I didn't strike back immediately. No, monsters didn't lunge at their prey. They waited. They watched. They made sure the prey trapped itself.
The first thing I did over the next few days, I became a ghost in the orphanage. No sudden movements. Just absence.
Then, I began planting seeds.
Small, almost invisible acts.
A missing toy here. A broken plate there. A cruel note left under a pillow, written in shaky handwriting that wasn't mine.
It didn't take much.
Children are easy to manipulate. All you have to do is whisper and wait.
Whisper that your friend stole from you. Whisper that your friend laughed at you behind your back. Whisper just enough to make them look at each other with suspicion.
And they did.
Arguments broke out.
Trust crumbled like rotted wood.
The bullies turned on each other without ever realizing whose hand was guiding them.
And when they were at their lowest, isolated, friendless, paranoid — I struck.
Not with fists.
Not with violence.
But with fear.
The orphanage itself became the monster.
It started with the walls.
Small scratches at first. Symbols, strange and angular, carved into the wood where the bullies slept. Always where they could not miss it.
They woke up terrified, whispering about "curses" and "ghosts."
The matron dismissed them.
But doubt was already eating them alive.
Next came the whispers.
Late at night, when the halls fell silent, I whispered their names from the dark corners. Soft. Barely audible.
Enough to make them question if they had imagined it.
Sometimes, a toy would move. Sometimes, a drawer would be open when they swore they had closed it.
The insects in their beds?
Drawn from a disturbed nest in the attic, released carefully into their rooms.
The foul smells?
Rotting food hidden in forgotten corners.
All of it carefully orchestrated.
All of it natural.
All of it making them wonder:
Were they cursed?
Were they being hunted?
Were they losing their minds?
Yes.
Yes, they were.
They started fighting. Real fighting. Screaming, sobbing, accusing.
The matron, frustrated and exhausted, began punishing them more harshly.
Isolation.
Chores.
Public shame.
The other children began avoiding them. Afraid they might "catch" whatever madness had infected them.
And the bullies, once so proud, so cruel crumbled under the weight of their own fear.
The ringleader, the one who had laughed the loudest, was the first to break.
He begged forgiveness for sins he hadn't committed, sobbing into the floor.
The second refused to speak anymore. Just sat, rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself.
The third tried to run. Screaming that the "demon" would get him.
He was caught, beaten, locked away.
Their spirits shattered.
Their minds twisted.
Their souls hollowed out.
And I never laid a finger on them.
Not once.
No blood.
No violence.
Just fear.
Cold, pure, unrelenting.
I sat by the window at night,
watching the stars burn coldly overhead.
Naruto's small head rested on my shoulder, breathing softly, trustingly.
He would never know what I had done for him.
What darkness had been unleashed to protect him.
But that was fine.
Because monsters don't need gratitude.
They only need purpose.
And mine was clear now.
This world wanted demons.
So I would give them one.
Not a creature of claws or fangs.
But a boy.
A boy with dead eyes and a quiet smile.
A boy who would burn down everything —
without ever lighting a match.