Before Clarissa could react, Clementine’s voice rang out behind her.

  “Clarissa? You’re back! Why are you standing outside? You just got over a fever, and you’re already running around?”

  The next thing she knew, Clementine had grabbed her hand and pulled her inside.

  “I made soup for you. Come, drink while it’s hot.”

  Clarissa had no choice but to take the bowl and sip it slowly. After dinner, Clementine carefully fed her medicine, her concern evident in every gesture.

  Though Clarissa still felt uneasy, the medicine soon pulled her into a deep sleep.

  This time, her dreams were anything but peaceful.

  A high-end club. Police cars parked outside. Screams, panicked whispers, horrified faces.

  The scene burned into her mind.

  All eyes were locked on a single room.

  Inside, a man’s lifeless body lay sprawled across the floor, blood pooling beneath him. In the corner, a boy sat huddled, covered in crimson. His small hands trembled as he clutched a knife.

  His eyes—empty, lifeless.

  Even the police hesitated at the sight. A young officer turned pale and rushed outside to vomit.

  The lead detective stepped forward, staring at the boy. He looked thin. Small. Too young for a scene like this. Something inside the detective twisted.

  Just then, the boy’s hand shot out, grabbing his collar.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t beg.

  Just stared at him with bloodshot eyes.

  The detective felt his breath catch. Then, with a heavy sigh, he reached for the handcuffs.

  “Kid… come with us.”

  The truth was clear. He had killed the man.

  Given the circumstances, it was ruled as excessive self-defense. And since he was only eleven, the law should have been lenient.

  But the man he killed hadn’t been just anyone.

  Pressure came from above. There were people who wanted him punished.

  With no guardian left to defend him, no relatives willing to step forward, and no money for a lawyer, Atticus was sentenced to three years.

  As the police led him away, the crowd outside erupted in whispers, their eyes filled with contempt.

  “Look, that’s him. That murderer, Atticus.”

  “I told you—the son of a murderer is bound to be a murderer, too.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Disgusting. I can’t believe I used to live next door to that freak.”

  “Heard he sells his ass for money.”

  “What?! At his age?”

  “Yeah. A fucking little whore.”

  “Mom, what’s a butt seller?”

  “Shut up, don’t ask stupid questions.”

  Atticus didn’t say a word.

  He kept walking, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. Blood dripped onto the pavement, one drop after another.

  Bright red, blooming like tiny flowers against the cold, gray ground.

  The same policeman who had taken him away days ago was the one escorting him now.

  He stood in front of the boy, hesitation clouding his face. His lips parted slightly, as if struggling to find the right words. After a long pause, he finally spoke.

  “Kid… when you get out, try to live a good life. You’ll have a chance to start over.”

  Atticus lifted his head, his expression unreadable. A slow, empty chuckle escaped his lips.

  “Start over?”

  The officer blinked, momentarily taken aback. Before he could respond, the boy spoke again, his voice low but cutting.

  “This world never gave me a choice. So tell me… how the fuck am I supposed to start over?”

  The officer fell silent, his face stiff. Under his dull gaze, the boy turned away.

  The heavy iron doors clanged shut behind him. Darkness swallowed his frail figure whole.

  At that moment, he wasn’t just stepping into a prison cell—he was walking straight into hell.

  The dream was too vivid. Too real.

  Clarissa’s heart clenched. A sharp pain shot through her chest as tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them.

  “No!” The word tore from her lips as she bolted upright.

  Her breath came in ragged gasps. Cold sweat clung to her skin, her entire body trembling. The weight of the dream still pressed down on her like a vice, leaving her struggling to separate nightmare from reality.

  Outside, a bolt of lightning split the sky.

  A deep rumble of thunder followed, shaking the walls.

  The rain pounded against the windowpane in relentless sheets—it had been storming frequently these nights, the rainy season at its peak.

  Another flash of lightning lit up the room, sending a fresh jolt through her already-wound nerves.

  Then came a knock at the door.

  “Clarissa, are you awake?” Her mother’s voice. Clarissa exhaled sharply, forcing herself to breathe.

  “Mom?” she called back, sliding off the bed. She opened the door to find Clementine standing there, worry etched deep into her face.

  “Clarissa, what’s wrong?” Clementine’s eyes scanned her daughter’s sweat-drenched skin. “Are you feeling sick again?”

  Clarissa shook her head, forcing a small smile. “Mom, why are you up?”

  “You were crying in your sleep.” Clementine frowned. “Loudly. Of course I woke up. Did you have a nightmare?”

  Clarissa hesitated. “…Yeah. Something like that.”

  Clementine didn’t look convinced. “What do you mean something like that?”

  Clarissa dropped her gaze, swallowing hard. “Because… I can barely remember it now.”

  She forced another smile, trying to ease her mother’s concern.

  “Mom, I’m fine. It was just a dream. You shouldn’t be staying up this late—the doctor told you to rest. Go back to bed.”

  Clementine sighed, still reluctant to leave. “If you feel unwell, tell me. Don’t try to act tough.”

  “I won’t,” Clarissa promised.

  After making sure Clementine had gone back to her room, Clarissa closed the door, climbed back into bed, and pulled the blanket over herself. She shut her eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily.

  Outside, the storm raged on. Thunder rolled in the distance. Rain hammered against the pavement, soaking everything in its path.

  A lone figure stood beneath the downpour, carrying nothing but a small suitcase.

  Atticus had nowhere to go. After being thrown out of the room, he had wandered aimlessly through the city. Yet somehow, his feet had carried him here.

  He hadn’t lived in this area for long. Neither he nor Belle had made any real connections—both too guarded, too wary to let people in.

  There was no reason for him to be here. Nothing tethering him to this place.

  And yet… When he lifted his head, his eyes landed on her house. Clarissa’s home stood above him, its windows dark.

  She was asleep. She had no idea he was standing there.

  Atticus stood frozen, staring blankly at her window, the rain drenching him completely. Water streamed down his face, soaking his hair, seeping into his clothes.

  He didn’t move. He barely even blinked. At that moment—

  “Hey! Hey! What the fuck are you doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  A tram had stopped just inches away, its driver—a man in a raincoat—leaning out and cursing at him.

  The blinding headlights finally yanked Atticus out of his daze.

  He didn’t say a word, just tightened his lips and stepped aside.