Thunglung Dungma was imprisoned in the darkest room of the house.
The space was no larger than an ordinary toilet—narrow, suffocating, and airless. Even if he screamed until his throat bled, no one outside could hear him. The walls swallowed every sound. Nothing escaped from that place—not voices, not cries, not hope.
His life was nothing but pain, sorrow, depression, loneliness, and isolation. He was never allowed to step outside. He had never seen the open sky, never felt sunlight on his skin—not even the faintest ray of light.
His father was a serial killer, a man whose mind had long collapsed into madness. To him, Thunglung was not a son, but an object—something alive only because it still breathed. He was given food only twice a day, just enough to keep him from dying too quickly.
Over time, Thunglung's body withered. He became like a dry leaf—thin, fragile, and lifeless. His bones pressed visibly against his skin, and his veins could be seen clearly beneath it. He hovered constantly on the edge of death. Yet even in that state, his father would sometimes beat him with a stick during sudden fits of rage. Each blow stole a little more strength from the child, pushing him closer to collapse.
"I was only five years old.
I lived as if I had been thrown away—like a broken object discarded with the trash.
I could not speak. I could not move. I could not scream. I had become a stone.
When I cried, no one could hear me.
There was no one to comfort me, no one to understand me, no one to persuade me, no one to make me smile.
That was my life.
I could do nothing, say nothing, feel nothing, or see anything clearly.
My life had completely turned into hell.
I lived in loneliness and darkness—unable to speak to anyone, unable to look outside, unable to see the sky, not even a single drop of light."
Thunglung's story was like a stone—silent, unmoving, and forgotten.
No one knew what had happened to him. No one even knew whether anything had happened at all.
But one day—
People living nearby began to notice a strange, foul smell coming from the house. At first, they ignored it. But the smell grew stronger with each passing day, thick and unbearable. Suspicion slowly replaced indifference, and finally, they decided to enter the house to find its source.
At that time, Thunglung Dungma's father was not at home. He had gone out again—driven by his own darkness.
Inside, the house was in a horrifying condition. Trash covered the floor. The walls were stained. The air felt heavy and rotten.
Someone noticed that the toilet door was locked from the outside. When they tried to open it, it refused to move. Alarmed, he called out to the others.
"Why is the toilet locked from outside?" he said.
"And why is that terrible smell coming from here?"
Everyone gathered around the door. Fear and unease spread among them. Then they began to strike it.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
After the third blow, the door finally gave way.
What they saw froze them in place.
Inside lay a child—barely alive. His body was weak and fragile, his condition unbearable to witness. Blood stained him. For a moment, no one spoke. Then panic broke out, and an ambulance was called immediately.
Fifteen Years Later
Fifteen years passed.
News spread that Thunglung's father had finally been arrested. He was taken into police custody for interrogation. When Thunglung heard this news, something inside him snapped.
Without thinking, he ran.
He fled from the ashram where he had been living and rushed into the streets. People stared at him as he ran. Some shouted. Some were disturbed by his presence. Others were angry.
Thunglung Dungma did not care.
His eyes burned with revenge—a fire that had been smoldering for fifteen long years.
He arrived at the police station and walked inside without hesitation.
A policeman stopped him and asked,
"What are you doing here, kid? What do you want?"
Thunglung said nothing. His gaze moved past the officer. Slowly, deliberately, he walked toward the interrogation room.
He opened the door.
Inside, his father sat calmly, being questioned by the police. In a sudden motion, Thunglung grabbed a gun from one of the officers and aimed it directly at his father.
His father did not panic.
He did not beg.
He did not fear.
He smiled lightly.
In an instant, every officer in the room raised their weapons toward Thunglung. The police captain—a middle-aged man with years of experience—stepped forward, worry clear on his face.
"Kid," the captain said carefully, "what are you trying to do? Please give me the gun. You're not a bad person. Put it down."
Thunglung did not respond.
His father continued to smile.
Bang.
The gunshot echoed through the room.
Time seemed to stop.
The officers prepared to fire back, but the captain raised his hand and stopped them.
With anger and shock, he demanded,
"What do you think you've done, kid?!"
For the first time, Thunglung spoke.
"He is my father," he said, his voice shaking. "But he is a devil. He destroyed my life from the time I was five years old. I waited fifteen years for this moment… and now it finally came."
Tears fell freely from his eyes—tears he had held back for fifteen years.
"Did I do anything wrong," he asked, "after he ruined my entire life?"
The captain stared at him and asked a single question, sharp and cold:
"Do you have evidence?"
That question shattered him.
"No…" Thunglung whispered.
The captain's frustration exploded.
"Then without evidence, how can I tell anyone what he did to you? Do you understand what will happen to me? Do you want to disgrace me?"
He paused, then continued harshly,
"Or is it that you want to insult me?"
Thunglung trembled.
"No…"
The captain's voice suddenly became calm.
"If that's not your intention… then leave."
Fear gripped Thunglung's body.
He turned and ran.
The officers tried to stop him, but the captain allowed him to go. The exit, however, was guarded. With no other path left, Thunglung ran upward—toward the higher floors.
The captain ordered the officers to follow him.
Thunglung pushed through anyone who stood in his way.
At last, he was surrounded.
"Stop!" the officers shouted. "Your path is blocked. Surrender now!"
Thunglung tried to explain. He tried to speak.
No one listened.
And then—
Thunglung Dungma leapt from the fifteen-story police station building.
"This is my story—full of foolishness.
I laugh at my past life.
Why was I still trying to reason with fools?
How stupid…"
"Shree Yan… this is the moment.
I am looking into your past-life memories.
Were you a demon from the beginning?
Or did you, like me, live in darkness—
and become something even darker?"