From the moment I was born, everything was a tragedy.

My mother died giving birth to me, and my father carried that fact like a lifelong resentment.

The days I saw my father sober could be counted on one hand, and even then, his gaze toward me was always cold.

I wanted to be loved.

Just one warm look, one kind touch would have been enough.

So I always strove to be a 'good child'.

Just like in the books—because good children are always praised.

I waited silently for the day my father would finally smile at me.

---

Miraculously, that day arrived on my sixth birthday.

Unlike usual, my father hadn't been drinking; he smiled at me for the first time and showed interest.

I was so happy I felt like I owned the world.

It felt like I was finally being acknowledged.

Wanting to give this joy back to my father, I took out my crayons and drew a picture with my clumsy hands.

I ran to the living room calling for my father, but there was no answer.

The living room light, usually so bright, felt ominously dark.

When I looked up—

My father was hanging from the ceiling.

Why?

How could this be?

Was I not a good child?

After that, everything fell apart beyond repair.

The butler and servants remaining in the mansion gave me warmth for a brief moment, but that too was fleeting.

One by one, the people who were kind to me fell ill or died in accidents.

The butler, the servants, and even those I only briefly crossed paths with.

'Devil', 'Monster', 'The child who killed his parents'.

Before I knew it, that was what people called me.

And finally—

CRASH—

With a loud noise, the old door of the mansion was smashed open.