It was a thunderstorm. Night had drowned the city in darkness.A man, his face hidden from view, stepped inside the old house. He had been away for months.
Exhausted, he dropped onto the sofa, stretching his arms before letting out a long yawn. His eyes wandered around the familiar walls, misting with tears as the memories of his father washed over him. His father was gone now, and every corner of the house whispered of him.
Then something caught his attention.A light flickered inside one of the rooms before going out. The door creaked open — a door he had never seen open before. His father once told him it was always locked by the true owners of the house.
He stood. Slowly, cautiously, he walked toward it. The hallway light barely pushed back the shadows. The man slipped a gun from his pocket and entered.
The air inside was suffocating. A strange, rotten stench clung to the room. His breathing grew heavy.
Then, movement.A shadowy silhouette at the far end. Another man.
The stranger noticed him and ducked behind a container. The man circled quickly, ready to catch him red-handed. But when he reached the other side—nothing. Empty.
Click.The sound of a gun cocking snapped through the room.
He spun around instantly, gun raised—face to face with the intruder, who was aiming back at him.
Both men froze. Silent.
"Who are you?" the man demanded.
The stranger's voice was calm: "I'm the owner of this house. I heard the old man died… so I came back to claim what's mine."
The man's grip tightened on his weapon. His throat was dry. "May I ask… who you are?"
The stranger hesitated, then said: "I'm his son. This house isn't abandoned." His voice sharpened. "So tell me… why are you here without permission?"
The supposed householder chuckled, his smirk audible in the dark. "So, you also live here? Good. Saves me the trouble of hunting the culprit. Seems the culprit just walked straight to me."
The man blinked, confused. "Culprit? What do you mean? I'm not a criminal. What crime are you accusing me of? If anything, you're the intruder here."
The other man laughed. "Don't play dumb. You don't even need to act the fool… because you already are one. Standing here, in this cursed room—how ironic."
"What do you mean by this room?" the man snapped. "This door was always locked. My father told me it was sealed by you, the real householders. So how would I even know about it?"
The stranger's tone hardened. "Locked? Stop making up stories. Answer me instead… What did these children… women… and men ever do to you and your father? Why did you kill them?"
The man's breath caught. His eyes narrowed. Before he could speak, the stranger flipped the switch.
The room lit up.
And it was horror.
Dozens of corpses filled the space—children, women, men. Severed heads lined up on the desk like trophies. Their bodies stuffed into fridges, fresh blood dripping, pooling across the floor.
The man's eyes widened in terror. His gun trembled. His pulse raced in his ears.
"You killed them!" the stranger's voice thundered.
Darkness swallowed the scene.
And the true story began.
Near Arabia, in a province far more advanced than the rest, stood the city of Alitera.A vibrant city. A young city. Bright days, cold nights. With a new king on the throne, its people thrived in peace.
Side scene: A man in a white three-piece suit handed money to a homeless man.
Alitera's economy flourished, home to the wealthiest families in Arabia.
Side scene: More homeless rushed toward the man, but his manager pushed them back.
The man stopped his manager with a gentle hand. Smiling warmly, he gave to them all.
Narrator: This was Akira, the wealthiest man in Arabia, head of the family known as TAF — The Akira & Family.
Onlookers gathered, whispering, "Look… is that Akira?!"
Beloved and respected, Akira donated 20% of his fortune to charity every year. To the people, he was more than rich—he was kind.
But kindness also attracts eyes.In the crowd, a muscular man in a black suit stood silently. Masked, glasses hiding his gaze. He raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth, murmured into it, and disappeared into the crowd.
Alitera, they said, was the city of kindness. Its king's father had once promised no homeless would remain. Akira's vision carried that dream, creating opportunities for the jobless.
Now, the focus shifted:"Sir," Akira's driver asked, "isn't it time to get Ren from school?"Akira glanced into the mirror and nodded. "Yes. Let's go."
The car pulled up to a kindergarten. Outside, his five-year-old son, Ren, waited, surrounded by smiling classmates.
Akira stepped out, greeting the children one by one. Ren ran toward him, arms wide. He stumbled on a stone, nearly falling—until Akira caught him, lifting him with a laugh. Ren's innocent smile shone, his large dark eyes full of light. They said he would one day be the next leader of TAF.
They returned home: the grand Akira mansion, the largest in Arabia.
Ren ran inside, searching for his mother. She bent to embrace him, but he ran past, straight into the arms of his aunt, Naomi. His mother laughed, "Their chemistry… out of my mind."
Soon, Akira's brother Hiroshi appeared, playfully tapping Ren before handing him back to his mother. Smiles, warmth, laughter filled the air. Aya, Akira's wife, gently rubbed her pregnant belly, carrying their daughter to be.
It was a family of love.A house of light.
But where there is light… shadows always wait.
The city at night glowed with calm lights and playful laughter. Yet, far from the mansion, in the dark, a narrow beam pierced the night.
A man in a black coat peered through a telescope, eyes fixed on the Akira mansion.He pressed his walkie-talkie.
"He's still inside. No TAF member spotted leaving. Should we do it now? Over."
The voice on the other end replied coldly:"Not yet. When the time comes… it will be fatal. Over."