Five years ago.

Artham would never forget the day he accompanied his father to work—the day his innocence was shattered, the day he first confronted death. Not just one death, not even two, but many. And worst of all, he was responsible for two of them.

At twelve years old, Artham was already different. He had always been aware of that—aware of the way his intelligence set him apart from others his age. But that day, standing beside his father, something within him changed forever. He studied his father’s face, tracing each line, each wrinkle of pride and authority, trying to capture the very essence of the man who had shaped him. He had always admired his father, a man who managed the city’s most notorious prison with an iron will.

He had been fascinated by it for as long as he could remember. The prison—a fortress of steel and stone—was a place where criminals were locked away, where violence and chaos were tamed under the watchful eye of his father. But Artham didn’t fear the place. He was curious. He wanted to see it for himself, to understand the world behind bars, to hear the stories of the men caged like animals.

“Dad, can I come with you to work?” he had asked, his voice filled with eager anticipation. He remembered how badly he wanted to prove himself that day, to show his father that he wasn’t a child like everyone else.

His father, always composed, had frowned deeply. The lines on his face hardened, the weight of his role etched into his expression. Dressed in his dark blue uniform, the badge on his chest glinting with authority, his father looked every bit the man who ruled the prison. But there was a shadow behind his eyes, something he tried to keep hidden.

“No, Artham. You can’t. It’s not a place for children. It’s dangerous and disturbing,” he had said, his voice stern.

But Artham wouldn’t let it go. “I’m not afraid, Dad. I’m not like other kids. I’m the Genius Boy. Everyone knows that. Even if they don’t know who I really am, they know I’m different. Smarter. I can handle it.”

His father’s eyes softened for a moment, a mix of pride and hesitation. Artham was right. He wasn’t like other children. He was sharp, always observing, always asking the right questions, eager to challenge the boundaries of what he knew. There was no denying his son’s brilliance. But brilliance didn’t make the world any less cruel.

After a long silence, his father sighed. “Fine. But you have to promise me one thing. Don’t touch anything. Just observe.”

The memory of the promise hung in the air, but that day, neither of them realized just how much observation would cost.

Inside Metropolis Prison, the atmosphere was suffocating, oppressive. The walls were thick, cold, and the corridors stretched endlessly, like a labyrinth designed to trap the souls within.

Artham walked alongside his father, absorbing every detail. The prison guards moved with precise efficiency, their eyes hardened by years of discipline and violence. Some practiced shooting at the range, others honed their bodies, ready for the chaos that simmered just beneath the surface.

But it was the prisoners who truly captured his attention. They shuffled along the corridors, feet dragging as though the weight of their existence had ground them into the floor. Their eyes were hollow, devoid of hope or light.

Artham could hear the clattering of metal trays during meals—the only sound that broke the heavy silence. The walls of their cells, cracked and stained, seemed to tell stories of the grime and decay of their pasts.

He observed the nuances of prison life. Some prisoners had privileges—small comforts bought by wealth or connections—a pack of cigarettes, a better mattress. It was clear that even here, power clung to life.

But the guards wielded that power too. Artham saw the way some abused their authority, taking out frustrations on the inmates, treating them like animals. He wondered if this was justice, or simply another layer of cruelty.

His eyes wandered over the tattoos and scars on the prisoners’ skin, each mark telling tales of violence, betrayal, and survival. He found himself wondering: What crimes had brought them here? How many lives had they ruined? How many families had they destroyed?

Then, there were the prisoners awaiting execution.

They stood on the edge of life, their faces drained of all color, hands trembling as they faced the finality of death. Artham could see fear carved into their very bones. It struck him harder than he expected.

One of them had murdered a child in cold blood. The other had stolen from a corrupt noble family, a dynasty that had oppressed and exploited the weak. The contrast between their crimes was stark, but their fate was the same.

Artham’s chest tightened as he watched them being led away to the execution chamber.

A storm of emotions crashed within him—pity for their mistakes, disgust for their crimes, and a deep sense of fear for his own safety in such a volatile place. But underneath all that, something darker stirred.

It was a feeling he couldn’t quite name. A kind of power. Control. It flickered in his mind like a spark waiting to ignite.

In that moment, Artham realized he had something they didn’t—his Genius Boy ability. With his mind, he could solve any problem, create anything, manipulate the world around him. His intelligence was his weapon. He could help… or he could destroy.

A dangerous thought crept into his mind: What if I used my ability on them? Tested their limits? Played with their lives? The idea of controlling their fate, of ending their existence with a single stroke of genius, sent a shiver down his spine.

He shook his head, trying to drive away the thought. But it clung to the edges of his mind, a shadow that refused to leave. He knew it was wrong. Dangerous. Evil.

But for a brief moment, the possibility had thrilled him in ways he couldn’t explain. He wasn’t like these prisoners. He wasn’t a killer. He was a good person.

Or at least, he thought, that’s what I keep telling myself.

He glanced at his father, who stood watching the execution with a solemn, unreadable expression. His father, the man he admired more than anyone, was a symbol of justice and strength. Brave. Noble. A protector of society.

Artham had always wanted to be like him. His father’s authority was unquestionable, but it was tempered with compassion and a sense of duty that Artham couldn’t fully grasp.

As the prisoners were led to their fate, Artham felt something twist inside him. He admired his father’s strength, his ability to maintain justice in a world teetering on chaos.

But beneath that admiration, a darker desire lurked—a hunger for control, for power, that his father would never understand.

Artham pushed away the dark impulses that had begun to stir within him. He made a choice—to use his abilities for good, to help others, to improve the world. He would follow in his father’s footsteps, striving to be a better person.

As they left the execution chamber, his father noticed the troubled look on his face.

“What’s on your mind, Artham?” his father asked, his voice filled with quiet concern.

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Artham opened his mouth to respond, but the words tangled in his throat. The images of the prisoners, their hollow eyes, and the finality of their fate still swirled in his mind. After a pause, he managed, “I just don’t get it. Why would people do such horrible things? How do they end up here?”

His father rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, offering comfort in the simplest of gestures.

“Life isn’t always black and white, son,” his father said, his voice steady. “Some people make terrible mistakes that lead them down this path, while others have a darkness inside them they can’t control. It’s our duty to keep them locked away, to protect society.”

Artham nodded, absorbing his father’s words, though the weight of everything he had witnessed still pressed heavily on him. He was trying to make sense of it all—the gray areas his father had mentioned, the darkness in people, the complexities of life. It felt like too much to process, even for him.

As they left the execution chamber, his father paused at the door of a nearby office.

“I need to finish some paperwork before we go,” his father said, his tone soft but returning to its usual calm. “Wait for me just down the hall, alright?”

Artham nodded, but his mind was still swirling with thoughts—trying to make sense of the prisoners, the crimes, the deaths. He leaned against the wall in the hallway, watching his father disappear into the office. For the first time, despite his intellect, he felt overwhelmed—like there were too many pieces of the puzzle, and none of them fit together.

Then, without warning, the world shattered.

A deafening explosion tore through the air, the force of it rattling the walls and sending dust and debris raining down. The ground beneath Artham buckled, and his knees nearly gave out as the shockwave rolled through the building. For a split second, everything froze.

What just happened? His mind raced. What was that?

His heart pounded in his chest, and for a terrifying moment, he forgot all about the prisoners, the executions, and even his own brilliance. All that mattered was one thing: Where’s Dad?

“Dad!” His voice barely escaped his lips, hoarse and trembling.

He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, an unfamiliar wave of panic washing over him. His father had been just down the hall, in the office. The explosion had come from that direction.

Smoke billowed down the corridor, and instinct kicked in. Artham bolted, feet pounding against the shaking floor, heart thudding in his chest. His mind—usually so sharp, so quick—felt sluggish, like it was stuck in thick mud.

Was Dad hurt? Was he trapped? Was this an attack? The questions raced through his mind, but they blurred together in a rush of panic, the thoughts too fast and too frightening.

He rounded the corner and skidded to a stop, his eyes widening in shock.

The hallway ahead was a warzone—smoke, shattered glass, and splintered wood lay strewn across the floor. Through the haze, he could barely make out bodies, some moving, others disturbingly still. The once-solid floor had caved in, leaving jagged edges and piles of rubble where people had been only moments before.

“Dad?” he called again, his voice breaking. He wasn’t used to feeling like this—this vulnerability, this helplessness. His entire body trembled as the full weight of what had happened crashed over him.

Dad can’t be gone. He’s always there. Always in control.

But now, he wasn’t sure. For the first time in a long while, Artham didn’t have the answers. And that terrified him more than anything.

He stood frozen, trying to grasp the horror that had unfolded around him. Smoke filled the air, choking his senses, and the world seemed to blur into chaos. His father was still somewhere in that wreckage.

Artham took a hesitant step forward, but before he could make sense of the disaster, the door behind him creaked open.

He spun around, hoping to see his father’s face, hoping for some sign of him. But instead, he saw a horrifying sight.

It was the mad prisoner—somehow free—emerging from the smoke like a wild beast. His hair was matted, his eyes bloodshot and crazed. His lips twisted into a snarl, baring his stained teeth. In his trembling hands, he held a gun, aiming it directly at Artham.

“You… it’s you. The Genius Boy,” the prisoner hissed, his voice raspy and menacing.

Fear surged through Artham. He stepped back, mind reeling. How does he know me? Why is he here? What does he want?

The prisoner sneered, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with madness. “Curious, aren’t you? You want to know how I recognized you?” His breath reeked of something foul, and his grin widened. “I’ll give you a chance. Guess right, and I’ll spare your life.”

Artham tried to steady his breathing, pushing down the panic. This man was dangerous—a lunatic. Artham could see it in his wild eyes, the way he moved. But there had to be a reason he was targeting him, a connection Artham hadn’t seen yet.

Artham took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Is it… revenge?”

The prisoner’s eyes widened, then he burst into maniacal laughter. The sound echoed through the wreckage, a high-pitched cackle with no trace of joy, only madness.

“Ah, the prodigy!” the prisoner shrieked, voice rising with hysterical delight. “A gift from the heavens! At last, I can seek justice for my daughter, lost because of you—the Genius Boy—at your first public appearance in the capital!”

Artham froze.

He remembered that day. It had been meant to be a celebration—his first major event as the Genius Boy, the youngest inventor in the country. Hundreds of people had gathered, eager to see the prodigy, to touch him, to witness the boy genius in person.

But something had gone terribly wrong.

Artham had been known as Genius Boy, the youngest and brightest inventor in the country. Over a hundred eager fans had gathered outside the venue that day, desperate for a glimpse of him, to touch him, to get his autograph. But the organizers had vastly underestimated the size of the crowd—and their need for control.

When the doors opened, chaos erupted.

The crowd surged forward, a frenzy of shoving bodies, people pushing and trampling over each other in their desperation. Screams filled the air, the sound of panicked voices mingling with the thud of bodies hitting the ground. Artham had stood inside, frozen in horror, watching helplessly as the scene unfolded. He had never felt so powerless.

It was his first—and last—meet and greet.

“Nevisha,” the mad prisoner snarled, his voice low and thick with fury, snapping Artham back to the present. The prisoner’s eyes blazed with a madness that shook Artham to his core. “Your father will have his vengeance. And it won’t end with you. Your entire family will pay!”

The prisoner raised his gun, the cold barrel aimed directly at Artham’s chest. Time seemed to slow, the weight of the moment pressing down like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The air itself seemed to thicken, filled with dread. Artham felt his pulse quicken, his mind racing—but his body frozen in place.

The prisoner's finger tightened on the trigger.

Then, in a blur of movement, Artham’s father appeared out of the smoke, delivering a swift, brutal kick to the prisoner's side. The impact sent the man flying forward like a ragdoll tossed by a giant, the gunshot ringing out a split second too late. The bullet whizzed past Artham’s cheek, leaving a thin, burning line of blood in its wake.

Artham staggered back, touching his face, the warm trickle of blood a reminder of how close death had come.

But the mad prisoner wasn’t finished.

With an animalistic growl, he scrambled back to his feet, bloodshot eyes locked onto Artham’s father. Fury contorted his features as he lunged forward, fists swinging wildly, consumed by rage. Artham’s father met him head-on, his movements quick, deliberate—dodging, weaving, always a step ahead.

A wild punch came hurtling toward him, but Artham’s father deflected it with ease, countering with a sharp, brutal hit to the prisoner’s jaw. The crack of bone reverberated through the room. The prisoner staggered back, dazed but not defeated. His rage fueled him, and with a guttural roar, he charged again—this time aiming a vicious kick at Artham’s father’s midsection.

But once again, Artham’s father was too fast. He sidestepped the attack with a fluid grace and seized the moment. His hand shot down, scooping up the fallen gun from the ground. In one smooth motion, he aimed the weapon at the prisoner.

“No!” The mad prisoner’s voice cracked, desperation lacing his words. His crazed eyes darted between the gun and Artham’s father. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!”

But the protest fell on deaf ears.

The gun fired.

A deafening crack split the air as the bullet tore through the prisoner’s skull. His body went limp, collapsing onto the cold floor in a pool of spreading blood. The rage that had once driven him was gone in an instant, replaced by a chilling silence.

For a brief moment, everything seemed still. The air felt heavy, the world reduced to the dull thud of the prisoner’s lifeless body hitting the ground.

“Dad!”

Artham’s shout cut through the silence, his voice sharp with terror.

His father turned just in time, but it was too late.

From the shadows behind him, another figure lunged—a second prisoner, hidden in the chaos, armed and ready to strike.

Artham’s heart leaped into his throat, a scream caught in his chest as time slowed to a crawl.