose.
Needles jammed under his toenails.
Cries. Blood. Screams.
But no answers.
No leads.
No confession.
To Rodrigo, that could only mean one thing:
Lies.
And then... he finished it.
He slit his throat.
Simple. Cold.
Watched the blood flow, slow and warm, staining the earth like paint.
And in a low, almost serene voice, he justified himself:
"Even if you had no ties to Lucius... you're still a criminal. So you deserve to die."
Those words echoed like blades in his memory.
And now... they were coming back to him.
With the weight of a thousand knives in his chest.
Rodrigo wanted to vomit.
To disappear.
To rip out his eyes so he wouldn't see anymore.
But he knew.
The owl wasn't done yet.
It still had much to show.
And he... much to answer for.
Rodrigo continued his bloody path, following a road of no return.
He tortured. He killed. Without distinction.
Men. Women. Teenagers. Adults. Even children nearing adolescence.
If they crossed his path, if they even remotely resembled what he sought — or were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time — they were marked for death.
At first, there was a purpose.
Lucius.
It was all for him. For justice. For revenge.
That's what Rodrigo told himself, every time he drew screams from another victim.
And when doubt crept in, when the blood began to weigh on his hands, he whispered:
"It's fine… they were criminals. No one will miss them. I'm just doing what the State won't."
Justice by his own hands. Justice done by a "good citizen."
That's how he justified it.
That's how he stood tall.
It was a lie. But it was all he had.
Over time, that lie crumbled.
Silently, like a shell falling away.
And beneath it, Rodrigo saw what he had truly become.
Because after so many corpses, so many deaths…
He started to enjoy it.
The hunt for Lucius became a distant pretext, weakened by the shadow of the darkest addiction a man can bear:
the pleasure of killing.
It no longer mattered if they were criminals.
It no longer mattered if they were guilty.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Rodrigo killed.
Rodrigo felt pleasure.
Rodrigo smiled.
And he believed it filled the hole in his chest.
The absence of his sister, the guilt of the broken promise, the pain of betrayal.
But it was a lie.
The truth?
It was rotting what was left of him.
He was killing himself — slowly, painfully, spiritually — with each new victim.
With every new night of drugs.
With every new naked body he shared a bed with, trying to silence the screams still echoing inside him.
Rotten.
Because his soul no longer knew right from wrong.
Only blood.
Only the silence that came after the screams.
Pitiful.
Because the spirit that once belonged to a loving, protective, hopeful boy…
Was now just a shadow. A deformed ghost.
But he still didn't know that.
Or pretended not to.
And the worst…
The worst was yet to come.