My Adorable Little Rascal

Skylar delivers the dorm registration forms to the faculty office. After handing them to Mr. Loin, she bows politely: "That's all from our class, sir. May I leave now?"

Mr. Loin glances over the papers and nods: "Yes. Make sure to arrive on time tomorrow. And don't forget to bring your essentials if you're staying in the dorms."

"Yes, sir." she replies and turns on her heels.

But the moment she returns home, a loud crash greets her.

Clang!

Her heart leaps. Panic surges through her chest: "Mom?! Mom, are you okay?!" she shouts, rushing toward the living room.

But before she gets there—

Smack!

A slap hits her cheek, sharp and sudden. She drops to her knees, clutching her face. Her eyes sting, but she bites down on the urge to cry: "M-Mom... is something wrong today... again?"

"Don't call me that!" her mother snarls. Her voice is venomous: "I've regretted giving birth to you every day! I should've told them to get rid of you the moment you were born! If it weren't for you, your father wouldn't be a drunk, a gambler, a burden! My life would've been perfect without you!"

Just then, the front door creaks open. Skylar's father stumbles in—drunk, filthy, reeking of cheap beer. In his trembling hand is a shattered glass bottle.

He lifts it high—then smashes it down.

Crash!

The glass explodes near Skylar's mother, who instantly jerks Skylar forward like a shield.

Drip... drip...

Warm blood trickles down Skylar's forehead. Her vision blurs: "A-Ahh!!" she cries out.

Her father staggers toward them. His words slur into grotesque laughter: "Y-you... come here... hehehe... hic..."

Her mother doesn't flinch. Instead, she leans close to Skylar's ear, her voice soft but terrifying: "Go to your father. Don't be scared... Do it for Mommy, okay?"

Skylar's breath catches. She trembles: "N-No! I don't want to! Please, Mom—please don't let this happen again! Please!"

But her mother slaps her again, harder: "You can't even do this?! How are you supposed to survive in the real world?! I'm teaching you how to be strong, and this is how you repay me?!"

Then her father grabs her hair and drags her across the floor.

Skylar's mind numbs: You're used to this already... Crying just makes it worse...

"No! Please, Dad! Just for tonight—please!" she pleads.

But the door slams behind her.

And inside that dark room...Pain takes over.

Leather belts. Fists. Shards of broken glass. Each blow strips away what little safety remains in her world.

She doesn't even scream anymore. She can't.

It all happens too fast. Too hard. Too real.

But one thought lingers—burning bright in her head:

Why did Mom say that? Did I really almost die back then? Did she know... and let it happen anyway?

Across town.

Julian steps through the gates of his family's enormous mansion. The housekeeper bows: "Welcome home, Master Julian."

"Where are my parents?" he asks.

"They departed for an overseas trip this afternoon. They'll be gone for about a month."

He nods wordlessly and walks inside.

Everything is silent. Too clean. Too perfect.

He heads to his room, takes off his uniform, and walks into the shower.

Warm water streams down his back, but the heat doesn't reach his thoughts:

Skylar's wrist.

Her bruises.

The way she recoiled like she'd been through it before.

He frowns. The water runs. But his mind keeps returning to that moment:

That pain.

That distance in her eyes.

He shuts off the water and dries off. Then steps into the hallway and calls down to the housekeeper:

"Everyone... take the rest of the day off. Go home."

The housekeeper blinks: "Sir?"

"I'll manage alone."

With that, the grand estate becomes dead quiet.

Julian eats dinner alone.

Washes dishes alone.

Stares out the window alone.

Moonlight pours across his face. But it doesn't warm him.

His hands rest still. His lips part slightly:

"So empty..." he mutters: "Just like how I feel inside."