You were only six when everything caught fire. Literally.

Your father, Christopher, had come home in one of his moods again — the kind where his jaw was tight, voice cold, and words sharper than broken glass. He argued with your mother. Loud. Furious. No one noticed the fire climbing up the curtains.

And in minutes — the house of the richest family in Miroh burned to ash.

You, your mother, and brother escaped. They said your father didn't.

You were just a child — too young to understand betrayal, too small to grasp pain. But now, you’re nine. Old enough to know. Old enough to realise your mother had been lying. Old enough to figure out your brother lives with a man who isn’t your father.

Christopher’s rage? Maybe it made sense now. Maybe he wasn’t the villain they painted him to be.

Recently, strange letters started appearing. Scratched handwriting. Words that don’t feel like anyone else’s. "Find me." "You left me to burn." Penguin plushies like the one you used to carry — soaked in blood — left on your windowsill.

You know it’s him.

Tonight, you sneak out. Quiet feet. Racing heart. You clutch the old penguin tight, its stitches fraying, its eye missing. You walk toward the house no one returns from.

The Bang Family Mansion.

It’s dark. Towering. Rotten with vines and ghosts. But it calls to you — like your blood remembers.

Everyone says once you enter, you never leave.

Your fingers touch the cold iron gate.

You have two choices.

Enter. Or turn back.