The morning sun crept through the curtains as Damian woke up. He sat on his bed, as he always did, sketching quietly with a pencil in hand. Downstairs, the familiar sounds of his siblings echoed through the house—laughter, chatter, and the clinking of dishes as they prepared for school.
Eventually, Damian left his room and walked down the stairs. At the dining table, his family was laughing and talking. His mother looked up, saw him, and greeted,
"Good morning, Damian."
But his twin smirked and muttered, "Loser."
The whole family burst into laughter—everyone except Clara.
Damian remained silent, ate his cereal without a word, and prepared for school.
At the school gates, Jonathan, the bully, was waiting. Without hesitation, he shoved Damian against the wall, beat him, and stole his money. Damian didn't fight back. He was used to it. He simply walked to class, took his notes, and tried to focus.
During recess, he returned to his drawings. But Jonathan and his gang found him again. This time, they tore his sketches apart, laughing as the papers scattered. Damian clenched his fists but stayed silent.
That evening, when Damian came home, his parents were already dressed. They told the children to get ready—they were going to a concert. Everyone had tickets… except Damian. He was left behind.
Alone in the house, he played video games to distract himself. Then—
Crash.
The sound of glass breaking.
A shadow slipped inside. Damian froze, then moved quickly. He rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and ran upstairs, hiding in his room. His heart pounded as footsteps crept closer.
A harsh voice echoed through the silence:
"Wherever you are, come out! I swear, I won't hurt you…"
But Damian said nothing. He stayed perfectly still.
Then—creak. The closet door swung open.
In a flash, Damian lunged forward. The blade in his hand struck again and again, driving the intruder to the floor. He stabbed relentlessly, his small frame trembling as the knife tore through flesh. By the time it was over, the burglar's body was a bloody ruin.
Damian sat beside the corpse, breathing heavily. His hands shook, but his expression was blank. It wasn't fear—it was something else, something darker.
When his family returned, their screams filled the house. His mother collapsed at the sight of the body. His father called the police.
The news spread quickly, all the way to William—Damian's grandfather.
Damian had never met him before. His father and William had been estranged for years. But now, William came. He listened to what had happened: a 12-year-old boy who had killed without hesitation… and who had since refused to speak, drawing only ravens in his notebooks.
William recognized the signs immediately. Psychopathy.
But this was not a learned cruelty. William had tortured and killed in the war, his own darkness shaped by violence. Damian, however, was different. He had been born with it.
William approached his son with a decision. He would take Damian in. Raise him. Teach him.
Damian's family agreed too quickly—too eagerly. They wanted him gone. Only Clara's eyes showed sadness.
Damian overheard everything from the stairs. He didn't protest. In fact, he accepted.
Earlier that day, William had already spoken to him in private:
> "What you carry inside, Damian, is not a curse. It is a gift.
If you can control it, I will teach you how.
Come with me—if you are willing."