Keith sat in the darkness, unmoving. The air was thick with the scent of blood, but he no longer noticed it. His tears had long dried, leaving cold streaks on his cheeks. His arms remained wrapped around his parents' lifeless bodies, his small fingers clinging to them as if refusing to let go.
Midnight came, but time had lost all meaning.
Then, the silence shattered.
The front door burst open with a crash, followed by hurried footsteps. Five figures entered the blood-soaked house, their movements swift and precise. They wore hooded robes, their faces obscured by shadows. The only way to distinguish them was by their forms—two men and three women.
Each was armed.
One of the men wielded a Japanese-style katana, its blade gleaming faintly under the dim moonlight. The other carried a longsword, its edges worn yet deadly. Among the three women, one gripped a wooden staff, another wore gauntlets that gleamed like steel, and the last held a pair of curved daggers, twirling them with practiced ease.
A silver wolf emblem gleamed on their robes.
Keith heard them enter. He heard their cautious footsteps as they searched the house, their voices low and urgent. But he didn't react. He stayed where he was, motionless, his body an empty shell.
Eventually, they found him.
A hushed silence settled over the group as they took in the scene—the blood-streaked walls, the shredded furniture, the lifeless bodies of Keith's parents. And in the middle of it all, a small boy sitting motionless, his eyes dull and lifeless.
One of them stepped forward.
"Hey, kid… Can you hear me?" The voice was deep, belonging to one of the men.
Keith didn't respond.
The second man knelt beside him. "What happened here? Are you hurt?"
Still, nothing.
Keith just sat there, his arms locked around his mother's cold body, his lips pressed together in silence.
The group exchanged glances. It was clear—he wasn't in his right mind.
After a brief hesitation, the woman holding the staff stepped forward. She knelt beside Keith, gently placing a hand on his head. Her touch was warm, comforting. Soft, almost motherly.
And just like that—something inside Keith broke.
His body trembled, his breathing hitched, and tears spilled from his eyes once more. A strangled sob tore from his throat as he clung to his mother's corpse, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Mom… Please don't leave me… Dad… Please…"
The woman's grip on her staff tightened. Her fingers trembled slightly as she listened to his broken cries.
The others stood in silence.
None of them spoke. None of them moved.
Because, at that moment, there were no words that could heal what had just been lost.
Keith's sobs gradually faded, his small body shuddering with exhaustion. His grip on his mother's lifeless form loosened, his swollen eyes fluttering shut. He hadn't wanted to sleep—hadn't wanted to let go—but his body had reached its limit.
The woman with the staff stood silently by his side, watching as his breathing steadied. Then, with careful hands, she lifted him into her arms. He was light—far too light for a boy his age. He didn't stir as she cradled him against her chest.
Meanwhile, the rest of the group moved with quiet efficiency. Two of them gathered the bodies of Keith's parents, handling them with unexpected care. Their faces remained hidden beneath their hoods, their expressions unreadable. The others searched the house, examining the claw marks on the walls, the patterns of bloodstains on the floor. They spoke in hushed voices, exchanging brief words before resuming their work.
By the time they were done, the house had been wiped clean. The evidence of the massacre—the blood, the destruction, the horror—had been erased.
As if it had never happened.
With Keith sleeping soundly in the woman's arms and the bodies secured, the group moved swiftly. They stepped out into the night, their movements practiced and precise.
And just like that—they vanished into the darkness, carrying the boy with them.