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My name is Jake Muller.
I was born in the Republic of Edonia, a country so small you need a magnifying glass to find it on a map.
The sky here is always a dull gray, like a dirty rag that's been smoked over countless times.
The air is forever filled with dust and the bitter scent of some unknown rotting plant.
As far back as my memory goes, my mother was always trapped in an unbreakable melancholy.
She rarely smiled; most of the time, she would sit by the only window that let in any sunlight, needlework in hand, staring blankly at the dilapidated neighborhood outside for hours on end.
Our living conditions were poor—or rather, there were no "conditions" to speak of.
We lived in a crumbling old apartment building where the plaster fell off in large chunks, revealing the ugly mud bricks beneath.
The only appliance in the room was a flickering light bulb and an old refrigerator that frequently made noises as if in protest.
We barely managed to get by thanks to my mother doing cheap handicraft work day and night for a meager income.
My mother's health was also very poor.
She coughed constantly, especially at night; that suppressed, heart-wrenching sound felt like a dull knife sawing back and forth across my heart.
I noticed that other kids my age took their father's surname, or had both parents' surnames.
But I, Jake Muller, only had my mother's surname.
When I was about five or six, I asked her about it.
That afternoon, I saw a boy from next door named Ivan being lifted over his father's head; their laughter echoed through the narrow hallway.
I ran home and tugged at the hem of my mother's clothes while she was mending an old garment.
"Mama, where is my daddy? Why does Ivan have a daddy and I don't?"
Her mending stopped.
She lowered her head, and I couldn't see her expression, only her shoulders trembling slightly.
After a long time, just as I thought she wouldn't answer, a hot tear suddenly splashed onto the back of my hand.
Then a second, and a third... She didn't answer my question; she just put down her work, pulled me tightly into her arms, and cried uncontrollably.
It was a desperate, silent sob, as if she were crying her entire Soul out.
From that day on, I never asked again.
The word "Daddy" became a tacit taboo between us.
Not having a father made me an outcast among my peers.
They began to isolate me, throw stones at me, and point fingers behind my back.
"Look, there he is, the fatherless bastard!"
"His mom is a bad woman, that's why his dad didn't want them!"
The malice of children is often the purest and most hurtful.
At first, I just endured it in silence, treating their words like the buzzing of flies.
But one day, they cornered me and snatched away the black bread my mother had just bought me as a birthday gift.
The leader, a fat kid half a head taller than me, stomped the bread into the ground while mocking me with the most vicious language.
"Bastards should eat dirt! Your dad definitely found another woman and had other kids, that's why he didn't want a piece of trash like you!"
A string in my brain snapped with a loud pop.
I don't know exactly what happened that day; I only remember seeing blood-red.
When I came to, the fat kid was lying on the ground, his face covered in blood, crying like a pig headed for slaughter.
The other two accomplices—one was clutching his arm which I'd twisted like a pretzel, and the other was slumped on the ground in terror, his pants soaked through.
My fists hurt, stained with blood and dirt.
But in my heart, I felt an unprecedented sense of relief.
That night, the parents of those children—a group of fierce-looking adults—blocked our doorway.
They cursed my mother with the filthiest words I could imagine, calling her a slut and me a monster, demanding we get out of the neighborhood.
Mother didn't say a word; she just pulled me behind her, silently enduring their spittle.
When they had cursed enough and grown tired, they finally dispersed.
Mother closed the door, and the entire room fell into a heavy silence.
She turned around and looked at me.
Slap!
A sharp slap landed hard on my face.
My face stung with heat, and I tasted a metallic, rusty sweetness at the corner of my mouth.
I didn't cry; I just stared back at her stubbornly.
I didn't understand. I had protected her reputation, I had fought back against those who bullied me—what did I do wrong?
Mother saw the confusion and anger in my eyes, and the rage on her face instantly crumbled.
She knelt down, pulled me tightly into her arms again, and wept aloud.
Her tears soaked my shoulder, colder than winter snowmelt.
"I'm sorry, Jack, I'm sorry... Mama didn't mean it... Mama is just... afraid..."
In that moment, I suddenly understood.
She didn't hit me because I had hit someone; she hit me because she was afraid.
She was afraid I would get hurt, and even more afraid that my unusual strength would bring even greater disaster upon us.
It was also at that moment that I began to hate the so-called "father" who only existed in my mother's words and had never appeared.
It was him—it was he who left us to live this precarious life, at the mercy of bullies.
It was he who made my beautiful, kind mother live like a flower slowly withering in a gutter.
Yes, my mother was very beautiful.
Even when exhausted and haggard from poverty and illness, her delicate features and natural beauty were hard to hide.
Her blonde hair wasn't gaudy like the dyed hair of the women on the street; it was a soft color, like stalks of wheat dried in the sun.
Her eyes were blue, as blue as the distant sea described in books.
But that sea was now always shrouded in thick fog.
I heard from the elderly neighbors that mother was only a teenager, a young girl, when she gave birth to me.
Then she raised me all by herself through many hardships.
What she gave up was her youth, her health, her everything.
Because of her beauty, and because of our situation as a lone mother and son, there were always some low-life scumbags who came to harass us like flies drawn to the scent of blood.
They would whistle lewdly downstairs and say unspeakable, filthy things.
A few times, they even tried to pick our door lock under the cover of night.
After that fight, I realized that although I was a child not even ten years old, my explosive power was no less than that of an adult.
It felt as if a sleeping beast lived inside my body.
That was why I could beat those foul-mouthed punks until they cried for their parents.
When those scumbags came to harass my mother again, I no longer hid in the room.
I would grab a mop handle from behind the door or a nut-cracking stone from the windowsill and rush out to show them what I was made of.
I remember one time, a drunken man tried to get handsy with my mother, emboldened by the alcohol.
Without the slightest hesitation, I rushed up from behind and used all my strength to smash a half-brick squarely against the back of his head.
I still remember that dull thud.
The man didn't even groan before collapsing limply; the blood flowing from the back of his head slowly spread into a small patch of dark red on the dirty ground.
From then on, the way the neighbors looked at me changed completely.
It was no longer just exclusion and disgust, but was mixed with deep fear.
They began calling me "Little Monster" and "Son of a Demon" behind my back.
No one dared approach our home anymore, and no one dared harass my mother.
That was fine.
Loneliness was better than being bullied.
However, the peaceful days didn't last long.
Mother fell ill.
Her health had always been poor, and that damned cough became more frequent, sometimes even bringing up blood.
She grew thinner and thinner, her face as pale as a sheet of paper.
The doctor said she needed a lot of money for expensive medicine and hospitalization.
Money.
That word was like a mountain, weighing heavily on my shoulders.
I had no choice.
I wasn't even ten; even the factories wouldn't take me for illegal labor because I was too young.
For money, to buy medicine for my mother, I began doing things I never would have done before.
I went to the junkyard to fight stray dogs for scraps that could be sold.
I went to the black market to run errands and deliver messages for smugglers, all for a few dirty coins.
I learned to steal.
At first, it was bread from the bakery, then wallets from pedestrians.
Later, I started committing robberies.
I specifically targeted rich people who looked well-dressed and slick.
I would drag them into deserted alleys and use my superhuman strength to beat them until they begged for mercy, then take all the money they had.
Every time, my heart was filled with guilt.
But as soon as I thought of my mother lying in bed, tormented by illness, all that guilt was suppressed by something more powerful called "responsibility."
I didn't care what others thought of me, nor did I care what I would become in the future.
As long as I could keep my mother alive, I wouldn't hesitate even if I had to kill someone.
Until that day.
It was a late afternoon with cold rain falling. I had failed another robbery and was beaten by the target's bodyguards; I was covered in wounds and hadn't made a cent.
I dragged my exhausted body to a corner of a trash-filled alley, rain mixing with blood as it slid down my face.
I felt an unprecedented sense of despair.
Just then, a tall figure appeared silently at the alley entrance, holding a black umbrella like a ghost emerging from the darkness.
He wore a well-tailored black suit that was completely out of place in this filthy, dilapidated alley.
The rain seemed to deliberately avoid him; even his polished leather shoes weren't stained by a single speck of mud.
He walked toward me, step by step.
I instinctively gripped the small knife in my pocket for self-defense, every muscle tensing like an injured wolf ready to attack at any moment.
"Jake Muller."
His voice was flat, without any emotional fluctuation, yet he accurately called out my name.
He stopped in front of me, the massive black umbrella shielding both of us from the cold rain outside.
"Do you want to save your mother?"
I looked up, watching him warily.
He wasn't wearing a mask, but his face was like one, showing no expression whatsoever.
"You want to help cure her illness, let her live a good life, and never suffer again."
It wasn't a question, but a statement.
It was as if he knew everything.
I didn't answer, just stared at him intently.
"I can help you," he continued.
"I can provide the best doctors, the most expensive medicines, and have her admitted to the best sanatorium in the world. I can even give her a large sum of money so she never has to worry about food or clothing for the rest of her life."
My heart began to throb uncontrollably.
Everything he described was exactly what I dreamed of but found unreachable.
"What is the price?" I asked hoarsely.
I knew there was no such thing as a free lunch in this world.
"The price?" The man seemed to smile slightly, but the curve of his lips was minuscule.
"The price is you. From now on, you belong to me."
"Fine."
I agreed without the slightest hesitation.
To me, this wasn't even a question that needed consideration.
Besides my mother, what else did I have to lose? My dignity? My reputation, which had long been trampled into the mud? Or my worthless life?
These things were worth nothing.
The man didn't seem surprised by my readiness.
He turned to leave, and the cold rain instantly hit my face again.
He suddenly turned back and asked a completely unrelated question.
"If one day you meet your father, what would you want to say to him?"
Father?
That word, which I had buried deep in my heart and almost forgotten, was dug up by him like a rusty knife, stabbing into my heart and twisting violently.
I remained silent for a long time, letting the rain wash over my face.
The wind in the alley carried the sour stench of trash, chilling me to the bone.
I looked up into his bottomless eyes.
Word by word, I told him: "I would break his legs and make him kneel before my mother to atone for his sins."
"Then, I would grab him by the collar and ask him..."
"Why the hell did that bastard abandon us back then..."
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