The shriek of the fire alarm was a delayed reaction, piercing the stunned silence that had fallen over the classroom. It jolted me, a sharp, physical jolt that broke through the thick fog that had enveloped my mind. The letter opener lay discarded beside Mr. Seo's unmoving body, a silent, gruesome testament to the eruption that had occurred. Students began to scream, a wave of pure, visceral terror washing over them. Some scrambled under desks, others clawed at the door, desperate to escape the scene of the unimaginable. My own body felt alien. My hands, still trembling, seemed disconnected from me. The heat in my cheeks had faded, replaced by a chilling emptiness. I stared at Mr. Seo. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, a look of surprise still etched on his face. The spreading crimson stain seemed too vibrant, too unreal. Had I really done that? The thought was a cold whisper in my mind, instantly answered by the horrifying reality laid out before me. The door burst open, and teachers and school staff spilled in, their faces shifting from concern to shock to horror as they took in the scene. Someone saw me standing there, frozen, my uniform splattered, and pointed. Voices rose in volume, frantic questions, terrified exclamations. A man, his face pale and drawn, approached me cautiously. "Y/N?" he asked, his voice unsteady. It was the history teacher, Mr. Park. He looked at me like he'd never seen me before. I couldn't speak. My throat felt tight, constricted. The noise of the alarm, the screams, the urgent voices - it all blended into an unbearable cacophony. My head swam. I felt a hand gently, then more firmly, take my arm. Another took the other. They guided me out of the classroom, away from the chaos, down the now-evacuating hallway. The schoolyard was a sea of bewildered and frightened faces. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and fear. Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. They led me to a small, empty office. The door closed, shutting out the noise, but not the horrifying images seared into my mind. Hours blurred. There was the sterile cold of a police station, the smell of disinfectant and stale coffee. Questions were asked, gentle at first, then more persistent. My answers were fragments, whispers. I was numb. Disconnected. It was like watching a film about someone else. Then, my parents arrived. I saw them through the one-way glass of the interrogation room door before they came in. My mother's face was a mask of controlled fury, her jaw clenched tight. My father looked... shattered, but not with grief for the man I had killed, or even with apparent concern for me. His face crumpled with sheer, devastating "shame*. My crime wasn't just a crime; it was a public disgrace that had splashed onto their meticulously crafted reputation. The officer left the room, closing the door softly. The silence that fell was heavier than any sound could ever be. My mother didn't look at me directly. She stared at the table, her knuckles white where she gripped her purse. "How could you?" my father finally choked out, his voice raw, trembling with suppressed rage and humiliation. It wasn't a question seeking understanding. It was an accusation, a condemnation. "He... he said..." I started, my voice thin and reedy, attempting to explain, to convey the years of pressure, the sudden, uncontrollable snap. "Said what?!" my mother's voice was sharp, cutting. "Nothing he could have said justifies "this", Y/N! Do you understand what you've done? You've ruined everything! Everything we worked for!" Everything they worked for. Not my life. Not my future. "Theirs." That familiar refrain, the undercurrent of every demand, every criticism. It used to hurt. Now, it just felt distant, meaningless in the face of the abyss I had opened. "We can't... we can't be associated with this," my father said, running a trembling hand through his hair. He looked at my mother, a silent, awful communication passing between them. "The neighbours... my job... the family reputation..." My mother finally looked at me. Her eyes were cold, devoid of any hint of recognition or affection. "You made your choice, Y/N," she said, her voice final, absolute. "You are no longer our daughter. We will make the necessary arrangements through the lawyers. Do not contact us." You are no longer our daughter. The words weren't a shock. They were merely the confirmation of a truth I had felt deep in my bones for years. I was a project that had failed, an investment that had soured. They were cutting their losses. They left as quickly as they had arrived, two figures retreating into the anonymity of the station, leaving me alone in the cold room. The officer returned moments later. His expression was sympathetic, but his words were purely procedural. They were taking me away. The legal proceedings felt like another dream state, albeit a terrifying one. Lawyers spoke in hushed tones, using words I barely understood - juvenile court, diminished capacity, sentencing guidelines. I sat between strangers, the weight of my crime a physical pressure in the room. My parents were present, but distant, seated on the opposite side of the courtroom, their faces impassive. They were spectators to my dismantling, not participants. During one recess, a different lawyer approached me. He was older, with kind eyes and a weary smile. He wasn't representing me. "I'm handling some of the administrative work on your case file," he said softly. "I saw a note... something about potential guardians? A Kim Taesik?" My breath hitched. Uncle Kim. Not really my uncle, but the closest thing I'd ever had to family outside of my parents. He ran a small, often underfunded, foster home I'd stayed at briefly years ago when my parents had, in a fit of anger or calculated pressure tactic, kicked me out for a few weeks. He was a retired public sector worker, a man who saw damaged kids and didn't flinch. He'd given me extra blankets, made sure I ate, and listened without judgment. He'd once told me about losing his own daughter years ago, a quiet sorrow in his eyes that I, even as a younger kid, had somehow understood. He seemed to see pieces of her in the troubled kids who passed through his care. He had tried to stay in touch after my parents took me back, but they'd shut him out, uncomfortable with any outside influence that saw me as more than a problem to be solved. "He... is he here?" I whispered, a flicker of fragile hope sparking in the crushing darkness. The lawyer shook his head sadly. "No. Your parents were contacted, but they... they stated you had no existing relationship with him and declined any potential arrangement." He paused, his expression sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Y/N. It seems... you don't have much support from your family."The flicker of hope was extinguished, leaving a deeper chill. They weren't just disowning me. They were actively erasing anyone else who might care. Total isolation. The verdict came swiftly. Guilty. Given my age and lack of prior offenses, coupled with psychiatric evaluations detailing the extreme psychological pressure I had been under, the sentence was for juvenile detention, not adult prison. Nine years. Nine years confined, away from the world. Being taken to the juvenile detention center was the final severance. The gates closed behind me with a heavy, metallic clang that sounded like the closing of a tomb. The facility was stark, grey, built of concrete and steel. Guards with impassive faces processed me, stripping me of my clothes, my possessions, my name replaced by a number on a form. The air inside was cold, stale, carrying the faint, institutional smell of cleaning supplies and something else... despair. My cell was small, bare. A thin mattress on a concrete slab, a steel toilet, a small desk. The door was solid, with a small, high window. There were no pictures, no personal items allowed. It was designed for function, for containment, not for living. The first night was the worst. The sounds of the facility distant cries, muffled shouting, the rhythmic clang of cell doors filtered in, a constant reminder of where I was. I lay on the hard bed, staring at the ceiling in the dim light. The events of the day, the week, the years leading up to this, replayed in my mind like a broken reel. Mr. Seo's face, my parents' cold eyes, the lawyer's sad shake of his head, the echoing clang of the gate. I was alone. Utterly and completely alone. Abandoned by the people who should have loved me, locked away by the system that couldn't see beyond my single, horrific act. The pressure cooker of my life had exploded, and the fallout had scattered me into a million pieces, leaving me in this isolated void. The tremor in my hands had lessened slightly, replaced by a deep, shaking ache that started in my chest and radiated outwards. Nine years. An eternity. How was I going to survive this?
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