In the suffocating humidity of Indiana, Paramoush existed, not lived. He was a canvas for others' cruelty: Mark and Terrize, the schoolyard tormentors, whose laughter echoed with the sharp sting of humiliation; his father, a man whose love was a twisted, violent thing.

Paramoush clung to fragments of light: Jeffry, his younger brother, a fragile echo of hope, and Martin, the friend who promised escape. But even those flickered and died. One afternoon, the hallway's whispers turned into a blade, piercing his fragile trust. Martin, the anchor, the confidant, was now a betrayer, his laughter laced with the same venom as their tormentors.

The night that followed was a descent into a chasm of despair. Sleep offered no solace, only a voice, a dark, resonating whisper that coiled around his soul: "Why endure? Why not retaliate?"

The next day, the inevitable collision occurred. Martin's accusation, a fabricated theft, was the spark. The ensuing violence, the kicks, the jeers, were a ritualistic humiliation. Even Jeffry, small and terrified, could only watch.

He returned home, a broken figure, only to face his father's wrath. The swollen face, the silent plea, were met with the brutal, familiar punishment. The breaking point arrived. Paramoush, in a moment of desperate, futile rage, lunged at his father, a move that only resulted in him being thrown across the room. He saw Jeffry escape, a fleeting silhouette against the night, before the world went black.

The rope snapped. He fell, a broken doll, but something within him had irrevocably changed. The pain, the fear, were replaced by a chilling emptiness, a void filled by a voice that was not his own: "I am Lucifer."

He found himself drawn to the library, to an ancient, leather-bound book: *The Angel Kicked Out from Heaven: Lucifer*. The words resonated, the story a mirror reflecting his own descent. He was no longer a victim; he was a vessel.

That night, the dreams twisted, the mirror reflecting a stranger. Dark, predatory eyes, a smirk that was not his own, and the phantom ache of unfolding wings. The voice returned, insistent: "To your father."

He moved through the house, a shadow among shadows. His father sat, oblivious, the architect of his misery. Paramoush raised his hand, and the darkness obeyed. It crept from the corners, a living entity, a noose of shadow tightening around his father's throat. The man's eyes widened, a silent scream trapped in his throat.

"Pa...ra...moush..."

He smiled, a cold, empty expression. The shadows consumed, the screams fading into the oppressive silence of the house.

The voice echoed, a promise and a command: "To Martin."