The night reeked of rain and smoke.
Ace sat huddled in the corner of his room, knees drawn to his chest, his dark hair sticking to his sweat-soaked face. His parents' voices roared through the house again—accusations, curses, the sound of shattering glass. Each word was a blade, each crash a reminder that he was nothing more than a burden to them.
He had learned long ago not to cry. Tears brought punishment. Silence was safer.
The door creaked open.
"Hey."
Ace looked up, his breath catching. John stood in the doorway, his smile soft but tired, brown hair plastered to his forehead from the storm outside. His eyes—warm, unshakably kind—cut through the gloom like sunlight.
"You okay?" John asked, stepping in.
Ace shook his head before he could stop himself. John crouched down, gripping Ace's shoulders firmly. "You don't have to lie to me. I'm here."
For a moment, Ace believed him. John was always there—patching his wounds, shielding him from his parents' rage, whispering promises that one day things would be better.
But promises didn't stop fists.
The door slammed wide, and Ace's father filled the frame, his face twisted in fury. His mother's shadow lingered behind him, eyes sharp with cold detachment.
"Get away from him," his father barked.
John stood his ground. "You can't keep doing this to him. He's just a child!"
That defiance sealed his fate.
What happened next blurred in Ace's memory—a flash of violence, a shove, his father's strike landing too hard, too fast. John fell, blood spilling across the wooden floor. His body crumpled into Ace's arms.
"No, no, no…" Ace whispered, shaking him, his small hands slick with crimson. "John, don't leave me. Please—"
John coughed, each breath weaker than the last. Yet he still smiled, his hand trembling as it reached for Ace's.
"It's not your fault," he rasped. "Remember that. Never your fault."
And then, with his final strength, he pressed something cold and heavy into Ace's palm—a black ring veined with faint, glowing colors.
"This… was my family's. It's yours now." His eyes softened, dimming like a candle's flame. "Live, Ace. Live for me."
The words etched themselves into Ace's soul as John's body went limp. The warmth drained from him, leaving Ace clutching the lifeless form of the only person who had ever loved him.
The storm outside broke harder, thunder rattling the house, as if the sky itself mourned.
Ace screamed, a sound torn from the rawest part of him—grief, rage, despair fused into one. But no one came to comfort him. His parents only watched, cold and unfeeling, as if the boy's world hadn't just ended.
That night, at the fragile age of seven, Ace Dragon was born—not from love, but from betrayal, blood, and loss.