Hello readers,

Once again, thank you for subscribing and commenting. You really make my days. This post is a little on the darker side. I will try to add some cuteness or something less dark on my next post. :D I would consider this post a sort of continuation (or just part of) the world and storyline that I created for my “Shadow” one-shot. I hope that it is not too bad. I would consider it a sort of preview of Yongguk’s side of the story. Please enjoy and let me know what you think.

Thank you!

The smell of the gunpowder and fresh blood hurt the nose of the small child huddled between old cardboard boxes. His small hands were failing at his attempt to cover his ears. The screams of agony coming from his surroundings were deafening. The fear that was invading his body was slowly disintegrating the braveness and survival instincts of the seven-year-old. At some point the screams of pain stopped, he clearly heard someone giving orders. The fear that clouded his brain did not allow him to understand the nature of such orders, but he decided to stay quietly in his hideout. He stayed hidden for hours without moving afraid that any movement would give him away. After what seemed an eternity the warehouse that had been attacked not more than five hours ago became silent. Whoever had attacked the place had left. Only then did the small child decide to move. As he tried to stand up from his hiding place his legs failed him. He had been still for too long, his muscles refused to give him enough strength to move.

He broke down.

The stress of the last hours and the years of abuse finally caught up with him. He cried. Tears of pain, hate, sadness, tears for his dead parents, the other children that had died due to the negligence and abuse, but most of all he cried for himself. For that four-year-old who was sold-off like an object, the child that was hit even for breathing too loudly, the child who could not sleep for fear that the evil men would touch him. He cried for the impotence, the lack of power that he had to protect the rest of the children. He cried because he had to endure the cries of pain of the children as they were used as punch bags and objects of pleasure.

A seven-year-old should not have dark thoughts about killing…or dying. But this child had dreamed countless times that he took the life of his tormentors. His dreams showed countless ways in which he could end the life of those monsters, at times he could almost feel the life seep out of their dirty bodies. But at last the small child was not strong enough, brave enough. As for death, it was never his desire to die. At least, not until now. There was nothing for him anymore. Like the coward he was he had not been able to help the other children. It did not matter that the night before he had been separated from the rest of the children. The hopeless child believed that somehow it was his responsibility to help the others, but he did not. It was for this reason that he did not deserve to live. For the first time in three years the child wanted to die.

The child closed his eyes. The tears continued streaming down his face. Sobs that appeared to be tearing his chest apart came out of his mouth. The small child was breathing, his heart was beating, but the will to live was gone. Only desolation was left. He knew that he was going to hell, but he was too tired to stay in this world any longer. He wanted to go. He would pay for his cowardice and his sins. He was ready for the punishment.

As these dark thoughts formed in the mind of the innocent child another child came into the warehouse. Somehow, he had heard the pain of the young defeated soul. He found a brown haired child a little bigger than himself huddled in pain. The new comer had never seen anyone in so much pain or so defeated. He instantly started crying and ran towards the child in pain to hug him.

“Please do not cry!” the smaller child cried out. “Papa will help you, but do not cry. I will give you my Tatsmato, but please open your eyes!” continued the smaller child shaking the broken being. Due to the lack of response the smaller child increased his bawling. Little Kim Himchan never gives up.