It was nearly two in the morning in the old colonial mansion on the edge of town when a piercing scream shattered the quiet. It came from Leo’s bedroom, echoing down the long halls and sending shivers through the few staff members still awake.

Leo was only six, but his eyes already carried a weariness beyond his years. That night, like so many others, he struggled as his father, James, held him firmly by the shoulders. James, a tired businessman with deep dark circles under his eyes, still wore his wrinkled suit from work.

“Enough, Leo,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue. “You need to sleep in your bed like a normal child. I need rest too.”

He pressed Leo’s head onto the silk pillow at the head of the bed. To James, it was just a beautiful, expensive pillow—a symbol of his success. But to Leo, it was something else entirely.

As soon as his head touched the pillow, Leo jerked violently, screaming in pain. He clawed at it, trying to lift his head, tears streaming down his face.

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