~Episode 17~
His room was too messy and too dark. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, books overturned, wires tangled like abandoned thoughts. Nothing felt alive there—everything looked lost, forgotten.
It was a room that seemed untouched by anyone except him. Since morning, after he had left for school, no one had stepped inside. And now, Acker was back.
The silence greeted him first. Heavy. Suffocating. The kind of quiet that made your own breathing feel loud.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, staring at the chaos he called his space. It reflected him perfectly—disordered, lonely, unfinished.
Slowly, he walked toward the small table beside his bed and picked up the framed photograph resting there. His father's face stared back at him, frozen in a time that no longer existed. Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them.
He didn't break easily. He wasn't the kind of person who cried every day. He didn't even think about his father often. But today was different. Today, something inside him cracked.
Today, he felt unbearably alone.
"Dad… I miss you," he whispered, his voice barely audible as he pulled the photograph close to his chest. His fingers trembled as if they might let go at any moment. Tears slipped down his cheeks, blurring his vision.
"Why did you leave me?" he murmured, his voice shaking now. "You chose escape over me. You chose running away instead of facing the truth. Why, Dad… why did you leave me alone here?"
His chest tightened painfully.
His shoulders shook as he cried, but no sound escaped his lips. His sobs were silent, trapped inside him. He didn't want the walls to hear. He didn't want the world to know.
Maybe he didn't even want himself to acknowledge the pain.
Reality was harsher than imagination.
"I made a new friend today," he continued softly, speaking to the photograph as if it could listen. "He's a little weird. You would've yelled at me if you were here."
A weak smile tugged at his lips as he slowly wiped his tears with his sleeve.
"He talks a lot," he said. "He's smart. And… I found out he loves video games. Just like me."
Ivan chuckled softly, the sound broken and fragile. Tears slid into his mouth, salty and bitter, but he didn't bother wiping them away.
"He asked me to come to his house," he went on. "But I refused. It was our first meeting. I don't want things to move too fast. I decided to keep some distance."
He paused, staring at the photograph again.
"I told him about Mom."
His fingers tightened around the frame.
"He said, 'Punish her for her sins.'"
The words echoed in his head, cold and sharp.
Was he right?
Do criminals never feel pain?
His gaze locked onto his father's eyes in the picture, searching for an answer that would never come. His lips parted, but no question left them this time.
Ping.
The sudden sound broke the silence.
He flinched and turned toward his computer screen. A message had popped up.
MisterKiller14.
His heart skipped once. Quietly, he moved closer and pressed the Later option without opening the chat.
The message preview still lingered.
"Let's play the next game."
He typed a single reply.
"Later."
****
"Later?"
"It's getting more fun."
On the other side of the screen, a boy smiled widely. His face remained hidden behind the glow of the computer, swallowed by darkness. Only his curly hair was visible, messy and wild. His eyes shone sharply, reflecting the screen's light—watching, waiting