The night was unusually silent.
Not the kind of silence that soothes a restless heart, but the kind that presses against your chest, thick, heavy, suffocating—as if the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for something unspeakable.

In a modest home on the outskirts of the city, a small boy named Vijay was being tucked into bed. The walls of the room were old but clean, their cracks filled with love rather than wealth. His mother’s voice floated gently through the air, a lullaby so soft it trembled like a candle flame in the wind. She sat by his side, her fingers running across his hair, while his father stood a few feet away, arms folded but eyes warm.

For that moment, the world was safe.
The world was kind.
The world was whole.

Vijay, barely six years old, clutched his blanket tightly. His lashes drooped with the weight of sleep, his small heart wrapped in the belief that monsters only lived in fairy tales. His father leaned closer, brushing a kiss onto his forehead, and for a second, life was nothing but the gentle rhythm of a mother’s song and the protective shadow of a father’s presence.

But peace is fragile.
And that night, it shattered.

The front door didn’t knock—it screamed open.
A deafening CRASH splintered the wood, the sound ripping through the quiet house like a sword tearing flesh. The lullaby broke. Vijay’s eyes flew open, his little body jolting upright.

Then came the sound.
Boots.
Heavy, merciless boots pounding against the floor, echoing through the hallway with a rhythm that felt like death itself had found a march.

Men poured into the house like shadows given flesh—dark, broad, faceless. Their presence devoured the light, their voices low and cruel.

His mother gasped, clutching the edge of the bed. His father stepped forward, raising his hand, his voice sharp with defiance:

“Who are you? What do you want?”

But the boy barely understood his words before chaos unfolded.

A flash of steel under the dim lamp.
A hand raised.
A blow.
A cry of pain.

Vijay froze against the wall, his heart hammering so loudly he thought it might explode. His throat tightened; his voice refused to come. His small body trembled like a trapped bird.

He saw his father struggle—saw his arms fight against the intruders—but the fight was short. A gunshot ripped through the night, a thunder so final that it silenced even the crickets outside. His father’s body jerked, then collapsed.

“Papa?”

The word escaped as a whisper, weak, broken.

Before his young mind could process, his mother’s scream tore through the air. She rushed forward, only to be silenced with another blow. Her voice, that tender lullaby from moments ago, was cut mid-note. She fell beside her husband, the two bodies crumpled together, still, lifeless.

And then—stillness.

But not the gentle stillness of sleep.
This was the stillness of death.

Through the haze of tears, something burned itself into Vijay’s soul.

One man lingered in the doorway, standing taller than the others. His face was hidden in shadows, but his presence was undeniable, a monster in human skin. Yet it wasn’t his face the boy remembered—it was his wrist.

Around it hung a bracelet.
Not an ornament, not jewelry—it was a chain, thick and merciless, gleaming under the flickering lamp with an edge sharp enough to wound the eyes.

Clink… clink… clink…

The sound of that bracelet was louder than the gunshot, sharper than the scream. It was a sound that carved itself into the boy’s ears, into his veins, into the marrow of his bones.

The man didn’t glance at the child. He didn’t need to. To him, the boy was nothing—just another shadow in the corner. He turned, his boots echoing again, and vanished into the dark. But the bracelet’s echo stayed.

Clink… clink… clink…

Chains. Not just metal. Not just sound. A curse.

The boy stumbled forward, his tiny hands reaching for his parents.

“Papa… Maa… wake up…”

He tugged at their arms. He shook them. He whispered their names again and again until his throat burned. But they didn’t move. The warmth was leaving their skin, slipping into the cold floor.

He pressed his face against his mother’s saree, desperate for the comfort of her scent, but even that felt like it was fading, dissolving into emptiness.

And in that emptiness, a part of Vijay died.

In the days that followed, people whispered about him. Neighbors came, eyes filled with pity, their words dripping with sympathy but hollow as dry leaves. They saw an orphan. A tragedy. A child broken too soon.

But they didn’t see him.
Not truly.

Because something had been born inside him that night.

When other children cried, he stayed silent.
When others played, he stared at the walls.
When others laughed, his lips stayed pressed into a line, unyielding.

His laughter, his innocence, his childhood—buried with his parents.

And yet, something else rose from that grave.

Every night, as he lay in his small bed, the world seemed to mock him. The silence wasn’t silence anymore. It was filled with echoes.

He heard it again.
Always.
In the corner of the room, in the folds of the night, in the deepest corners of his dreams.

Clink… clink… clink.

The chains. The bracelet.
The sound of his parents’ death.

Sometimes he would cover his ears. Sometimes he would press his pillow against his head, desperate to drown it out. But it never stopped. The sound crawled into his skull, slithering like a snake, reminding him that monsters weren’t in fairy tales. Monsters wore chains. Monsters killed without reason.

And every time he heard it, his tiny fists clenched tighter.
Every time, his jaw locked harder.
Every time, his eyes grew colder.

He didn’t yet know the words justice or revenge. But he knew pain. He knew loss. And he knew the sound of those cursed chains.

People would say, “He’s just a child. He will forget.”
But they were wrong.

Children don’t forget the night their world ends.
They carry it.
It festers.
It grows.

And so it was with Vijay.

The boy who once clung to lullabies now clung to rage. The boy who once believed in fairy tales now believed only in fire.

Every step he took was chained to that night. Every breath he drew carried the echo of metal.

And deep within his heart, without even realizing, he made a vow.

A vow carved from blood, silence, and chains.

One day, he would find the man with the bracelet.
One day, he would look into his eyes.
And one day, he would silence the chains forever.

But until then, the chains would follow him.
Mock him.
Shape him.

Because the truth was no longer avoidable.

To break the chains… he would have to become them.

Please let me know how the chapter is and what changes I should make to make it more appealing.