The Birth of Evil

March 3, 2020 – Outside the quiet outskirts of his hometown, India

Evening folded across the hills like bruised velvet. The last train had already moaned through the valley, leaving the road strangely hollow. A dull-silver car drifted down that road, its headlights carving narrow tunnels through the mist.

Inside sat Joren Rauthan, eyes half-closed against the hum of the engine. The glass beside his face trembled with each bump, showing him a warped reflection—thin, colourless, quietly dissolving into the rain-stained light.

Mother: “We’ll be home before dinner, right?”

Father: “If we don’t meet another traffic jam.”

They laughed, and the laugh was gentle, domestic, the kind used to hold a family together when words start failing.

Joren tried to echo it but his smile collapsed halfway.

Why does this keep happening to me?

Blurred memories flickered—faces of classmates turning away, teachers whispering, the look of pity that never reached their eyes. Something inside him recoiled every time warmth came close.

Outside, rain began to breathe against the windshield, slow and cold. The road was slick and narrow, the rain blurring the view ahead.

From the corner of his eye, Joren saw bright headlights cutting across the divider — a car drifting too fast into their lane.

His father jerked the steering wheel, but it was too late.

The world tilted. A screech, a horn, then a bloom of white light. Impact tore through the quiet evening. Metal folded, glass scattered across the asphalt like frozen rain.

When sound returned, it came in fragments—his mother gasping, his father shouting, engines coughing somewhere in the dark. Three figures stepped out of a dented black jeep, voices harsh and slurred.

Stranger: “Watch where you’re driving, old man!”

Father: “I—I’m sorry, the turn—”

A fist caught him across the mouth. The sound was wet, final. And something in Joren's chest unspooled. It wasn't a thread snapping; it was a cage door swinging open. The constant, humming anxiety that had lived in him for years vanished, replaced by a silence so absolute it was deafening. The world sharpened. The raindrops became individual beads of glass. The mocking laughter of the strangers stretched and distorted, becoming the drone of insignificant insects.

He opened the door. The rain hissed harder. A fragment of mirror glass winked at his feet. He lifted it without thinking. The men turned, surprise fading into mockery.

Stranger: “Stay out of this, kid—” 

The first never finished the sentence. Motion blurred. The glass slashed once, twice. Rain and blood mixed; thunder rolled. By the time silence returned, three bodies lay twisted under the streetlight.

It was a heavy, physical weight in the wet air. Joren looked at his hands. They were steady. That was the first thing he noticed. No tremor, no shake. Just a faint, warm stickiness between his fingers that the coldrain was already starting to wash away. He felt nothing. No triumph, no horror. The vast, screaming void inside him had been filled, not with feeling, but with a profound and chilling stillness.

Doors opened. Lights blinked on in nearby houses.

Neighbor 1: “Joren…?”

Neighbor 2: “That’s Mr. Rauthan’s son… right?”

Neighbor 3: “He was always such a good boy…”

Their words shook like leaves in wind. They remembered his soft voice, his habit of helping, his quiet smiles. None of them could speak when they saw what stood before them now.

Father: “Joren, what have you done?”

Joren: “I ended what they started.”

Father: “Son, listen to me—”

Joren: “I stopped being your son the moment I became something you couldn’t love.”

Sirens bloomed in the distance—thin, blue light pulsing across the wet road. Police cars rolled to a stop.

Officer: “Put the weapon down!”

Joren turned the shard in his hand, then dropped it.

Joren: “See? It’s over.”

The officer cuffed him without struggle. His father tried to follow, but another held him back.

Father: “Please, he’s just a child—”

Joren: “You should go home. Pretend you never had me.”

The sirens faded. Rain slid down the windows of the police car. Neither officer spoke. He watched the drops racing each other to the same meaningless end. So this is what peace feels like. Cold, and empty.

They reached the station. An officer guided him into a small cell. The walls were cracked, a single bulb flickering. He looked at his bandaged hands.

Is this the real me, or just what’s left of me?

Shadows peeled from the wall like smoke. Two crimson eyes glowed like dying embers.

Devil: “Do you wish to know who you truly are?”

Joren: “Who are you?”

Devil: “Someone who’s been searching—for a very long time.”

Joren: “Searching for what?”

Devil: “Not what—who.”

The devil’s voice dripped with reverence and hunger.

Devil: “Someone like you, Joren Rauthan.”

Devil: “You think I came to corrupt you? No. I came to use you.”

Joren: “Use me?”

Devil: “Yes. I have my own desire—my own goal. I need a vessel, not a servant. Someone who can tear through the limits of existence itself. My instincts tell me you’re that one.”

Devil: "They never saw you, did they? They saw a quiet boy. A helpful boy. A canvas for their own goodness. And when you couldn't perform, they turned away. Your silence made them uncomfortable. Your pain was an inconvenience."

Every word was a key, turning a lock Joren didn't know he had.

Devil: "You feel it too, don't you? That twisting inside your chest. The hunger that no remorse can satisfy."

Joren: "They made me into this."

His voice was a whisper, but it held the weight of a lifetime.

Joren: "They looked at me and saw nothing. So I became nothing. And then I became... this."

Devil: "No," the shadow whispered back, its voice dripping with a twisted pride.

"You became more. That's what makes you perfect."

It leaned closer, voice soft and cold.

Devil: "You didn't tremble before me because you have nothing left to fear. You've already lived through the worst thing imaginable: being utterly, completely alone in a crowd. What is a devil compared to that? Any other soul in your place would be weeping, their mind unraveling at my presence. But you…… you are already unmade. They neglected you, used your softness to hide their ugliness. You were their scapegoat. And for that...I'm grateful."

Joren: “So you came to thank me?”

Devil: “No. To free you.”

Devil: “Let me help you embrace what you were always meant to be. Together, we’ll become the truth this world refuses to see. Let us give this world a predator it truly deserves.”

Joren: “You think you can use me. But I’m not yours to control.”

Devil: "Control is an illusion for those who fear consequence. You and I... we are what happens when that fear finally dies."

Their hands met. The bulb shattered. Black smoke rose like a dying flame.

Devil: “Let’s make a pact then, until one of us dies.”

When morning came, the cell was empty. Only the cuffs remained, twisted open, lying in a pool of black dust.

Outside, the quiet outskirts of his hometown woke to thunder, though the sky was clear.

“This is not the end, Joren Rauthan. This... is your beginning.“