I don't remember deciding to go.
My feet just move.
Toward him.
Toward the only place that ever felt like shelter.
The streets blur as I walk. Every step echoes with everything that happened— blood on pavement, the mirror cracking inward. Her voice still coils in my skull.
"THIS IS NOT OVER."
Hana: It is.
I whisper it like a prayer.
But the air doesn't believe me.
By the time I reach my uncle's house, the sky is dim— not night, not day. That in-between hour where shadows stretch too long.
The front door is open.
Wrong.
My chest tightens.
Hana: Uncle?
No answer.
I step inside.
And the smell hits me.
Iron.
Thick.
Fresh.
He's on the floor.
Crawling.
Hands slipping.
Blood soaking through his shirt, pooling beneath him, dark and spreading. Each breath rattles like broken glass in his lungs.
Hana: Uncle—
My voice fractures.
Some figures stand over him.
Laughing.
Kicking him back down when he tries to rise.
Predators.
The same tone. The same cruelty.
History isn't repeating.
It never stopped.
One of them grabs his collar, forcing him onto his back.
Police Uncle: Hana— run—
The word barely leaves him.
The knife flashes.
I don't even scream.
It sinks into him.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Too many times.
They don't look at me.
They don't need to.
He goes still beside my feet.
The man who said, "No child should fight the world alone."
The man who gave me a bed.
Food.
Silence.
Home.
Gone.
Just like that.
Something inside me collapses.
Memories crash through me— my mother falling, my father bleeding, ten-year-old hands shaking in a dark room.
I can't breathe.
I can't move.
I am ten again.
Small.
Helpless.
Alone.
One of them finally notices me.
Smiles.
Predatory.
He steps closer.
Hana: Don't—
The word comes out empty.
Weak.
He laughs.
Reaches for me.
And something inside my chest snaps.
Not breaks.
Snaps.
Rage floods every vein. It burns through grief, through fear, through denial.
It is pure.
Blinding.
Overpowering.
My knees stop trembling.
My tears dry.
And in the middle of that roaring silence—
I hear her.
Soft.
Satisfied.
"Still denying?"
My heart pounds once.
Twice.
No more running.
No more pretending.
They don't get to take another home from me.
Hana: No.
My voice is steady.
Not fragile.
Not shaking.
Hana: I'm done denying.
The man in front of me hesitates.
Too late.
I close my eyes.
For the first time—
I don't resist her.
I don't argue.
I don't try to be human enough to stop her.
Hana: Take it.
All of it.
My rage.
My grief.
My permission.
My soul if you need it.
A breath leaves my lips.
Hana: I accept you.
The air changes instantly.
Heavy.
Hungry.
Alive.
The men step back, confused.
"What the hell—" he began, but the words died in his throat.
The lights flicker violently.
Shadows stretch unnaturally long.
Their own reflections ripple across the window behind them—
And then peel away.
They start screaming.
Not in pain.
In terror.
Something unseen grips them from within.
Bones crack inward.
Skin splits.
Their shadows twist like living things, tearing free from their bodies.
They howl.
Beg.
Apologize.
No one listens.
I don't move.
I don't blink.
Blood sprays across the walls.
Across the floor.
Across me.
And then—
Silence.
They are gone.
No bodies.
No mercy.
Only the echo of their howling fading into nothing.
For the first time in my life—
There is no fear inside me.
Only stillness.
Peace.
Warm.
Gentle.
Like sinking into dark water and realizing it will not drown me.
It will hold me.
I feel her fully now.
Not trapped in glass.
Not whispering.
She wraps around my spine like a second nervous system.
Perfectly aligned.
The house— even miles away— exhales.
I feel it.
Welcoming.
Recognizing.
Like a mother lifting her new-born for the first time.
The darkness does not frighten me anymore.
It cradles me.
I kneel beside my uncle's body.
Touch his cooling hands.
Hana: You said no child should fight alone.
My lips curve slightly.
Not a smile.
Something deeper.
Hana: I won't.
The shadows gather closer.
Not threatening.
Devoted.
And somewhere far away—
In a silent room—
A mirror stands uncracked.
Smiling.
Because this time—
I opened the door willingly.