Regulus flung open the heavy door, and the creak of the hinges echoed through the old hallway, as if the house itself protested his return.
Stepping inside, he was greeted by a familiar smell—a mix of tobacco, stale alcohol, and cheap perfume desperately trying to mask the first two.
The room welcomed him with dim light filtering through dusty blinds.
On the couch, sprawled like a bear in its den, lay his father.
His lean body seemed both relaxed and tense, like someone accustomed to expecting blows—or delivering them.
Bloodshot eyes lazily slid over his son.
"Here's your beer," Regulus said, trying to keep his voice steady.
He carefully placed the bottle on a wobbly coffee table already littered with rings from empty bottles.
His father raised a hand, lazily scratching the back of his head, not even attempting to get up. His gaze grew heavier.
"Yeah," he grunted, casually waving his hand as if Regulus had just performed the most mundane task.
"That's how it should always be. Quick and without any fuss."
Silence hung for a moment, and it seemed the conversation was over.
But then his father spoke again, his voice louder, rougher, like someone used to giving orders and tolerating no objections.
"That bitch Ella will be here soon," he muttered under his breath, then sharply turned his head toward his son.
"Alright, clean up! And hide the beer so she doesn't see it! Where the hell did you put it, you little bastard?!"
Regulus froze for a second, his eyes nervously darting to the bottle.
He felt his mouth go dry.
"G-got it," he stammered, hastily grabbing the bottle and stashing it in the cupboard.
His hands trembled, but he tried to hide it from his father.
Garville continued, his irritation only growing:
"And wipe the floors! There's dirt everywhere! Are your eyes in your ass?! I told you I wanted order, not this..."
He waved his hand as if trying to encompass the entire chaos of the room.
"Mess!"
"I'll... I'll do it now," Regulus hurriedly said, grabbing a rag.
But Garville wasn't done.
His voice became cutting, filled with biting sarcasm:
"How many times do I have to tell you, huh? Or are you as hopelessly stupid as your mother?"
The words hit him like a slap. Regulus bowed his head to hide the sudden surge of rage that engulfed him.
But he knew better than to respond.
His father always won these battles, leaving behind only shattered pride.
In the silence, broken only by the sound of the rag and the creak of the floor, he kept working until he heard the next command:
"And don't forget, everything better shine when she gets here!"
Time, as always, flew by unnoticed.
The dim light of an old lamp in the corner of the apartment illuminated the mess in the room.
Regulus rubbed his temple, feeling exhaustion as if the day had lasted not a few hours but an eternity.
The clock struck midnight, its deep "bong" echoing through the small apartment.
A woman's voice cut through the silence.
"Regulus? Are you still awake?"
He turned around.
In the doorway stood a woman with soft features, brown hair neatly tied in a braid, and golden eyes that now reflected concern.
She was thin, almost fragile, but her posture betrayed an inner strength.
It was Ella Corneas, Regulus's mother.
Her presence starkly contrasted with what he was used to seeing in his father.
She was everything Garville wasn't: caring, quiet, composed.
Her voice always sounded gentle, even in the most tense moments.
Ella froze, her gaze settling on her son's face.
"Oh god..." she whispered, stepping closer.
Her fingers trembled as she gently touched the bruise under his eye.
Regulus took a step back, avoiding her gaze.
"It's..." he stammered, trying to find a plausible explanation. "I just fell down the stairs."
Ella frowned, her gaze becoming more insistent, almost piercing.
"Really?" she asked, her voice trembling but filled with genuine concern.
"Yeah," he said curtly, avoiding her eyes. "Don't worry, it's fine."
"She was a kind and decent woman who always worked honestly," muttered the Archbishop of Greed, recalling those distant days.
He sighed heavily and abruptly tossed a bottle of cognac aside.
It hit the wall with a dull thud, but he didn't care.
"She kept saying the same thing: 'Be kind and decent, earn your living honestly, and you'll reach heaven.'"
Regulus smirked, but there was no joy in that smile, only bitterness.
"Heaven... What's the point?" His lips twisted into a sneer.
"As far as I can remember, she just worked. Day after day, year after year."
He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully examining the ceiling.
Then, with a lazy motion, he leaned back on the bed, throwing his arms behind his head.
His gaze drifted into the void, as if searching for an answer to a nonexistent question.
"And what did it lead to?" he said, as if talking to someone invisible.
"Of course, it ended badly. No one can live like that forever. She worked twenty hours a day and slept only four."
His voice carried a strange mix of contempt and odd regret.
He closed his eyes, memories flooding in like an icy tide.
Sixteen-year-old Regulus stood at a modest grave, where the faded inscription was barely legible: "Ella Cornias."
The cold wind cut through him, but he hardly noticed.
His gaze was fixed downward, on the earth that hid the only person he had truly loved.
"And this is where it led," Regulus thought through the memories that surfaced from the depths of his mind like ghosts of the past.
His breathing was ragged, and an invisible weight seemed to press on his chest. He didn't know how long he had been standing there, but time had lost all meaning.
"She was a foolish and too kind woman..." he admitted to himself, feeling both pain and strange irritation. "But still... I loved her."
His hands involuntarily clenched into fists as his thoughts shifted to another person—the one who truly deserved his hatred.
"And that son of a bitch, Garville..." Regulus thought venomously, feeling anger rising within him like a growing fire. "He... sold the last thing left of my mother. Bought booze with the money. And drank it all in one day. Every last drop."
He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the inner rage, but it was impossible. Each memory only fueled the hatred.
"Not only did that bastard spend her entire salary on his damned booze... But after her death, he sold her things for just one night! For some fucking alcohol! What a son of a bitch!"
Regulus exhaled loudly, his shoulders trembling, but not from the cold. Anger and contempt for his father filled him to the brim, leaving only emptiness inside.
"You always told me to be kind, decent. Honest," he thought, looking at the gravestone. "But, Mom... What did it get you? What did it get us? Your words stayed here, in this earth, and I... I became what you probably feared I would."
Regulus sharply turned away from the grave, his heart beating too fast. But before leaving, he paused for a moment, unable to hold back:
"Sorry, Mom," he said aloud, his voice hollow, almost lifeless. "Sorry for everything."
And with those words, he walked away, leaving behind only the rustle of the wind and the emptiness of the night.
Regulus, now just over seventeen, sat on the edge of a rooftop, his legs dangling over the side.
The cold night air tousled his snow-white hair, and below, the muffled voices and laughter of a bar buzzed with life. But his thoughts were far from the noise and merriment.
"So. I'll kill him quickly and leave," he thought, swinging his legs back and forth. "After that, I'll head to Erato City," he added with cold certainty.
His lazy movements abruptly stopped when a familiar figure emerged from the bar's doors.
A fat body swayed from side to side, covered in a dirty cloak. It was Garville.
"There he is," Regulus whispered, grinning maliciously. His golden eyes gleamed in the dark.
Garville, glancing around as if checking if anyone was following him, turned into a narrow, dark alley.
Regulus, crouching like a predator stalking its prey, followed him. He moved effortlessly across the rooftops, making almost no sound.
When Garville stopped by a wall, clearly intending to relieve himself, Regulus narrowed his eyes.
"Perfect," the thought flashed through his mind.
Garville began to unzip his pants, but before he could even move a finger, two shiny objects whistled through the air.
Two table knives with blunt handles embedded themselves in his legs.
"Ahhh!" Garville screamed wildly, clutching his shins. The pain was sharp, cutting, like fire.
Without wasting a second, Regulus jumped off the roof, landing with the grace of a cat.
With one swift motion, he punched Garville square in the nose. The crunch of bone was sharp and loud.
His father's body lost balance and collapsed onto the dirty pavement like a sack of garbage.
Garville wheezed convulsively, trying to understand what was happening. His eyes, filled with rage and terror, finally met the face of his attacker.
And then everything changed. Recognizing his son's face, he froze. His eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly, but only a faint sound escaped.
"You..." he croaked.
"I'm Regulus Cornias, you sorry excuse for a father," the white-haired boy replied coldly, tilting his head as if examining the trembling man with interest.
"Why?" Garville groaned, his voice filled with fear and pain.
Regulus's face twisted with anger.
He crouched next to his father, grabbed him by the collar, lifted his head, and, looking straight into his eyes, growled:
"Are you seriously asking why? You beat me, made me steal from stores. You beat my mother. Because of you, she died from those damned overworkings!" His voice grew louder until he shouted: "You sold her things, her very memory, just to buy yourself a bottle and get drunk out of your mind! And now you're asking why?!"
Garville laughed hoarsely, revealing dirty, yellow teeth. His laughter was more like a cough.
"You little bastard..." he rasped, trying to muster the remnants of his dignity.
Regulus released the collar, letting Garville's head hit the pavement with a dull thud.
"Now, die already, you scum," Regulus exhaled coldly. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried a steel edge that even the wind seemed to pause for.
"Not for nothing did I train so hard this past year."
With those words, he slowly pulled a kitchen knife from his bag.
The dim moonlight glinted off the blade, making it look even more sinister.
Garville, who had been trying to maintain some bravado, suddenly felt real fear.
"No..." he whispered weakly, his voice filled with panic.
But it was too late.
Regulus lunged forward, and the knife, gleaming, plunged straight into his father's groin. A muffled cry of pain, almost animalistic, tore through the night's silence.
"Ahhh!" Garville screamed, trying to move, but his legs refused to obey, and his body was paralyzed by the sharp pain.
The white-haired killer, without flinching, continued. The knife moved further, tearing through flesh.
The blade mercilessly carved its way, slicing open the stomach, exposing intestines, stomach.
"You tormented me and her for too long..." Regulus hissed, his eyes burning like hot coals.
The blade rose higher, cutting through ribs, behind which lay lungs and a heart.
Each movement of the knife was accompanied by Garville's gurgling cries, growing weaker until they turned into faint gurgles.
When the knife reached the neck, Regulus stopped.
His hands trembled, but not from fear—from the emotions he finally allowed himself to release.
He stepped back, surveying the bloody scene before him.
Garville lay motionless, his body mutilated beyond recognition.
The tyrant who had tormented his son for years and driven his wife to an early grave died as he had lived—brutally and ingloriously.
Regulus exhaled heavily, looking at the bloodied knife in his hand.
"Too bad I killed him so quickly," he rasped through the memories, his voice trembling. "I should have made him suffer a bit longer."
He bent down, spat on his father's bloodied ribs, and stood up, wiping the blade on his clothes.
"You deserved it," he said, looking down, and turned to leave.
His footsteps echoed through the alley.
Blood dripped from his boots, leaving a trail, but he didn't look back.
This moment was supposed to be his liberation.
"My mother was too kind," Regulus said coldly, slowly, as if weighing each word.
His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, as if he saw something beyond the horizon that remained hidden to others.
"But I think good and evil simply don't exist."
He spoke evenly, almost monotonously, but each word carried a hidden mockery.
Regulus propped himself up on his elbow, lazily running a hand through his snow-white hair, as if the motion could help organize his thoughts.
"I never understood," he continued, averting his gaze, "where people even got the idea that it's something objective?"
He fell silent, allowing the room to fill with heavy silence.
Only the faint wind outside reminded him of the world beyond.
"To some, one person is a villain, to others—a hero," he added after a moment, his voice tinged with a sneer.
"It all depends on the angle. The same act can be praised or cursed, not because it's 'good' or 'evil,' but because it's convenient for those who judge it."
Regulus got up from the bed, his movements slow but precise.
He walked to the window, which faintly vibrated from the breeze, and looked up at the night sky.
The moon cast a pale, almost deathly light, as if nature itself confirmed his words.
"It's not the kindest who survive," he mused, gazing at the stars.
"Not even the strongest. Not the one with boundless selfishness or the power to destroy entire cities."
His voice fell silent for a moment, and then he turned around, his golden eyes gleaming as if from an inner fire.
"The one who survives is the one who can adapt. The one who can embrace chaos and find order within it. Who can change without losing themselves."
Regulus began to pace the room slowly, his footsteps sounding dull on the old wooden floor.
In the dim light, his shadow seemed to grow larger, taking on a life of its own.
"Good and evil are just illusions people use to mask their fears and weaknesses," he continued, as if explaining an undeniable truth.
"True strength lies in understanding the world as it is, not as others want it to be."
Stopping in front of an old mirror, Regulus paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on his reflection.
His face remained impassive, but his eyes held a strange mix of determination and cold understanding.
"Adapt or die," he said quietly, as if it were a vow.
"That's the only rule that always works. And I intend to follow it to the end."
For a moment, the room fell completely silent.
You could hear the wind outside softly gliding through the streets, as if eavesdropping on his thoughts.
Regulus turned away from the mirror and looked back at the sky, his gaze heavy but somehow liberated.
"Good, evil... None of it matters," he whispered, as if putting a period on his own monologue.