Chapter 1

Seto Kaiba was pulled from his thoughts as his brothers chatted animatedly in the backseat of the car. The vehicle was loaded with boxes and bags while the rest of their belongings had been packed into the U-Haul truck behind them. Seto sighed, relieved: the further away they got from America and the past, the better. He stole a glance at his brothers in the backseat. Mokuba, the youngest of the three, had longish black hair and grey eyes—both of which he'd received from their neglectful mother.

Like Seto, he was intelligent and quite tall for his age, and he certainly looked like the eleven-year-old he was. Heba, on the other hand…Heba wasn't quite…normal. At seventeen, he looked as if he were just about to enter middle school when, in actuality, he would be turning eighteen in a few months. But that wasn't too strange, he supposed—what was really strange was his hair. Seto had discovered that, no matter what spray, dye or gel he used, he couldn't change Heba's crazy tricolored hairstyle. His eyes were also the unnatural shade of amethyst, and... Seto was just glad that the pupils were round.

Heba was a very intelligent and amicable person—Seto had no reservations about that—but he always seemed to be detached, in a way, and…unhappy—broken-hearted, even. He couldn't figure out why, but when Seto offered to take him to see a therapist, he vehemently refused, saying that whatever was making him upset could not be solved by "something as simple as therapy." Seto sighed. He had raised both Heba and Mokuba since their days at the orphanage, so of course there was a certain level of responsibility he felt for their well-being. Even after they had been taken in by that cruel, pathetic excuse for a human—Gozaburo Kaiba—he continued to look out for them, especially when their supposed guardian turned to drinks and the like in a fit of frustration and depression, swindling it all and running his business and everything else to the f*cking ground.

It wasn't surprising when he was found sprawled in his chair, unbreathing—a heart attack, they called it. It was Heba who had found him, a look of sheer terror on his face. Seto had arrived just in time to catch Heba right before he passed out, and the boy woke up a few minutes later with no recollection of what had happened. That entire incident was the reason why they were moving to Japan, where no one knew of them. "Are we there yet?" Mokuba suddenly asked. Seto grunted and took a sharp turn before abruptly braking in front of a house, uttering, "We're here." He turned off the engine and swiftly exited the car with Heba and Mokuba following suit, and began to unload their belongings from the vehicle and truck.

Mokuba rushed to help him while Heba made his way to the front of the house and fished out the keys to the house that Seto had given him earlier—Seto refused to let Heba do any heavy lifting in fear of damaging his small stature. Heba let out a small snort at the thought as he sorted through the numerous keys, deciding which ones would fit into the keyhole. It was on his third try when the door finally unlocked, and at once a blast of cold air swept past him, gently coaxing him into the abode. Heba's brow furrowed as the feelings of heartbreak and nostalgia surged through him all at once, and yet, as the door swung open, he couldn't help but feel as if a hole in his heart had finally closed up. Yes, after all these years, never knowing who his parents were but only knowing that he was different from everyone else, he finally felt like he belonged—that he was…home.

He stepped inside.

The first floor of the house was altogether regular, he thought: the walls were a plain white, though Heba supposed it was favorable compared to the overbearing, flamboyant bursts of colors that Gozaburo used to adore—used to. The floor of the entrance hall was a decorative array of tiles of all shapes and sizes, the kitchen, a regular arrangement of large, cool slabs of sandy marble. The living room wasn't much to look at, save for the newly-installed double-glazed window, the oriental rug—most likely of Indian origin—that lay in the center, and the convex floor lamp that had isolated itself in the corner.

Heba didn't look much further and climbed up the carpeted staircase.

It seemed to be the upper floors that were sparking his interest anyway. Upon reaching the second floor, he felt the rush of nostalgia surge through him once more, and found himself gravitating towards the room with the splintered door as his feet slid across the polished parquet flooring. The room was a nursery—meant for a child no older than three, he concluded. It was bare of any decor, save for the petite, old fashioned crib in the corner; the crib was quite worn-down on the sides, and it was only upon closer inspection that Heba was able to decipher the name inscribed on the frame. "Yugi." he read. The name was achingly familiar—it almost tore at his heart but he didn't know why, and it frustrated him.

His gaze fell upon a small bundle wrapped in bedsheets that lay in the crib. Assuming the worst, he picked it up, but was surprised and relieved to find that its contents were soft and squishy, much like a pillow. He unravelled it to find a family of three dolls—two adults and one child—and they all looked like him…well, less so for the one that was tanned. Nonetheless, it was quite obvious that the dolls shared similar traits with him—namely the peculiar hairstyle—which he found rather odd.

Did someone know he was coming? No, that was a stupid question to ask: the previous owners of the house had met him before, so of course someone knew; these dolls might've just been a gift of some sort to the new owners. But then, why did the dolls only look like him? What about Mokuba and Seto? And why were they in the crib of all places? His thoughts were swiftly pushed aside as he suddenly took notice of the intricate workmanship of the small, pale doll—the child. He could see the love and care that had been put into every cut and stitch of the craft, and there was no doubt that it was all done by hand: a work like this could only be the result of years of practice and experience—a mere machine would never be able to make something like this.

The other two, however… There wasn't something quite right about them: he could feel an aura of malice, hateful and vengeful, emanating from the them, and it was mildly unsettling. Heba shrugged the feeling off and took the dolls with him as he explored the rest of the house. There really wasn't much else to see except for a couple bathrooms and a few empty rooms that would probably be turned into their bedrooms. Knowing this, Heba quickly found a spacious room that was much cleaner than the others, and claimed it as his own.

The walls were painted a pastel blue that faded into a soft purple towards the skirting, much like the sky at sunset, just after the sun disappears into the horizon. The room was furnished with a cushioned window seat that sat by the paned aperture, and beside it stood a chest of drawers; a wide desk and swivel chair had been tucked into a corner along with an empty bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. Heba decided to go through the chest of drawers to check if anything was inside just for the sake of it; he was surprised to find a black, iron key attached to a silver chain in the first drawer he opened. He didn't think much of it when he picked it up, but when it began to heat up in his hand, his first instinct was to toss the key out of the window. Instead, he rushed to the sink in the bathroom and drenched it in cold water, hoping that the searing heat would go away quickly.

When he finally felt the heat dissipate after what had felt like hours, he turned off the tap and unfurled his hand, only to find a shiny, golden key with an eye in the middle in place of the black, iron one he was expecting. He blinked, unsure of what to think, and held the key closer to get a better look at it. It was heavier than it looked, so it was likely that it at least had some gold content in it, and it was attached to that same silver chain, which could have meant that this golden key was that same iron key from before…

…which made absolutely no sense.

Heba sighed and put the key around his neck: he'd find a place to leave it later, but for now, he wanted to keep an eye on it—though, there already was an eye on it. Heba snickered to himself at the thought and smiled as he faced the mirror. He had to admit that the key looked pretty good on him as a necklace, but he still felt odd. That eye… He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but it was as if it was staring at him in the reflection…He felt strange asking himself this, but…

Was he being watched?