Chapter 1 — The Weight of Words (Part 1 — Rewrite)
Dr. J'an — Opening Record
Hatred is often described as something learned.
A response.
A reaction.
A consequence of time and experience.
That belief is comforting.
It suggests that people are born neutral—and only later shaped into something darker.
But that is not always true.
There are individuals who do not learn hatred.
They recognize it.
Early.
Instinctively.
As if some part of them was always meant to see the difference between what the world gives…
and what it withholds.
For most, that recognition fades, softened by hope or dulled by acceptance.
For others—
it becomes foundation.
Madalyn Charm did not grow into ambition.
She built it on top of something far more stable.
Something far more honest.
Madalyn Charm — The First Thing I Ever Felt
Hatred.
That's the first thing I ever felt.
Or at least the first thing I actually remember feeling.
That—
and greed.
The memory is clear as hell.
Sharp.
Like it's burned into my head and refuses to fucking leave.
I was three.
Walking next to my mother—if I can even call that bitch my mother—on the way to buy bread.
Just bread.
That was all we could afford.
No meat.
No fruit.
No nothing.
Just a single, shitty loaf of bread.
And when we got there?
The price changed.
Two gold slivers.
Instead of one.
I remember the exact moment she realized it.
The way her hand tightened around that little pouch like squeezing it harder would somehow make more money appear.
Like if she just believed hard enough, reality would fix itself for her.
It didn't.
She didn't have enough.
Not even for one fucking loaf.
And then she did the most pathetic shit I had ever seen.
She begged.
There was a man standing nearby.
Clean.
Well-dressed.
The kind of person who didn't even think about money before spending it.
And next to him—
his daughter.
She was around my age.
Holding some fruit like it didn't matter.
Like it wasn't something you had to fight for.
Like it would always be there.
I remember looking at her.
Really looking at her.
And thinking—
that should be me.
I wanted to be her so fucking bad.
And I hated her for it.
I hated her for standing there without hunger.
Without shame.
Without that tight, disgusting feeling in your chest when you know you don't have enough.
And then the man just—
paid.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No thought.
He bought the bread for us like it was nothing.
Like it didn't fucking matter.
And that's when I looked at my mother.
Not like a child.
Not like someone confused.
Like someone who finally understood something important.
She was the problem.
She was the reason I was starving.
The reason I had to stand there while she begged like some useless animal.
The reason I wasn't that girl.
And in that moment—
I hated her.
Not a little.
Not something that would go away later.
No.
I fucking hated her.
For birthing me.
For making me hers.
For not letting someone better take her place.
For not giving me the life I deserved.
And that hatred?
It never went away.
It just kept growing.
When I was seven, I found out what she really was.
A whore.
A poor one.
A useless one.
A fucking ugly one.
She could barely get customers.
Barely make enough to eat.
Barely survive.
And somehow—
I was supposed to live like that?
Be okay with that?
Fuck that.
I hated her even more.
For making me her daughter.
For tying me to that life.
For making me the daughter of some broke, ugly-ass whore who couldn't even sell herself properly.
But she wasn't the only one.
My father?
That pathetic piece of shit.
I didn't even know about him until I was eight.
She told me while drunk.
Slurring her words like it was some kind of story worth telling.
Some soldier.
Some random nobody.
An officer who was stupid enough to marry her after one night.
Two days later—married.
One month later—gone.
War.
He died two days before he was supposed to come back.
In some random, useless battle that nobody even fucking remembers.
That's how worthless he was.
And I hated him for that.
I hated him for dying like a nobody.
For being weak.
For leaving me with her.
For giving me nothing—
Except these.
I spread my wings slightly as I stand on the edge of my apartment building.
They're beautiful.
Sharp.
Strong.
The only thing he ever gave me that's worth a damn.
Everything else?
Trash.
Even the name they gave me.
Mad Lavitick.
What kind of weak-ass name is that?
Sounds like something you apologize for saying out loud.
Something that ties you to people you should've never been connected to in the first place.
So I got rid of it.
The first chance I had.
Madalyn Charm.
That name?
That's mine.
I chose it.
I built it.
I made it mean something.
And today—
it's going to mean a whole lot more.
I step off the edge.
For a second, I just fall.
Wind rushing past me.
Freedom.
Control.
Then my wings catch, smooth as hell, and I glide down.
Oportunidad spreads out beneath me.
The south middle district isn't like the lower parts of the city.
This place is alive in a different way.
Buildings made of polished ivory stone, lined with veins of gold that catch the light and make everything look expensive as fuck.
Bridges stretch between towers, crafted from rare woods and reinforced with mana, letting people move above the streets like they belong there.
Markets glow with floating lights.
People talk, argue, laugh—
but every word feels intentional.
Like nobody here says shit by accident.
That's the difference.
This part of the city doesn't survive.
It thrives.
And if you're not careful—
it eats you alive.
I land clean in front of the building.
Glam Inc.
Biggest building in the district.
No question.
I walk inside.
And yeah—
it's expensive.
Not just money-wise.
Intent-wise.
The walls are made from wood I recognize immediately.
Trees from deep in the Fay wilds.
The kind you don't just walk up and cut down unless you're ready to die trying.
They didn't just build this place.
They showed off with it.
I take another step—
and then I hear it.
"And what might be your purpose here today with us?"
God.
That voice is annoying as shit.
I turn.
She's about thirty.
A Fay'deluk.
No wings.
Horn-like branches coming out her head.
Brown hair.
Way too much makeup.
Still ugly.
"Rude," I mutter under my breath.
Then I speak properly.
"I'm here for negotiations regarding regional operational rights."
Her expression shifts.
Not nicer.
Just… more serious.
"And your name?"
I let that hang for a second.
Just enough to make it matter.
Then I say it.
"Charm."
Pause.
"Madalyn Charm."
Immediate change.
"Oh—Ms. Charm."
Yeah.
That's right.
Respect.
Just like that.
"Your meeting is on the fifth floor. Room 1E."
"Thank you."
I step into the elevator.
The doors close.
Silence.
Just me.
My reflection.
And the soft hum as I rise.
Five months.
That's all I get.
Win—
or lose everything.
I look at myself.
At my wings.
At my eyes.
At the person I made out of all that shit.
I don't smile.
I don't need to.
Because I already know something they don't.
This isn't a risk.
It's a fucking guarantee.
The elevator stops.
The doors open.
Clean hallway.
Quiet.
Controlled.
At the end—
one door.
Room 1E.
I walk toward it.
Step by step.
And when I reach for the handle—
I already know.
Everything changes the moment I walk through it.