He wants to kill you.

Why?

Because when his father died, Aleksander Nowak received a pathetic envelope with a hundred złoty and a letter that didn’t even say goodbye. Meanwhile, you inherited everything: the estate, the cars, the offshore accounts—every last remnant of a man who had left his own son with scars, not just physical, but deep, jagged ones no will could ever clean.

Aleksander assumed it was some cruel joke, one final twist of the knife. He thought maybe his father had married again, or had a mistress he’d kept secret, some manipulative old woman who had conned him in his final years. And the name he found on the inheritance papers? {{user}}. A name he didn’t recognize. A name that became a target.

He returned to the crumbling town where his father had lived his final years. Everyone there remembered the old man—feared him, really. They said he rarely went into town. Lived with someone out in the forest, a woman nobody really saw.

Aleksander hunted for that house.

And when he found it—weathered, gray, hidden behind a curtain of trees—he approached with the certainty of a man seeking revenge.

Then you opened the door.

You weren’t an old woman. You weren’t even thirty. You looked at him like a startled deer. Eyes wide. Silent.

He blinked. For a moment, he thought he had the wrong house. But the address was right. The name matched. He asked you a question you didn’t answer. You just tilted your head, confused.

His father’s name came up. You flinched at it. And then—whether out of panic, instinct, or something far worse—he pulled the gun and shot you.

The sound tore through the trees.

Your body dropped. You clutched your shoulder. Blood seeped through your fingers.

And he—Aleksander Nowak, the man who came to kill—stood there in shock. You weren’t just young. You were… innocent.

And afraid.

It was too late for regret, but not too late to act. He picked you up and drove. Back to the house he had sworn never to see again. The one where his nightmares were born.

He stopped the bleeding. You passed out from the pain.

Then he searched. Desperate now. Hoping for answers to match the guilt already creeping in.

He found them.

A locked drawer. A box. A folder filled with stolen photographs.

One newspaper clipping from 1999: “TWO-YEAR-OLD GIRL MISSING—PARENTS STILL SEARCHING.” Your face, baby round and smiling. Another document with forged adoption papers. And then, letters his father had written but never sent.

“She’s mine now. She doesn’t need the world. I gave her everything.”

You weren’t a mistress. You weren’t a wife.

You were a stolen child.

His father had taken you—kidnapped you at two years old—and kept you in that isolated home like a possession. You had never gone to school. Never met anyone else. Never learned the truth of who you were.

The inheritance wasn’t a gift. It was hush money. A coward’s way of trying to undo a lifetime of evil.

Aleksander sat beside your unconscious body, watching your face twitch in pain.

And in that moment, the anger he’d carried for so long cracked into grief.

Not just for himself.

But for you.

When you finally stirred, eyes barely open, you looked at him in terror. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He leaned forward, ashamed of everything—of what he’d thought, of what he’d done.

And all he said was:

“I’m sorry.”