Riyan's POV
I was born into ordinariness.
Middle-class house. Two parents who worked hard. Neighborhood where people knew each other's names. The kind of existence where comfort was a given and tragedy was something that happened on TV to people you'd never meet.
My parents were good. Everyone said so. Max and Beyoncé—names that feel foreign now after years in a body that calls different people "mother" and "father"—had clawed up from nothing. Orphans who'd built a life together through sheer stubborn devotion. I was the proof their struggles meant something.
They loved me with the fierce protectiveness of people who'd grown up without love and were determined their kid would never know that emptiness.
I should have been happy.
But even as a child, I knew something was wrong with me.
Other kids played. Ran around screaming, laughing with that careless joy childhood was supposed to have. I watched them the way you'd watch fish in a tank—curious about their behavior but fundamentally separate from it. Their games seemed pointless. Their friendships looked like transactions based on convenience.
I preferred books. Preferred ideas to people.
The other children found me unsettling. I saw it in how they'd go quiet when I approached, how their parents would watch me with that assessing look adults get when they're trying to figure out what's wrong with you.
My parents called it "mature for his age." Teachers said "exceptionally bright." Other adults used "old soul" with uneasy admiration, like they weren't entirely comfortable with what they were observing.
None of them said what was actually true: detached.
I loved my parents. Or rather, I understood they'd sacrificed everything for me, worked themselves to exhaustion to give me opportunities. I felt gratitude. Which was the appropriate response.
But actual warmth? The visceral, overwhelming affection other children seemed to feel naturally?
That took effort. Conscious performance of behaviors I'd observed and catalogued as "how children show love."
I got very good at performing.
They never knew. They saw a brilliant, devoted son who studied hard and made them proud. Never glimpsed the cold calculation beneath the warm smiles, never understood I was operating from a script I'd written based on observation.
I wanted to be normal. Wanted to feel what others felt so easily.
But wanting something and being capable of it are different things.
So I compensated by being useful. If I couldn't love them the way they deserved, I could at least make their lives easier. Be the son they'd dreamed of, even if that son was more performance than reality.
It was sustainable. Lonely, but sustainable.
Then came the night that broke everything.
Third Person POV
November 12th - 3:56 AM
New Creek
The moon hung full over New Creek, casting silver across empty streets. The kind of small town where doors stayed unlocked, where everyone knew everyone, where tragedy was something that happened elsewhere.
In the house on Maple Street, nine-year-old Riyan slept deep and dreamless. His room was organized chaos—books everywhere, fiction mixed with nonfiction, comic books next to philosophy texts too advanced for his age, fantasy novels beside true crime anthologies his parents didn't know he was reading.
Down the hall, Max and Beyoncé slept with Max's arm draped over his wife even in unconsciousness. They'd fallen asleep talking about mundane things—bills, parent-teacher conferences, the water heater making concerning noises.
Normal things. Safe things.
Outside, a man stood in shadows across the street, watching.
He'd been watching for weeks. Learning their patterns, schedules, habits. Max's early shift at the plant. Beyoncé's teaching job. Young Riyan walking himself home because they'd raised him to be independent.
They trusted their safe little town to protect them.
That trust was exploitable.
The man—early forties, unremarkable features you'd struggle to describe later—felt anticipation building in his chest. Not for the act itself, though that had its pleasures.
But for this moment right before. When he stood on the threshold of transforming peaceful lives into horror.
When he held the power to decide who lived, who died, who suffered.
The knife in his pocket had familiar weight. Sharp enough to slide through flesh with minimal resistance. He'd used it before, in towns carefully selected for their distance from here.
Practice.
This family with their perfect little life deserved to understand that safety was illusion. That the world was random violence and meaningless suffering, and their love meant nothing against someone who'd decided they should die.
At 3:56 AM, he crossed the street.
The front door was locked. The kitchen window opened easily—they never bothered securing it. Who would break into a house in this neighborhood?
He moved through the house with practiced silence, footsteps barely disturbing floorboards. Past the kitchen where family photos cluttered the refrigerator. Past the living room where toys were scattered. Past the bathroom where Riyan's toothbrush sat next to his parents' in a cup with cartoon characters.
Evidence of a life built on hope.
He stopped outside the master bedroom, listening. Max's light snoring. Beyoncé's deeper breaths.
Living people, unaware.
He opened the door with infinite care. Crossed to the bed. Looked down at Max's sleeping face.
Then pulled the knife and drove it into Max's stomach.
The sound Max made wasn't a scream. More a choked gasp, air forced out by shock and agony. His body jerked, hands coming up confused and weak.
The man pulled the knife free. Drove it in again, higher. Between ribs.
Max made another sound—wet, gurgling. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the blade.
The man worked methodically. Quiet. Efficient. The only sounds were Max's weakening gasps, the wet slide of metal through tissue, blood hitting sheets.
Beyoncé woke to nightmare.
Her husband convulsing beside her, blood everywhere, a stranger standing over them with a dripping knife. Her mind couldn't process it—this wasn't real, couldn't be real, this was New Creek—
Then survival instinct kicked in.
She didn't think. Didn't try to save Max. Her only thought was her son. Her baby sleeping down the hall.
She rolled out of bed, hit the floor hard. The man was focused on Max, didn't immediately notice. She scrambled up and ran, bare feet slapping hardwood, mind blank except: Get to Riyan. Save Riyan.
Behind her, Max's sounds were stopping. Becoming nothing.
She ran down the hall toward her son's room where a light had just flickered on.
Riyan stood in his doorway, nine years old, clutching a baseball bat. His expression wasn't terror.
It was analytical. Cold. Like he was observing from outside himself.
"Mom?" His voice was steady. Too steady. "What's happening?"
Beyoncé grabbed his arm, tried to pull him toward the stairs. "We have to go. Now. Don't ask—"
"Well."
The voice came from behind them. The man stood at the hall's end, backlit by the master bedroom light. His knife dripped steadily onto the floor.
"The wife and the son. Perfect."
His smile wasn't manic. It was calm. Almost friendly. Which made it worse.
Beyoncé pushed Riyan behind her, making herself a shield. "Please. He's just a child. He's nine. Let him go. Do whatever you want to me, but—"
"No."
The man walked forward with casual confidence. The stairs were behind him. The windows too high. They were trapped.
"I want him to watch."
He moved fast.
Beyoncé fought—nails raking his face, drawing blood. But she was an elementary school teacher who'd never been in a real fight. The knife found her stomach. Her chest. Her throat.
She fell between Riyan and the man.
Riyan stood there, bat clutched in small hands, watching his mother die with that same cold expression. Like he was observing a documentary.
The man paused, studying him. This wasn't the expected reaction. Most children would be screaming, breaking down.
This boy just watched.
"You're interesting," the man said quietly. "What's your name?"
Riyan's voice was flat. "Riyan."
It wasn't his real name. Not the one his parents had whispered. But as he stared at his mother's blood spreading across the floor, something inside him snapped and something else was born.
Cold. Silent. Consuming whatever softness remained.
He forced his face into emptiness, pretending not to care even as the people he loved were butchered in front of him.
The man stared at him for a long, heavy beat. The total lack of fear in the kid seemed to spoil the fun. With a quiet grunt, he wiped his knife on the hallway rug, turned his back on the child, and casually walked down the stairs.
Only after footsteps faded did Riyan slip into the nearest room, shut the door with trembling hands, and collapse.
Silent sobs shaking the body of a boy who could no longer remember what it felt like to be human.
Author's Note:
This chapter establishes the traumatic origin of Riyan's psychological issues. The name "Nemora" represents his psychological break and transformation. This backstory explains but doesn't excuse his current sadistic tendencies.
Content Warning: Next chapter will contain the conclusion of this flashback, including violence involving a child. While I'll handle it as tactfully as possible, reader discretion is strongly advised.
Reader Discussion:
How does this context change your view of Riyan's current behavior? Should trauma excuse or just explain violent tendencies? Do you think he can heal from this, or is he permanently damaged?
Power stones and comments appreciated!
- Your Author