Seven years rolled past like one endlessly stretched-out storm.
The boy who once hid behind his father's coat now stood at twelve years old, quieter, sharper, and carrying a kind of silence no child should have.
Today, he was sick—head heavy, body weak. A cold, the doctor said.
He lay curled on the couch under a thin blanket, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe. Every small creak meant something. Every sound felt like a memory.
His father moved around the kitchen, opening drawers, pockets, checking his wallet.
"Just rest," he had told him. "I'll be back soon."
The boy nodded. He didn't say it out loud, but he already knew something most people would never catch:
His father wasn't just his father.
He was Smiley.
And even though the boy didn't want to understand that world, he wasn't stupid. He had seen enough late-night disappearances, whispered phone calls, discarded gloves, and coded notes to know.
But he decided long ago:
If he pretended not to know… he could pretend things were normal.
His father adjusted his jacket, walked to the door, and hesitated. He turned back and gave a small smile—tired but warm.
"Be good, Smiley."
The boy blinked. He still wasn't used to that nickname.
But it made him feel seen. Loved.
Then the door shut.
And the world shifted.
---
The market was buzzing with weekend noise. Vendors shouting, kids running, pots clanging. Nobody paid attention to the man walking through the stalls, casually checking medicine prices and asking for throat syrup.
But several pairs of eyes tracked him with unnatural precision.
Across the street, in a parked car, two detectives whispered over a file.
Farther down, an undercover officer pretended to read a newspaper but hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.
Because earlier that morning, a man—one of the criminals responsible for destroying that family—had finally cracked.
He called in an anonymous tip.
And when the department dug into it, the past lined up too perfectly.
Too perfectly for coincidence.
So they moved.
Quietly.
Deliberately.
Like a tightening net.
The man—Smiley—noticed the pattern. Of course he did. Seven years of paranoia had sharpened him to a weapon.
He shifted his weight, pretended to browse apples, and walked the other way.
The officers mirrored him.
He changed direction again.
So did they.
He inhaled sharply, dropped the items in his hand, and bolted.
Shouts rose.
People screamed.
Vendors scattered.
His footsteps hammered against the concrete as he tried to cut into a side building—just enough cover to disappear.
But one of the officers, tense and too eager, raised his weapon.
A command was yelled.
Ignored.
A shot rang out.
The man's body jerked and collapsed—instant, heavy, final—falling onto the cold ground.
The small paper bag beside him slid out of his hand, spilling a few pieces of candy onto the dirt.
Not for him.
For his son.
---
Back home, the boy couldn't shake the feeling.
A pressure behind his ribs.
A wrongness in the air.
He tried to distract himself by turning on the TV. Static. A random show. A cooking channel. Boring news.
Then—
"A man was shot dead earlier today at the farmers market this morning…"
He froze.
The remote slipped from his hand.
The room tilted.
He leaned closer, eyes widening as the camera showed the market entrance, cordoned with tape.
"Authorities believe the suspect may be connected to—"
He didn't hear the rest.
He didn't need to.
His entire chest collapsed inward.
His heartbeat became a hammer.
Then the reporters continued:
"Officers are now heading to a residence believed to be linked to the suspect."
The boy stood so fast his knees buckled.
His vision blurred.
But adrenaline shoved him upright.
He ran to his room, dumping drawers, grabbing a few clothes, stuffing money into a small backpack with shaking hands. Tears streaked his face nonstop, but he wiped them fiercely—like crying itself was dangerous.
He stumbled to the back door, swung it open—
And collapsed forward, falling to his knees.
His body couldn't keep up. He was sick, terrified, and starving.
He lifted his head—
And froze.
---
Three officers stood in the doorway.
Officer 1 — The Shooter
Mid-30s. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.
Everything about him said "follows orders first, thinks later." His expression didn't soften when he saw the kid—it only tightened, like he was bracing for trouble.
Officer 2 — The Veteran
Late 40s. Broad shoulders. A trimmed beard peppered with grey.
Tired eyes that had seen too many cases and regretted half of them.
He looked at the boy with something like sympathy buried under exhaustion.
Officer 3 — The Rookie
Early 20s. Nervous posture. Short hair tucked behind her ears.
She wore round glasses that kept sliding down her nose.
She clearly didn't want to be here. Her hands shook slightly as she stepped forward.
The three of them exchanged a glance.
The veteran spoke first:
"Son… you need to come with us. We'll take you somewhere safe."
The boy's chest tightened.
Safe?
An orphanage?
Away from his home? His life? His father?
He panicked.
He pushed himself up with everything he had and screamed:
"NO!"
Then he ran.
Weak, stumbling, gasping—
But running.
Straight into the forest behind the house.
The officers shouted and followed.
Branches slapped his arms, his lungs burned, his legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but he didn't stop—couldn't stop.
Until his body made the decision for him.
He collapsed face-first into a bush, shivering violently.
The world dimmed.
The forest spun.
Then everything went blank.
---
When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. Sterile lights. White walls. IV in his arm.
The veteran officer stood nearby, arms crossed.
The rookie sat in a chair, looking guilty.
The shooter leaned against the door, unreadable.
A doctor entered, holding a chart.
"He'll recover from the cold," he said slowly.
"But… that's not all we found."
The room tensed.
The doctor looked at the boy with a gentleness he hadn't felt in months.
"There are signs of multiple personality disorder. Stress-induced. Long-term."
A pause.
"A case of MPD."
The officers exchanged heavy looks.
The boy just stared at the ceiling.
Silent.
Empty.
A door inside him had just closed for good.