I greet him as usual, leave the house, and slowly make my way to school. Then it's academy, home, school, academy, home—the same routine repeats. Every day when I return, that fox-like face welcoming me is absolutely sickening.

Even though we don't share a single speck of resemblance, I remember that day. My mother, who opened the door to a knock, collapsed from a gunshot. My father, who tried to shield me with his body, fell in less than a second to the sound of gunfire. As a four-year-old who lost both family and home overnight, I had nowhere to go and nowhere safe in this world.

I didn't exactly hate him for acting like my real father. I wore what I wanted, ate what I wanted, and went wherever I pleased. To others, I probably look like a child born with a silver spoon who can do anything. They don't know the story behind it, rotting with blood.

Hey, you crazy old man. Do you really think it's normal to have men in suits watching every single path I walk?