---
"You should smile more," Akira muttered, his voice raw. "You're beautiful… when you're about to break."
"I stopped breaking long ago," Akhil replied in a whisper, almost tender. "Now I just… shatter others."
Akira gave a bitter laugh. "But you failed when it came to me."
Akhil's grin vanished.
"Boring," he muttered. "That means your time's up."
He stood, walked calmly toward his desk, and retrieved a box cutter. Then, without hesitation, he returned and pressed the cold metal against Akira's neck.
"Any last words?" he asked, his voice as calm as if he were asking about the weather.
Akira swallowed, but his gaze didn't waver. "I thought you were a mirror," he said quietly, "but…"
Akhil leaned in closer, eyes sharp. "But what?"
Akira stared up at him, broken and bleeding. "But you're just another mask. You said you liked interesting things…"
"I do," Akhil replied, his tone flat.
"Of course! Here's the revised flashback in novel style, with smoother transitions and a more emotionally brutal tone. The inner monologue and narration are now more immersive and literary, while still capturing the horror and tragedy of Akira's past.
Akira's lips quivered—not from fear, but from the weight of unspoken memories clawing their way up his throat. His eyes met Akhil's, distant and glassy, as though he were staring at someone who no longer existed.
"You want to know why I became like this?"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Fine… Let me tell you a bedtime story."
Akhil chuckled coldly.
"Go ahead. I've always loved horror tales."
---
Thirteen Years Ago.
The storm raged outside, wind howling like the screams that echoed behind the closed doors of Akira's childhood home. Rain hammered the rusted windows, but nothing could drown out the sound of a leather belt lashing through the air, again and again.
Three-year-old Akira stood silently in the hallway, barefoot on the cold tiles, his small hands trembling at his sides. In front of him, his elder brother was on the floor, shielding his face as their father roared and brought the belt down once more. The crack of leather against skin was louder than thunder.
"Granny…" Akira whispered, clutching the hem of the old woman's sari. "Why is father hurting brother?"
His grandmother smiled—too wide, too still.
"Don't look at that," she said sweetly. "I have something special for you."
She led him to a locked room at the end of the hall. Akira blinked.
"What's in there?"
"A surprise," she said. "Go meet John."
The door creaked open.
Inside, a boy sat on a mattress riddled with cigarette burns. His body was marked—scars, bruises, something far worse hiding beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His eyes met Akira's. Empty. Hollow.
"Why am I here…?" John muttered to himself, smiling faintly. "Oh, right. To become perfect."
Akira didn't understand. He just stood there, confused. That's when his mother's shrill voice rang from the kitchen:
"AKIRA! Take the food to your brother. NOW!"
Akira obeyed. That's what he always did—obey.
He returned to the room with a steel plate, and his brother looked up, eyes damp, lips trembling.
"Mom sent you food," Akira said softly.
His brother accepted the plate without a word. Then, as Akira turned to leave, his brother spoke.
"Come back at midnight," he whispered. "Don't tell anyone… okay?"
Akira nodded innocently.
"We'll play?"
His brother smiled. But it was not the smile of a child. It was cracked. Haunted.
---
Midnight.
Akira crept through the silent house, clutching a small teddy bear. He slipped into his brother's room, smiling softly.
"Brother, I'm here…"
But the boy standing in the corner was not the same. His brother held something small and glinting in his hand—a needle. Its metal shimmered in the moonlight.
"It's beautiful, right?" his brother asked gently. "Wanna feel it?"
Akira took a step back.
"What is that?"
Too late.
His brother lunged. The teddy bear fell. The needle pierced skin.
"STOP! It hurts—!"
His brother pinned him down, his hands steady, his voice calm.
"It has to hurt. That's how you become like her. That's how you become good younger brother."
The blade danced across Akira's back, slow and cruel. Blood soaked into the sheets.
---
The Next Morning.
Akira staggered into the living room. His shirt stuck to his wounds. Blood was crusted on his neck. But no one asked. No one even looked.
At the dining table, his father pressed a wad of cash into a police officer's palm.
Akira stared.
"Why are you giving money to that uncle?"
His father's gaze turned to him—sharp, venomous.
"This kid talks too much."
"I'll handle it," his mother snapped, grabbing Akira's wrist.
She dragged him into the kitchen. The door slammed shut.
The first slap sent him sprawling into a shelf. Then the real punishment began.
She didn't care where she hit. His legs. His chest. His face. The edge of a steel ladle cut his lip.
"Please, mom… please…" he cried.
But she wasn't listening. She never did.
---
Years blurred. Pain became routine. His brother? Gone. Taken away. Said to be "mad."
His grandmother? Dead, but her experiments lived on. In John. In him.
His father? Untouchable. A monster wrapped in a man's skin.
His mother? A loyal servant to a devil.
They weren't a family.
They were a lab experiment. A house of monsters.
---
Back to Present
Akira's voice was cold now. Stripped of emotion.
"My grandmother didn't want a grandson. She wanted a weapon. My mother didn't want a son. She wanted a puppet. And my father… he just wanted something to break."
Akhil stared at him in stunned silence, the box cutter still pressed to Akira's neck, forgotten.
"No child is born a monster," Akira said.
"They're made."
And in that moment, Akhil saw it—not just the killer, not just the lunatic—but the child who had bled quietly for years, waiting for someone to ask why.
---