Shattered Innocence

I

THE BIRTH OF DEATH**
It was a bitter winter night in St. Petersburg, the kind of cold that sank into your bones and never left. Inside the Demonai mansion, far from the city's lights, the atmosphere was darker than the endless Russian winter outside. The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and a young boy—no older than twelve—was ushered into his father's private study.

Viktor Demonai stood by the fire, his imposing figure cast in shadows by the flickering flames. His face, cold and unreadable, looked down at the boy standing before him. **The boy's eyes**—empty, hollow, emotionless—were fixed on the flames. His father had always called him "son," but never by name. A name was an identity, and Viktor had decided long ago that this boy didn't need one.

"Do you know why you're here?" Viktor's voice was low, measured, as if testing his son's response.

The boy said nothing, staring into the fire, his small hands clenched into fists at his sides.

A figure shifted in the corner of the room—a man, bound and gagged, his eyes wide with terror. He was a low-ranking thug who had betrayed the Demonai family, trying to sell their secrets to a rival gang. He had been caught, of course—Viktor's reach was long, and betrayal was never forgiven.

"Your brother, Alexei, would have tortured him for information," Viktor said, circling the man like a predator sizing up its prey. "Your sister, Irina, would have turned him into an asset. But you, my son—"

Viktor turned his gaze to the boy, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"You are different."

The boy shifted, his expression unchanging, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Something darker.

"You have no mercy," Viktor continued. "No hesitation. And that is why you will be the most feared among us."

Viktor reached into the drawer of his desk and withdrew a gleaming blade. The firelight danced along its edge as he handed it to his son. The boy took it without question, his fingers tightening around the cold steel.

"Prove yourself," Viktor commanded, stepping back. "Prove to me that you are ready."

The boy approached the man without a word, his steps steady, his gaze locked on his father. The man on the floor whimpered through his gag, trying to plead for mercy, his body trembling with fear. But the boy didn't even look at him. He didn't see a man—he saw a task, a test, a lesson.

Without hesitation, the boy knelt down and pressed the blade to the man's throat. His hands didn't tremble. There was no moment of doubt, no second thoughts. He looked up at Viktor, waiting for approval, but none came. Viktor merely watched, his eyes cold and expectant.

And then, the boy slashed.

The man gurgled, his body convulsing as blood spilled onto the floor, pooling around the boy's knees. But the boy's face didn't change. He felt nothing. No fear, no guilt, no hesitation. He stood slowly, wiping the blood from the blade onto his sleeve before handing it back to his father.

Viktor looked down at his son with something resembling pride. It was the first time he had ever shown any sign of approval. He reached out, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, his grip firm.

"From this day forward, you will be known as **Death**," Viktor said. "Because that is what you bring. To our enemies, to those who would defy us, and to anyone foolish enough to cross the Demonai family."

The boy, now **Death**, stared back at his father. For the first time, a small smile played on his lips. It wasn't the smile of a child, but of something far more dangerous.

From that moment on, Death knew his place in the world. He wasn't like his brother or his sister. He didn't crave power or control. He craved only the silence that followed a kill, the peace that came when life was snuffed out by his hand. It was the only thing that made sense to him.

The fire crackled behind them, casting long shadows on the walls as father and son stood together, united by blood, bound by death.