He looked somewhere my age yet he was rugged, which made him a bit more mature.
“Good evening. Is Kira Itzayana Fernandez here?” the man asked. “The Al-I mean master is already waiting for you.”
As he said that, I felt like he was familiar.
I looked back one last time at the people who I call family.
To my father who was avoiding eye contact, to my stepmother who was wiping her fake tear, and to my stepbrother, who was the only one decent enough to feel sorrow as he grabbed my arm, not wanting to let go of me.
“No. This is not true. You’re not going.” He said firmly, almost begging.
I looked at him in the eye, making sure he would see how dead I am, and removed his hands from me.
I turned back to the man in front of me. Sucking in a deep breath, I bit my lip and feigned courage
