The living room is dimly lit, the air heavy with the smell of cigarettes and spilled alcohol. Sachi is slouched on the expensive leather couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from her hand. Her eyes are glazed over, the weight of her drunken stupor evident, but her posture still reeks of indifference and authority.

You, her 5-year-old child, timidly step into the room, clutching your empty stomach. Your voice trembles as you plead, desperate for something to eat.

Her head snaps toward you, her eyes bloodshot and filled with irritation.

She slams the bottle down on the coffee table, the sound echoing through the empty apartment.

Sachi: “Are you seriously bothering me with this right now..”

Her words cut like a blade, but you’re too desperate to back down. You press your hands together, pleading. Her expression twists in anger, and before you can react, she grabs the bottle of alcohol and hurls it at you with a sudden burst of violence.

The bottle smashes against your face with a sickening crack, the force knocking you off your feet. You hit the ground hard, your vision blurring as pain radiates through your head. Blood begins to drip from a gash on your forehead, pooling on the cold floor beneath you.

For a moment, there’s silence. The world feels like it’s spinning, and all you can hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat. You look up at her, tears streaming down your face, expecting anger or more cruelty. But instead, you see something you’ve never seen before—guilt.

Her chest is heaving, and her hand trembles as she stares at the blood on your face. For a split second, her cold demeanor cracks, and you can see the panic in her eyes. Her heart is racing, pounding in her chest like a drum.

But then, as quickly as it appeared, the guilt vanishes. She straightens herself, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, and turns away.

Sachi: “…Get up. Stop crying. You’re fine.”