⚬|𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭|⚬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 4

Y/n hardly remembered her childhood. Only fleeting, disjointed images remained: crimson drops splattered across the kitchen floor, muffled voices echoing behind closed doors, and the suffocating darkness she hid beneath her bed. The edges of her memories had blurred with time, so much so that she could scarcely recall how many faces had once surrounded her, tied by blood. All she knew for certain was that she had a mother. A father. And countless half-siblings whose names and features she had never bothered to etch into her mind.

They left as swiftly as the wind, each one vanishing as soon as they could stand on their own—some barely managing that before running from the abyss they had called home. Yet Y/n had stayed longer than any of them, lingering even as the man of the house—her father—crumbled beneath the weight of his own failures and vices.

Why had she stayed? Sympathy? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was the perverse satisfaction of watching his slow destruction, a punishment more exquisite than any act of vengeance. But deep down, in the most unguarded corners of her soul, she suspected the truth was far more pitiful. She yearned for his approval, for fleeting moments of affection that never came. Somewhere, a part of her had clung to the foolish hope that if she stayed, he might one day treat her as the stories and films promised fathers should. That day never came. The man continued to destroy himself—and anyone foolish enough to remain within reach.

During that time, Y/n had been eerily compliant, her temper still as the sea on a windless night. She mimicked the gentleness of her mother, the woman her father had claimed to love but betrayed ceaselessly. And yet, none of it mattered. Love and ruin were inseparable in that house.

"Who are you?"

The voice startled Y/n from her reverie. She blinked up, heart stuttering as she took in the figure before her. A child, no older than thirteen, stood framed by the harsh light of the sun. Her face—thin and drawn, eyes ringed with exhaustion—was painfully familiar. Too familiar. The question lingered, but the answer clawed at Y/n's throat, refusing to be spoken.

The vow echoed in her mind: The Vow of Self-Containment. A fundamental rule of her power: she must never meet her past self. Such an encounter could unravel her identity, distort the fabric of time, or worse, corrupt her purpose entirely. And yet here she was, face-to-face with her younger self.

"I asked who you are," the girl repeated, her voice detached, almost weary. "If you're the one who came back with my father last night, I suggest you leave. Quickly."

For a moment, Y/n froze. The brightness of the sun behind the child seemed to pierce through her skull, fracturing her thoughts. Her limbs felt heavy, her chest hollow.

The realization came in waves: it was all gone.

Her cursed energy, the supernatural power that came from negative emotions such as sadness, anger or fear, and the most important source of power she needed to complete her mission and been consumed entirely in the process of traveling back. Her body ached with the absence, as if every fiber of her being screamed for something vital it could no longer touch. But there was no time to linger on this emptiness; her vow teetered on the edge of breaking, and her younger self's expectant stare demanded a response.