registered. It was his birthday. A strange, unfamiliar feeling bloomed in his chest – a mixture of apprehension and a hesitant, fragile hope. He'd never celebrated a birthday before or even ce

rated with a deceptive sweetness, a cruel parody of genuine joy. His dream mother's voice called from downstairs, a melody of false affe

e simple act of choosing clothes, of preparing for a celebration, felt almost surreal. As he descended the stairs, the aroma of ba

joy radiating from them too bright, too intense. It wasn't genuine happiness; it was an elaborate performance, a carefully crafted trap designed to lull him into complacency. The meticulously

ly reminded him of the years he spent alone, with out anyone . His dream mother rushed toward him, her embrace warm and almost suffocating. His dream father clapped him on the back, his smile almost painfully bright. This manufactured

a strange sense of both pleasure and revulsion washing over him. The moment, this perfect, impossible moment, was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. He allowed himself t

for you to cut the cake dear" sh

d metal touched his fingers, the truth, cold and sharp, pierced through the illusion. The hum intensified, a discordant note breaking the sweetness, and he knew wh

aw the carefully constructed facade crumble for a second, revealing a flicker of something ancient and cold in the depths, before he acted. The knife flashed, the sweetness of the scene dis

uldn't stop him. Alastor knew he wouldn't be the same after this, the once happy life he lived was destroyed no

the conflicting emotions – the sorrow of destroying the only semblance of family he'd ever known, and the triumphant relief of finally breaking free. Finally, in a shattering, anguished cry, he screamed out all the years of pain and neglect, his voice hoarse, raw with the fury of a broken soul "Way... way..why am left to pick up the broken pieces of my life, it all unfair" he shouted. He had finally broken through, he had finally answered