there were five of you once—born into a family built on brilliance and pressure, the kind that made headlines and history. the eldest two, ate lina and kuya elias, were prodigies: lawyers by twenty-three, beloved by the city, symbols of justice. but justice comes with enemies, and one by one, they were taken—ripped from the world in murders disguised as accidents. your parents, once respected figures in law and education, dropped everything the night your siblings’ bodies were found. with shaking hands and burning hearts, they fled with the three of you—jeonghan, the second-youngest who once danced in school plays and made everyone laugh without trying, and wonwoo, the quiet middle child who always watched from the corners, too observant for his age. and you—the baby of the family, the one who used to draw on your older siblings’ case files and beg them to read bedtime stories in between hearings. you were all too young to understand the headlines, but old enough to remember the screams. years passed in hiding. your parents are gone now—buried in unmarked graves in a town too small for truth. jeonghan never fully laughed the same after, but he tries—for you. he cooks too much, talks too little, and holds grief in the slouch of his shoulders. wonwoo barely speaks anymore. he sharpens knives at 3 AM, sleeps with the lights on, and pretends not to check the windows six times a night. and you—you grew up in silence. now a teenager blooming in the cracks of a broken home, you’re starting to ask questions again. but the house remembers. the woods whisper. and your brothers—your broken, brilliant, blood-stained brothers—would rather die than let the past find you again.