The Lost Boy

Demon of Hell

"Straighten your posture."

I nodded, stiffly correcting my sitting position according to what the man in front of me had ordered.

A man in his thirties with harsh facial lines, a sharp gaze, and a large, muscular build. The police uniform clinging to his body seemed to be desperately holding itself back from tearing apart.

His name was Zwin. The police officer assigned to handle my case, the man who had been arguing with Dakthes earlier.

Ah, right. Dakthes. The doctor had already explained the entire story—one that didn't exist at all in my brain's memory, but strangely didn't sound so unfamiliar. I could even sometimes guess the next sentence Dakthes would say while he was telling it.

I was an elementary school child who had brutally murdered my entire family three days ago.

I was the little child who had been labeled by the public as the Incarnation of a Demon from the Depths of Hell, because I had stabbed my little brother in the chest. Because I had ripped open the stomachs of my two older sisters until their intestines tasted the cold of that night air. Because I had slashed both of my mother's arms with a box cutter to a depth of five centimeters and left several stab wounds in her kidney area. Because I had severed all the fingers and toes of my father, along with half of his tongue. And because, after committing those heinous acts, I had simply walked outside the house, cradled my head with one hand on the front steps, and stared blankly ahead while smearing the blood on the knife all over my face like a mask.

Of course, I didn't believe that nonsense when Dakthes told me.

Insane! That kind of story only exists in thriller novels or horror comics. How could I possibly have done it?

But it was Dakthes's gaze that sent a chill down my spine when I tried to deny it. He looked at me with such sorrow. I might still be a teenager, but I could feel what he was saying through his two dimmed black eyes. Sorrow, fear, and anxiety were all mingled there.

And I knew, that kind of look was not something that could be faked.

So I fell silent, bowed my head, and eventually asked Dakthes to continue his story.

He said that a police officer on patrol had seen me. The officer initially suspected I was a ghost, but I was too real. My feet were firmly planted on the steps of the house's terrace, and the officer believed that ghosts couldn't tread on the ground.

So the two officers got out, checked on me, questioned me. But I was like a disabled child, like someone incomplete.

I ran inside, and the two officers followed me. They were drawn by my appearance—drenched in a foul-smelling red liquid and my hand gripping a knife tightly.

So when those two pairs of eyes saw my family members slumped lifelessly, they simultaneously drew their handcuffs, attempting to subdue me.

Realizing danger, I immediately reacted and tried to launch an attack. The fight was quite fierce; I had a knife and the officer had a gun.

But strangely, even as the two officers emptied a magazine, producing sounds that seemed to challenge the thunder itself, I showed no fear at all. The officers said it was like facing a wild beast.

I was shot in the right leg, fell, and my head hit the edge of a glass table hard. I lost consciousness.

"I won't beat around the bush." Zwin, the police officer, said that while sliding a few sheets of paper toward me.

I looked up, staring at him in confusion.

"The autopsy results are out, and your fingerprints are all over the victims' bodies. After this, you will meet with a forensic psychologist to confirm your sanity. That's all from me. I'm only informing you because it's my duty."

Zwin stood up, taking back the papers he had handed me earlier, even though I hadn't had a chance to read a single word on them.

"You're not going to interrogate me, sir?" I asked, confused.

Zwin looked at me. "I was going to interrogate you, but that kid forbade me. He said you don't remember anything at all about that night. He suspects you're experiencing temporary amnesia. He rambled about your mind trying to block out bad memories. He said if I interrogated you, it would disrupt your mental health. I don't know, I don't understand what he was rambling about. I complied because I don't want to mess up your conversation with that psychologist later. And anyway, I've already got the results. Your fingerprints, witnesses, and the autopsy results—all of it is more than enough."

I swallowed my own saliva. It would be a lie to say I understood what the officer had just said.

Temporary amnesia? Forensic psychologist? What and who are they?

But there was one thing that truly made me curious.

"Sir, please tell me my sentence."

Zwin, the officer, stared at me intensely. It seemed he knew I hadn't understood his explanation at all.

I smiled wryly. He probably wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't answer my question because it was pointless. He must be thinking, why ramble at length if I couldn't comprehend it at all?

"If you are proven not sane, you will be confined in a psychiatric hospital or a rehabilitation center until you are completely cured. But if you are proven sane, you will face a criminal prison sentence of under twenty years because you are still a minor. That's all. I hope you understand."

I fell silent. To me, I was sane. So that meant I would be imprisoned for twenty years?

Ah, but I might not be sane according to that expert, right? So if the expert deemed me insane, I'd be locked up in a madhouse until I was cured?

I was confused.

So what should I do?

Should I pretend to be sane and go to prison, or pretend to be insane? But if I pretended to be insane, part of me couldn't accept it.

"Just act natural. The title 'expert' isn't earned easily; they're not people you can deceive. Ah, maybe there is one expert you could fool—Dakthes. But actually, he's not stupid; he's just too blinded by a sense of humanity that's too human. He's too naive. But I can assure you, the people you'll be talking to later have all already entered the ranks of the Black-Hearted."

A second later, the officer left without pleasantries, leaving me staring at the hospital blanket with dozens of question marks in my head.

Terms I was hearing for the first time floated around, swirling, demanding to be deciphered so they could vanish.