Chapter 4: Fear (1)

The daylight hours passed, and night came quickly. Somewhere in London, while most residents were already asleep, a single house remained lit, with the unmistakable sounds of a struggle coming from within.

"It's time for you to tell me where you've kept the manuscript!" growled a man with a raspy voice and a large, hunched figure, addressing another man before him.

The man, dressed in tatters, sat slumped against the wall. Blood dripped from his face, and blade marks marred various parts of his body.

"You vile monster," he spat weakly, his voice strained and breath labored as he clutched at his ribs, likely broken in the fight. "You think I'll tell you where the manuscript is? I'd rather die than let you have it."

The hunched man turned to his companion. "What should we do? He doesn't seem like he'll talk."

A third figure limped into the room from the shadows, holding a stack of papers. His face was twisted in a mix of disdain and exhaustion. "Just kill him already. The manuscript clearly isn't here, and we have more pressing matters than wasting time with this old fool."

With a growl of frustration, the hunched man raised a massive hand—so large and misshapen it barely resembled that of a human. "Fine. Die, vermin!"

He brought his hand down with overwhelming force, crushing the man's skull in a single brutal blow. Blood splattered across the room, a gruesome testament to the violence.

"Are you done now? Let's go. We can't keep the prince waiting."

At the top of the BT Tower, the tallest structure in London, a man in a sharp suit and dark glasses stood gazing into the city night. His presence exuded authority and menace.

Two figures emerged from the shadows and knelt before him. "We greet the prince," they said in unison.

The man—clearly the prince—spoke without turning. "Well? Did you get what I asked for?"

The hunched man hesitated before responding. "The manuscript wasn't there. He must have moved it somewhere else."

The prince’s tone turned icy, his voice filled with suppressed rage. "Are you telling me you failed?"

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Sensing the shift in mood, the hunched man stammered, "N-no, that’s not what I—"

Before he could finish, an invisible force gripped his neck and lifted him off the ground. The air grew heavy, making it difficult for everyone to breathe.

"We will find it, Your Highness!" the limping man interjected, his voice trembling. "Please, ease your anger!"

The tension in the room dissipated, and the prince released his grip. "Find the manuscript. And find the boy!"

The two men nodded in unison, vanishing into the darkness.

The prince spread his arms and shouted into the night, "Sooner or later, I will gather all the manuscripts. No one can stop me. I will unleash havoc upon this world once more!"

...

January 12, 1970.

Somewhere in London, there was a small, blue-painted house. It was home to a single mother and her 10-year-old son, Ezekiel. However, the house harbored a dark secret: the mother had been abusing her child for years. The secret remained hidden, as the mother kept Ezekiel isolated from the outside world, never revealing his existence to anyone.

"Ezekiel, you worthless brat!" the mother’s voice echoed through the house. Ezekiel stood trembling in front of her, fear etched on his face. Without warning, she slapped him hard across the cheek, sending him stumbling to the floor.

She grabbed him by the neck, choking him as her eyes burned with rage. "Your father left me because of you! You're nothing but a curse!"

"M-Mother, I-I can't b-breathe," Ezekiel stammered, struggling for air.

In her fury, the mother flung him aside. Ezekiel's head slammed against the wall, leaving a bleeding gash. He clutched his forehead, tears streaming silently down his face. He dared not make a sound, terrified it would provoke her further.

"You're worthless," she sneered, "always causing problems."

The mother stormed off to the living room, reaching for yet another bottle of liquor. She had been an alcoholic for as long as Ezekiel could remember, never once sober in his short life.

Ezekiel struggled to stand, his legs wobbly from the impact. Tears continued to flow down his cheeks as he shuffled to his small room, closing the door behind him. There, in the solitude of his space, he wept quietly. His mind raced with questions: Why did she hate him so much? Why did she always hurt him? Why had he never felt a shred of love from her? Trapped in such a harsh reality, he wondered if his life was even worth living.

But Ezekiel harbored another secret, one he had never shared with anyone. For as long as he could remember, a voice had spoken to him in his mind—a voice claiming to be his guardian.

"Ezekiel," the voice cooed, sweet yet laced with malice, "why do you let that vile woman keep hurting you? Why not let me help you take revenge?"

Ezekiel said nothing, only crying softly.

"I have a wonderful idea," the voice continued, its tone both enticing and unnerving. "Would you like to hear it?"

Ezekiel hesitated but then stopped crying. "W-what is it?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Your mother hurts you because of your father, doesn’t she? What if you could help her reunite with him? Don’t you think she’d finally love you if you did?"

Ezekiel blinked, considering the words. He was too young to recognize the sinister intent behind them. "H-how would I do that?"

"I know a special ritual," the voice replied, barely concealing its glee. "It will help your mother meet her beloved husband again."

"R-really? Teach me," Ezekiel said, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer of hope.

"Of course," the voice said, snickering softly. "The first step is..."