Chapter 1:

The Fifth Night

We Were Marked at Death — Forced Into a Fight for our passed lives


The evening sky was thick with clouds, casting a grey veil over the neighborhood. The sun, barely visible, managed to force a few weak streaks of light through the overcast as it sank toward the horizon. These golden rays filtered into a modest suburban house, lighting up a dining table where a small family sat eating dinner—or at least, most of them were.

At each end of the table sat the parents, eating in near silence. The father was a short-haired, short-bearded man, the kind who didn’t care for appearances. His grooming was purely functional—shaved whenever it became too irritating to ignore. The mother sat with one leg crossed over the other, gently blowing on her hot stew to cool it.

To her left sat a teenage boy, his messy brown hair nearly veiling his eyes as he ate slowly. His presence went largely unnoticed—at least compared to the younger boy seated next to him. The father cast a cold, disapproving glare at the younger son, who hadn’t touched his food.

The man took another spoonful of stew and chewed, still staring.

“Boy,” he finally said, setting his spoon down beside the bowl. “Why aren’t you eating?”

The younger boy looked up briefly, then returned his gaze to the untouched stew.

“What, no answer?”

The older boy raised his head, about to speak.

“I don’t remember asking you,” the man snapped, pointing a stern finger at the teenager, then turning it toward the younger boy.I asked him.” He placed his hands on either side of his bowl. “So, son? What is it? Hmm? Food no good?”

When no reply came, the father’s expression hardened. He slammed both hands on the table, shoving his bowl off the edge. It shattered on the floor as he stood.

“Not good enough for you, huh!?” he barked, grabbing the frightened child by the collar. “Why don’t you eat, you ungrateful—”

“Dad,” the older boy stood quickly.

“I told you to shut your mouth.”

“You’re scaring him.”

The father turned his attention to the older son, still gripping the younger. Then, without warning, he backhanded the teen across the face as he let go of the kid he shoved the teen against the wall, pinning him with his forearm across his throat.

The boy gasped, struggling to push the arm away. “Dad… Please—”

“No ‘please’! I’m sick of your constant rebellion!” The man jabbed a finger toward the younger boy. “He’s ungrateful! Won’t eat the food I made!” He jabbed his chest. “And you still take his side over mine?”

He pressed harder. The teen choked out his words.

“He’s allergic… to mushrooms.”

The father locked eyes with him, then abruptly released the pressure. The boy collapsed to his knees, coughing violently.

“Well how in the hell was I supposed to know that?” the man muttered. He turned to the younger boy at the table. “You should’ve told me that when I was cooking!”

“I… I was afraid yo—”

“Ah ah ah. No excuses.”

The father paused for a moment, clearing his throat with a long, deliberate cough. He looked at the wreckage around them—the broken bowl, the spilled stew, his coughing son.

“In fact,” he continued coldly, walking over to the table, “since you caused this scene—” he gestured to the mess and chaos, “—you can go without dinner.”

He grabbed the younger boy’s bowl and sat back down in his seat, spooning up a mouthful of stew.

The boy lowered his head. “Okay, Dad.”

The mother tapped her spoon sharply on the table, commanding attention.

“I also think,” she said coolly, “that since this mess was your doing, you should be the one to clean it.”

The boy turned away from her gaze and nodded quietly. “Yes, Mom.”

She stood, stepping past her older son who still clutched at his throat.

“Get up, Sai. You’re embarrassing yourself,” she said without a hint of sympathy. She walked up behind the younger boy and placed her empty bowl in front of him.

“Would you be so kind as to clean this too, Infir?”

“Of course, Mom,” he answered. She ruffled his hair briefly.

That’s my good boy.”

Then both parents disappeared upstairs, leaving the mess behind.

Sai slowly stood, his breathing still uneven. He surveyed the chaos, then quietly joined Infir in cleaning up. Neither said much—it felt like a chore they’d done many times before.

On the table, where their father had been sitting, lay a newspaper with the headline:

“The Daily Night Killer Strikes Again.”

Sai folded it neatly and placed it in a growing stack of other newspapers. Infir cleaned the spilled stew from the floor. When they were finally done, they stood together in the kitchen doorway, staring out toward the living room.

“Hey, Sai,” Infir said softly. “Do you think I made Dad mad?”

Sai looked down at his little brother—no older than nine—and wrapped an arm around him.

No, no, you did nothing wrong, okay? He probably just had a tough day at work.”

“Like every other day, right?”

Sai swallowed hard. His eyes returned to the kitchen.

“Yeah… like any other day.”

Infir’s stomach growled, breaking the silence. Sai sighed.

“You’re hungry, huh?”

Infir nodded.

“Well, we can’t take anything from the kitchen. They’d notice. Not like there’s much to take anyway.” Sai tapped his chin. “Guess I’ll head to the supermarket.”

He walked toward the door, Infir close behind. As Sai slipped on his shoes, he turned and knelt.

“Why don’t you wait for me on the couch? I won’t be long.”

He gave Infir a quick hug, then stepped into the living room and quietly slipped out the front door.

The cold air bit into his skin as he made his way down the dimly lit sidewalk. He pulled out his wallet and sighed.

“Well… it’s something.”

Suddenly, a sound behind him made him stop.

Under one of the flickering streetlamps stood a figure in a long black coat, a sword hanging at their side. Sai instinctively took a step back. The figure began walking toward him—fast the sword dragging against the rocky path.

Sai mirrored the pace, moving backward to keep them in view. But the uneven cobblestones betrayed him. He stumbled and fell.

The figure loomed over him, sword tilted to the side as if appraising him.

“P-please… I don’t have any money—”

No response.

Time seemed to freeze as the two locked eyes. Then, with one swift motion, the sword pierced Sai’s left chest, deep and deliberate.

He gasped.

“You… will… do,” the figure whispered.

Darkness began to swallow the world as Sai’s vision blurred and his limbs grew cold.

“I… Infir,” he choked, voice trembling. “I’m sorry…”

Blood filled his throat, and with it came a bitter taste of failure.

“I… I promised I’d be back…”

His eyes fluttered once… twice…

Then closed, for good.

MAN726
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