Savior in Shadow Slave

[THIS CHAPTER MAY CONTAIN SOME SCENE THAT MAY BE UPSETTING TO SOME VIEWERS. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK]

In her embrace, Murphy felt something. Familiar and unfamiliar.

He couldn't quite tell what this feeling was.

And then it hit him — not like a blade, but like a wave.

Love.

Not romantic. Not lustful.

Something deeper. Older. Instinctual.

It rose within Murphy so suddenly that it stole the breath from his lungs. A tidal surge of warmth, safety, longing — the kind of love that binds souls across lifetimes.

It was the love of a child for his mother, and a mother for his child, fierce and unconditional. The ache of a lost boy finally finding the one who held him first.

His knees nearly gave out.

'Why? Why do I feel this?'

She was still holding him — tender, trembling.

Not demanding, not domineering. Just… there. The way someone always should have been.

Her scent was strange yet comforting. Earthy, soft. Her heartbeat was slow, deep, echoing in her chest like a lullaby from the womb.

"You feel it too, don't you?" she whispered, voice like warm soil in spring. "My love. My unconditional love for you."

Murphy didn't answer. He couldn't.

His throat tightened. His arms stiffened at his sides. That overwhelming sense of warmth—of being seen, known, loved—should have comforted him.

He felt like a boy too ashamed to say I love you to the one who'd given him everything. But more than that... he felt something else stirring inside him.

Something yelling.

Distant, but furious.

A raw, ragged scream echoing within his chest, clawing at his ribs like it wanted out.

'Snap out of it. This isn't right. She isn't what she seems.'

His mouth moved before he knew what he was saying.

"Mother… I…"

"I feel like… all of this is a lie."

His voice was faint, hollow—like it was coming from far away. His gaze slowly lost its focus, as if something behind his eyes was dimming. Like a light being drawn inward.

His heart faltered.

As if disappointed in himself for having such thoughts.

The woman tilted her head slightly, her silver hair swaying around her like threads of moonlight in water.

Then she smiled—warm and amused.

"Ara..." she purred softly, brushing a hand against his cheek.

"Aren't you a bad girl…?"

"Is my little one going through his rebellious phase already?"

Murphy blinked, confusion flickering behind her eyes.

She tilted his head —like a curious child. Long black hair flowed around his form like a cuckoo's feather, her gaze full of mirth.

"A girl?" Murphy whispered, her voice sweet.

"Yes… what do you think you are, child?"

"Look," she said, gesturing slowly toward the mirror embedded in the bedroom, its surface pulsing faintly.

"Look at your reflection — at your face, your eyes, your breasts and hips. From which angle are you a boy?"

Looking at the mirror, Murphy looked at herself, small and silent — a porcelain figure carved from dusk and moonlight.

Her raven-black hair tumbled down in soft, glossy waves, far too long for a child, cascading past her waist like a silk curtain woven from midnight itself. Strands curled at the tips, framing her delicate face in a way that made her look both fragile and untouchable.

Her eyes were what truly held gravity — deep crimson, like dying embers buried beneath ash. They gleamed with a brightness far too intense for someone so young.

Her face was cherubic, round with a soft button nose, faint blush rising naturally to her cheeks, and lips that seemed always on the edge of forming a curious question or a quiet smile. Her skin was pale, almost luminous in the dim light — the kind of complexion untouched by time, as if preserved by magic or fate.

She wore a simple, faded dress, the color of dried roses — frayed at the hem but clearly once beautiful. Tiny boots scuffed from wandering. A ribbon was tied clumsily at the side of her head, probably by her own small hands.

She looked around 2 to 3 years old.

Although she felt a bit funny between her legs, as if something— two of them was growing from within, but he didn't mind it.

"Yeah, you are right, mom. I was always your cute little girl."

Murphy giggled, the sound high and light — a voice too young for the memories that still flickered behind her eyes.

She looked up at the woman with soft red eyes, shining with childish trust.

"Say, Mom… I'm hungry. What did you make for dinner?"

The woman — graceful, composed, almost ethereal — bent down and lifted him effortlessly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her smile was serene, her voice smooth as velvet.

"Well, what else but your favourite? Steak, spaghetti, and rye bread. Oh, and a glass of soft drink for you. I'll have a cup of wine."

Murphy leaned into her without hesitation, resting her head on her shoulder. It all felt… normal.

Too normal.

'I don't remember ever liking rye bread...The Fool liked it, I guess

Did I ever call someone Mom like this?'

The thought passed quickly, drowned out by the warmth of her arms and the dim glow of the house around him — or what looked like a house. Shadows clung too long to the corners, and the furniture seemed oddly still. Like it hadn't been moved in decades. Or longer.

Still, something inside him felt hollow. Disjointed. As if she was playing a role in a dream he couldn't wake from.

"Mom! Mom! After eating we will have a nice cold bath together."

"Sure."

"Promise me. Pinky promise."

Murphy held out her tiny hand, pinky extended, his red eyes wide with seriousness far too old for her face. The gesture was innocent — simple — but something about it felt rehearsed, like a puppet dancing on the strings.

The woman smiled warmly and linked her finger with his.

"Yes, yes. Pinky promise."

For a moment, everything stilled.

And Murphy… smiled.

His heart fluttered with warmth — genuine warmth — the kind that only comes from feeling seen, safe, loved. It was pure, like sun through a window.

But almost instantly, a wave of revulsion surged through him. His skin crawled. His stomach twisted.

She didn't pull back — but part of him wanted to.

Part of her wanted to scream.

The love felt real… but so did the wrongness.

But that strange feeling — that twisting unease — vanished the moment her mother leaned in with a soft smile and gently booped Murphy's nose with a fingertip.

Murphy blinked… and then giggled. A bright, happy sound that felt too natural. She reached out and booped her back, laughter spilling from her lips like she'd never known fear or doubt.

They moved to the table, which stood polished and waiting — too clean, too quiet.

Murphy clambered into her seat, grabbing a plush cushion and hugging it tightly to her chest. Her legs dangled freely beneath the table. She beamed.

"Let's begin!"

Without waiting, Murphy dove into the steak, tearing into it with gleeful abandon. Meat juice smeared across her cheeks, a few pieces tumbling onto the table. She didn't seem to care. She was hungry.

Her mother sat beside her, watching with a soft sigh. She reached for a napkin and gently wiped Murphy's mouth, then swept crumbs off the edge of the table with the careful patience of someone who had done this a thousand times before.

Then came the rye bread and spaghetti.

Murphy attacked it next, biting into the crust with exaggerated force, sending crumbs and soup flying in all directions. Her mouth was full. Her hands were messy.

Murphy lifted the glass without thinking, the drink inside a strange, milky white — just a little too translucent. It shimmered unnaturally in the warm light of the room.

She took a sip.

It was salty… maybe sour, maybe both. The flavour curled strangely across her tongue, a flavour that didn't belong in anything made for joy or comfort.

But still… she laughed.

A small, bright sound — too sweet for the cold shiver crawling down her spine.

She wiped his lips. Her hands felt numb. He glanced down, blinking once. Then again.

A part of her toes had changed.

From the ankle down, they were turning into something else other than flesh and blood. They were polished and rigid — a gleaming, unnatural wood, like the carved limbs of an antique doll. Her dress rested lightly against them, as if nothing had changed.

But she didn't care, thinking about her bath schedule.

After that she went to bath with his mother, not realizing the weirdness of the tap, she tried to jump into bath tub but was stopped by her mother.

"Ara, you shouldn't jump into water like that— you could get hurt, you know."

Her tone was gentle, laced with concern.

Too gentle. Too tender.

After that she picked up Murphy and went into bathtub. And turned on the taps more rigorously and forcefully.

Watching the bathtub fill more quickly, She gave a pleasant smile.

And brought Murphy to her breasts, and started feeding her milk—which she happily drank—while humming a melody.

"Hush now, little wanderer…

Lay down bones so tired and thin…"

And Murphy fell asleep not realizing that her entire foot has turned into wood and penises had grown from her pelvis like Wooden Dolls who are keeping the Tap open.