My eyes fluttered open to the sight of the all-too-familiar ceiling of the dorm room.
For a second, I just stared—expressionless—at the ceiling above me with the memories flashing before my eyes.
"I guess some memories… you just can't forget them."
That wasn't a dream. It didn't feel like one. Weren't dreams supposed to be twisted fantasies, fragments of imagination scrambled into nonsense?
Not your life. Not your goddamn past projected like some cursed documentary.
What I saw—no, what I remembered—was real.
Crystal clear.
That man… my 'father'—he'd sold me off like cheap furniture to a bunch of local gangsters.
For what? Not for debt. Not out of desperation. Not even out of greed. But because of a doubt. Just a stupid, baseless doubt.
He thought I wasn't his real son.
That his wife had cheated on him.
No evidence. No test. No confrontation. Just a gut feeling.
That was enough, apparently.
