Artham’s shout came just in time.

His father spun around with lightning speed, fists already raised as four escaped prisoners lunged at him from the shadows. The gleam of knives and the crack of clubs swung toward him in a brutal onslaught. But Artham’s father was quicker. His fists connected with precision—punches landed with bone-cracking force, while his feet delivered swift, brutal kicks. The room erupted into chaos, a whirlwind of violence and survival.

The prisoners were relentless, attacking with feral intensity, their eyes filled with bloodlust. Artham watched, his heart racing as the air filled with the sound of fists hitting flesh, weapons clattering, and the deep grunts of men fighting for their lives.

But amid the chaos, something struck him as strange.

As his father fought off the attackers, Artham’s sharp mind began to whirl, piecing together the fragments of what he was seeing. The prisoners weren’t running toward the exit—why? They were here, at the execution site, deliberately targeting his father. It didn’t add up. Why would they risk their escape to come here? It made no sense.

Unless... they were here for a reason.

His eyes darted between the prisoners and the distant exit, and suddenly it clicked. This wasn’t an opportunistic attack. This was planned.

His father, still locked in combat, seemed to come to the same conclusion. Between dodging blows and delivering powerful strikes, he muttered through gritted teeth, “This isn’t a coincidence... they planned this.”

A cold dread washed over Artham. These weren’t ordinary criminals. There was something more dangerous at play.

As the prisoners circled his father, their movements grew more coordinated, more focused. And then he understood—their goal wasn’t escape. It was assassination.

Artham’s father knew it too. He fought with renewed fury, adrenaline surging through him. The attacks grew more desperate, but his skill and strength kept him one step ahead. He took down the first prisoner with a crushing blow to the side, then deflected a knife thrust and sent another crashing to the ground with a brutal uppercut. Blood splattered the floor as one by one, the attackers fell.

But there was something else in his father’s eyes—something more than just the instinct to survive. A deep, simmering recognition.

“So, they’ve finally come,” his father thought grimly, his mind flashing to memories of old enemies. This was no random attack. These prisoners weren’t acting alone—they were part of something larger, something deadly. The notorious organization that had haunted his life for years had finally come for him and his son.

As the last prisoner crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him, Artham’s father turned to his son, his face pale but fierce with determination.

“Artham, we need to leave. Now.” His voice was tight with urgency, his eyes scanning the room as if expecting more danger to leap from the shadows. “We’re in grave danger—especially you. These attackers aren’t just prisoners. They’re part of a group—an assassin organization that I’ve been tracking for years.”

Artham’s mind raced. “But why would they target me? I’m just a famous kid,” he said, confusion mingling with fear.

His father’s jaw clenched. “This group doesn’t operate like others. They target families, anyone they perceive as a threat. You might be part of their plan simply because you’re my son. And I’ve made enemies... dangerous ones.”

Artham’s stomach dropped. The reality of the situation hit him like a punch to the gut. He had always seen himself as separate from the violence, safe in the glow of his fame and brilliance. But now, he was a target.

“We need to get out of here. We can’t let them corner us,” his father urged, grabbing Artham’s hand with a grip that spoke of both fear and love. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of, and they won’t stop until we’re both dead.”

“But... what about the prison staff?” Artham asked, glancing down the hallway where chaos had erupted. “What about the others? They’re in danger too!”

His father’s face tightened. He glanced back at the wreckage, the bodies strewn across the floor, the blood staining the walls. For a moment, a flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes.

“We’ll handle it,” he said, his voice resolute, though his hand gripped Artham’s even tighter. “But right now, my priority is keeping you safe. You’re the one they want. We have to go.”

Artham’s heart pounded as they moved quickly toward the exit, the weight of the situation settling heavily on his shoulders. He had always thought of himself as brilliant, untouchable even. But now, reality was closing in fast. The world he had once viewed through the lens of intellect and fame had become something darker, more dangerous.

Every step echoed with the urgency of their escape, his father leading the way with purpose and fear coursing through his veins. But behind them, in the shadows, unseen eyes still watched.

And as they fled, the trap was just beginning to close.

Artham’s eyes flickered across the room, his gaze lingering on the grotesque scene where the mad prisoner had met his grisly end. Blood was splattered across the walls, dripping down in thick rivulets. The stench of death clung to the air, sharp and metallic, making his stomach churn. A shiver crept down his spine. For a brief moment, he couldn’t shake the question swirling in his mind—Who had that man been before he became this monster?

“Dad... what do you know about the mad prisoner? How did he escape?” Artham asked, his voice quiet, edged with a mix of fear and curiosity.

His father glanced at him, his face grim, eyes shadowed with the weight of the situation. “Not much, son. But I heard he was once a brilliant scientist—”

A sudden, thunderous bang cut his father’s words short. The sound echoed down the corridor like a war drum, sending a jolt of adrenaline through Artham’s body. They spun around just in time to see the door at the end of the hallway burst open. A group of armed men stormed through, their faces obscured by black masks, weapons gleaming in their hands. Clubs, pipes, knives—all raised high as they charged.

Their voices were harsh, speaking in a language Artham didn’t understand. But there was no mistaking their intent.

Artham’s pulse quickened, his breath coming in ragged bursts as the realization hit—these men weren’t here to just scare them. They were here to kill. His father met the attack head-on, throwing himself into the fray with a furious strength. He fought off two attackers at once, his fists flying with brutal precision, each strike calculated.

But Artham wasn’t so lucky.

Before he could react, one of the prisoners grabbed him by the arm, yanking him backward with a rough, violent jerk. Pain shot up his arm as he struggled, but the man’s grip tightened like a vice. Artham kicked, twisted, desperate to free himself.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice shrill with terror.

The attacker’s cold eyes met his through the slits of the mask. He pressed a knife to Artham’s throat, the cold steel biting into his skin. The man’s breath reeked of sweat and blood as he snarled, “Stay still, boy, or I’ll slit your throat.”

Artham’s heart pounded in his chest, every beat a drum of terror. He locked eyes with his father, who had paused mid-fight, his face stricken with fear.

Time slowed.

Artham’s father knew he had only seconds to act. If he hesitated, his son’s life would be forfeit. His eyes flicked across the scene, analyzing the positions of the attackers. Three men stood nearby, armed with pipes, crowbars, and a shard of glass. They were poised, waiting to strike, while the man holding Artham pressed the knife against his throat, daring his father to make a move.

Think. Charging in wouldn’t work—they’d overwhelm him. He needed to create an opening, something to give Artham a chance to break free.

His grip tightened on the gun, but he didn’t aim it at the man holding his son.

Instead, his voice came out steady, cold. “Let him go, or I’ll end this right here.”

The prisoner sneered, his knife hovering just above Artham’s skin. “You don’t have the guts,” he spat, tightening his grip.

“I don’t need to shoot you,” his father said quietly, eyes narrowing. “I need to take out your leverage.”

The prisoner’s face twisted in confusion, but before he could react, Artham’s father moved. His gun aimed not at the man, but at the overhead light. He fired, and the bulb exploded, plunging the hallway into near darkness. Glass shattered, scattering across the floor, and shadows consumed the room.

The sudden change stunned the attackers. In that brief moment, the knife wavered.

And that’s when Artham acted.

Without a second thought, he sank his teeth into the man’s hand, biting down hard enough to draw blood. The prisoner yelped in pain, instinctively loosening his grip on the knife. Artham didn’t wait—his leg shot up, and he drove his knee into the man’s groin with all the force he could muster.

The prisoner doubled over, gasping in agony, the knife clattering to the floor. Artham broke free, sprinting toward his father with every ounce of strength he had. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the chaos around him.

But the danger wasn’t over.

As Artham reached his father, the other prisoners—momentarily disoriented by the darkness—began to stir. The men his father had shot earlier groaned, struggling back to their feet, their eyes burning with fury. They were wounded, but far from defeated.

“Run, Artham!” his father shouted, his voice raw as he turned, fists raised to face the attackers.

Artham didn’t argue. He took off, feet slamming against the cold floor as he raced toward the exit. Behind him, the sound of fists colliding with flesh and the clang of metal reverberated through the hall. His father fought with renewed desperation, his movements fueled by the sheer will to keep his son safe.

“You won’t get away, kid!” one of the prisoners roared after him, voice dripping with hatred.

The words struck something deep inside Artham—something fierce, something primal. He wasn’t going to let them catch him. He couldn’t. His father was fighting for him, and he had to survive.

I have to keep running. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs burning with the effort. I have to find a place to hide. I need to wait for Dad.

He darted around a corner, the dim lights casting long shadows that twisted and stretched like monsters on the walls. His legs felt heavy, like lead, and his chest heaved with every breath, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t afford to.

Behind him, the battle raged on. Artham could hear the grunts of pain, the heavy thuds of bodies hitting the ground. His father’s voice, hoarse with exertion, still echoed in his mind: Keep moving. Don’t look back.

Artham’s feet carried him down the winding corridor, past the endless doors and empty cells. The prison seemed to close in around him, the walls tightening like a vice, but he pushed on. Every step was survival. Every breath was a fight to stay ahead of the danger that lurked just behind him.

He turned another corner and skidded to a stop.

Before him, the hallway split into two. The dim lights flickered overhead, casting eerie, erratic shadows. He hesitated for a heartbeat, his mind racing. Left or right?

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“Artham!” His father’s voice rang out from behind, still fighting off the attackers, still holding the line. The sound gave him the strength to decide.

He bolted to the right, disappearing into the shadows, his heart hammering in his chest.

“You won’t get away, kid!”

The inmate’s voice echoed down the corridor, filled with malice. The words ignited something primal in Artham—a desperate will to survive. He wasn’t going to let them catch him. He couldn’t. His father was somewhere fighting for him, and he needed to stay alive long enough for him to find him.

I need to hide. His thoughts raced. Somewhere safe, somewhere they won’t find me.

Artham’s heart pounded as he sprinted down the hall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes darted around, scanning for an escape. Then he spotted it—an open doorway leading into a small room. Without hesitation, he dove inside, his legs barely able to carry him.

The room was dark, cluttered, and cramped, but it didn’t matter. A sturdy table stood against the far wall, shrouded in shadow. Artham crawled underneath it, pressing his body close to the floor. His breath was shaky, his pulse thudding in his ears. This will have to do.

He pulled his knees to his chest, praying his father would find him before the inmates did.

Time stretched painfully as he waited, every sound magnified in the silence. But soon, the echo of footsteps reached his ears—closer, heavier. Voices followed, low and hurried.

Through the crack under the table, Artham saw several inmates walk by, carrying bags and boxes, their silhouettes blocking the faint light from the hallway.

“Hey, you morons! Keep it down!” one snapped. “We need to get out of here fast!”

One of them dropped something with a loud thud. The others laughed, but they moved faster, disappearing down the hall.

Artham stayed still, his muscles tense, until the footsteps faded completely. He slowly exhaled and peeked out from under the table. The room was empty now. Carefully, he crawled out of his hiding spot. As he moved, his foot brushed against something metallic.

A small, sharp knife without a handle lay discarded on the floor, its edge glinting faintly in the dim light. Artham hesitated, then quickly pocketed it. It’s something. It might help.

But as he slipped back under the table, waiting, doubt crept in. Where’s Dad? Why hadn’t he come yet? He could still hear fighting in the distance, but his father hadn’t made it to him. The fear settled deeper in his chest.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered.

The door exploded inward with a deafening crash, the impact sending debris flying across the room. Artham flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as sparks flew through the air. His heart sank when he opened his eyes and saw him—the masked prisoner.

He stepped through the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like a predator hunting its prey. In his hands, he now held an assault rifle, its barrel gleaming in the low light. His footsteps were slow, methodical, each one a hammer of dread in Artham’s chest.

Artham’s breath hitched, and he pressed his hand over his mouth to keep silent, but a faint sob escaped despite himself. The prisoner’s head snapped toward the sound, and his lips curled into a wicked grin.

“There you are,” he hissed.

Artham’s heart slammed against his ribs as the prisoner’s boots thudded closer. He crouched down to peer under the table, and Artham could see the sick glint in his eyes through the slits in the mask.

“Shh, don’t cry,” the prisoner mocked, reaching under the table and grabbing Artham by the collar. “Let’s have some fun before your old man gets here.”

With terrifying strength, the prisoner yanked Artham from his hiding place, throwing him hard against the wall. Pain shot through Artham’s body, his head spinning from the impact. The prisoner stepped closer, tearing off his mask to reveal a hideous, scarred face—one eye clouded, his mouth twisted into a grotesque smile.

“It’s been a while since I had fun with a boy,” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “Was it four years ago? Who cares? Let’s get started.”

Artham’s stomach churned with revulsion as the man’s words sank in. He had to act—now.

The prisoner was too caught up in his twisted satisfaction to notice Artham’s hand slipping into his pocket. His fingers curled around the cold steel of the knife.

In one swift motion, Artham plunged the blade deep into the side of the prisoner’s neck.

The man’s eyes bulged in shock as he gasped, his hand shooting to the wound. Blood poured from his neck, splattering across the floor. Artham could barely breathe, adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he scrambled back, watching the prisoner stumble.

“You… little… shit!” the prisoner choked, pulling the knife out, but it only caused the blood to gush faster. His eyes filled with rage as he staggered toward Artham, trying to reach for his gun.

But Artham was quicker.

The assault rifle had clattered to the ground in the chaos. Artham lunged for it, grabbing the weapon with trembling hands. He could hear the prisoner gasping behind him, each step heavier than the last.

With a surge of terror-fueled rage, Artham swung around and aimed the rifle directly at the man. His finger hovered over the trigger.

“Go to hell, you bastard!” Artham shouted, his voice raw with fury.

He squeezed the trigger.

A hail of bullets erupted from the barrel, tearing through the air. The first shot struck the prisoner’s shoulder, spinning him around with a sickening crunch. Another bullet ripped through his stomach, leaving a gaping wound that sprayed blood onto the floor. Artham didn’t stop. He kept firing, each shot fueled by fear and anger until the man crumpled to the ground.

The prisoner lay motionless, his lifeless eyes staring up at nothing. The room fell silent once more, the only sound the soft clatter of the rifle falling from Artham’s shaking hands.

For a moment, Artham stood there, his breath ragged, his mind trying to catch up with what had just happened. His body trembled, the weight of everything crashing down around him.

Dad, Artham thought weakly, his body trembling from the aftermath. Where are you?

The door at the far end of the room creaked open, and in that instant, Artham’s father burst into view, a brush still clutched in one hand, a small cut bleeding from his arm. His eyes widened in horror as they took in the scene—his son, standing over the lifeless body of the masked prisoner, smoke still curling from the barrel of the rifle in his trembling hands.

"Artham!" his father gasped, his voice cracking with disbelief. "Oh God, my son!"

Without a second thought, he rushed over, wrapping his arms tightly around Artham, pulling him close. The warmth of his father’s embrace cut through the numbness that had settled over him, grounding him in a reality that felt surreal. His father’s heartbeat pounded against his back, the wetness of his blood soaking into Artham’s clothes. But Artham didn’t react.

Instead, a faint smile crept across his lips.

So this is what it feels like to kill someone, he thought, a strange mixture of emotions swirling inside him—pride, fear, guilt, and power, all colliding in a storm of confusion. He felt like a predator standing over its defeated prey, triumphant, yet there was something deeply unsettling about it, something that made him feel both powerful and broken.

He wasn’t just the hunter; he was also the hunted. The murderer and the victim all at once.

The scent of smoke and gunpowder filled his nostrils, mixing with the metallic tang of blood still lingering in his mouth. The weight of what he’d done pressed down on him, but at the same time, something inside him had shifted. The sound of distant sirens and screams reached his ears from outside the building, yet inside the room, there was an eerie silence—just him, his father, and the aftermath.

“It’s okay,” his father whispered, his voice trembling as he tightened his hold. “You’re going to be fine. Dad is here.”

Artham took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. Slowly, the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion that settled deep in his bones. His father’s presence was an anchor, pulling him away from the edge of the dark thoughts that threatened to consume him.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Artham said, his voice steadier now, though his hands still trembled. “But we need to get out of here. The other guards… they might already be gone.”

His father nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow, casting one last glance at the carnage surrounding them. His breath was labored, but his resolve was clear. “You’re right. Let’s move.”

They turned toward the door, ready to leave the nightmare behind, but before they could take more than a step, the sharp, metallic click of a gun’s hammer echoed from the shadows.

Artham’s heart froze as another figure stepped out from the corner of the room—a prisoner who had been hiding, eyes burning with rage. He lifted his gun, the barrel gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Everything happened in a blur.

Before Artham could react, his father moved. With a desperate, protective instinct, he threw himself in front of Artham, shielding him from the gun’s aim.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The deafening sound of gunfire ripped through the air, the cracks reverberating in the narrow space. Time seemed to slow as Artham watched in horror. His father’s body jerked violently with each shot, blood blossoming from his chest in crimson bursts. The force sent him staggering backward, his knees giving out beneath him.

“No!” Artham screamed, his voice raw, vision blurring as he saw his father collapse to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

The world tilted. Time distorted.

His father lay gasping, his breath shallow, his eyes glazing over. Artham fell to his knees beside him, the assault rifle slipping from his grip with a hollow clatter. He grabbed his father’s hand, but his mind was screaming—This can’t be happening. Not him. Not Dad.

“Dad…? Dad! No, no, no!” Artham whispered, his voice cracking with desperation. His father, the man who had always been a fortress of strength, was now lying broken and bleeding in front of him, his life slipping away.

But even as his vision dimmed, his father forced a smile, weak but comforting. “Keugh… It’s okay…” he rasped, his voice trembling. “Dad’s… protecting you.”

Artham’s heart shattered at those words. How could his father still smile, still protect him in his final moments?

Rage.

Pure, blinding rage consumed Artham in an instant. He turned, his tear-filled eyes locking onto the prisoner who had fired the shots. The man was grinning, his gun still smoking in his hand, his face twisted with satisfaction.

“Looks like you’re next, kid,” the prisoner sneered.

Artham’s entire body shook with grief, with fury. His father’s blood stained his hands, soaking into his skin. The pain, the loss—it all merged into something darker. This ends here.

Without thinking, Artham reached for the assault rifle at his feet, his hands trembling, but not from fear this time. His mind was a blur of anger, his heart pounding in his chest as he rose to his feet.

“You!” Artham growled, his voice low, feral. His vision tunneled, focusing on the prisoner, the man who had stolen everything from him.

“You fucking bastard!”

His voice broke as he screamed, the sound raw, primal. He didn’t think—didn’t hesitate. His fingers wrapped around the trigger, and in that moment, all he saw was red.

Bang!

The first shot rang out, the recoil jolting through Artham’s arms as the bullet hit the prisoner in the shoulder, spinning him around with a sickening crunch. Another shot ripped through his stomach, blood gushing from the wound, but Artham didn’t stop.

He kept firing, every bullet fueled by the burning fury in his chest. The prisoner’s body jerked with each impact until, finally, he collapsed to the floor, lifeless, his eyes wide and empty, staring up at the ceiling.

“Die! Die! Die!!” Artham’s voice echoed through the room, a cry of desperation and vengeance.

But as the gunfire ceased, and the room fell silent, something inside Artham shifted. His chest still heaved with heavy breaths, but the rage that had once consumed him was now replaced by something hollow, something he couldn’t name.

The first time he had killed someone, he’d felt a rush of emotions—guilt, confusion, regret. But now… there was nothing. No remorse. No pain. No guilt.

Instead, a strange sensation settled deep in his chest, something he couldn’t quite place. Artham looked down at the gun in his hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and slowly, a smile spread across his face.

It was a smile devoid of warmth, hollow and cold.

What is this feeling? he wondered, wiping the sweat from his brow, his fingers tracing the outline of his face. He cackled softly, almost nervously, as he shook his head. “I don’t like this… I don’t want this… but why do I feel so… so strange?”

He laughed again, though there was no joy in it, only confusion, only numbness.

Artham’s eyes wandered over the carnage surrounding him—bodies, blood, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air. But it all felt distant, like he was trapped in a dream. He tried to make sense of it, but the more he tried, the more lost he became.

Why doesn’t this feel wrong?

His father’s pained breathing pulled him back to the present.

“Dad…” Artham whispered, his voice breaking as he knelt beside him again. His father’s hand was still pressed to his chest, blood pouring from between his fingers. His breathing was shallow, but he was still alive, still fighting.

“It’s okay,” his father rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re… okay.”

“No, Dad, don’t talk like that,” Artham said, his tears flowing freely now. “We’re going to get out of here, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

With trembling hands, Artham lifted his father, draping his arm over his shoulder, supporting him as they began to move slowly, painfully, toward the exit.

The once-bustling prison was now a graveyard. The distant wail of sirens and the muffled screams of survivors echoed around them, but for Artham, it felt as though he were moving through a haze. The reality of what had happened hadn’t fully hit him yet.

Everything had changed.

Four months passed, and the aftermath of that day still lingered like a shadow over Artham’s life. The investigation had concluded—the prisoners who had escaped were either recaptured or killed. Of the 125 guards stationed at the prison, 44 were dead. Among the prisoners, 25 had been killed, 21 remained at large, and the rest had been returned to their cells.

Artham’s father had healed physically, but something inside him had shifted. He was no longer the man who had once commanded respect with unwavering authority. The weight of that day still hung heavy on him.

For Artham, the experience had left a different mark.

He had killed—twice. And now, the idea of taking another life didn’t haunt him the way it had before. The line he had crossed was blurred, the feeling of remorse dulled.

He wasn’t the same boy he had been.

And he knew nothing would ever be the same again.