Jason stared at the handprint, his pulse racing. In spite of his initial disgust, curiosity took over, drawing him closer to the smudge on the surface—like a magnet pulling metal, like a pitcher plant luring its prey. He reached out to touch it, to deny the reality of what was happening. But the sensations he felt rather denied his delusions. The surface was warm, like flesh, with a subtle, unpleasant pulse beneath his fingertips. As he pulled back, he felt resistance—like breaking through the surface tension of water, that brief, delicate moment before truly emerging.
And then—
_ Pain.
A searing, ice-cold tendril lanced through his nerves, slithering like a parasite burrowing through his bloodstream. His vision fractured—brief, strobing images:
A man in a long trench coat—probably a detective—flipping through case files, marbles rolling across the table.
A muscular yet unnaturally fluid man, a crescent-shaped scar beneath his eyes, pushing a stroller with a baby. Looking up, across the transverse of space and time, beyond anything separating him from Jason, he smiled—a warm, hearty smile. And then, a distorted voice followed: "Tick-tock, tick-tock…"
A city engulfed in an all-consuming inferno. Not a single building spared. Smoke rose in suffocating plumes as flames licked the sky, the heat so intense that even gold could melt into twisted, formless rivers. Above, an unblinking eye—colossal, suspended in the void, vomiting forth aberrant creatures that slithered into the burning ruins.
Elyse—screaming. A gut-wrenching scream. Calling out to Jason. And beside her sat someone familiar. Very, very familiar.
Some god, hearing his pleas, must have decided to spare him from further misery as the pain flushed itself away. The shard melted into his skin, and the visions snapped off—leaving him gasping on the floor, drooling a pool of saliva. The clock on the wall resumed its rhythm, ticking and tocking steadily as it always had.
---
Humans are prey to many sins, and some become prey to those born of them. The one doing the deed claimed to fight against sin—or so his killing spree's story was supposed to go, as he preyed upon those who had become the embodiment of sins.
Greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, sloth...
And pride.
The latest photo on the detective's desk bore the label: Pride—a corrupt policeman who had strayed from his bodyguard detail to sneak a peek at forbidden beauties. He had reached the peak of stillness.
Simply dead.
But he had a coin.
An eighth photo. The kill was rougher than usual for the serial killer. The public was already losing faith in cop'anity', but the detective focused on something else: seven sins. Eight photos.
Two victims of Pride.
The seventh kill followed the psycho's usual method—a coin and a marble. The eighth, however, was different. Sloppy. Off.
The detective ran through the permutations:
• Six victims killed by the psycho, one by a different person, one by another. • Six by the psycho, two by different hands. • Seven by the psycho, one by someone else.
A dull thud echoed as he placed the marble on an imaginary option.
He was sure.
He had to be.
Because if anyone knew which option was right, it was him.
---
Sometimes, the hardest decisions in life were the most mundane.
Like choosing which color socks to wear—because somehow, picking the wrong pair could set the tone for the entire day. Or deciding between two pairs of innerwear—one with two holes, the other with 1.5 holes. The difference was minimal, yet choosing wrongly felt like an unseen test of fate.
All of these small, seemingly trivial choices wove the texture of life. They were the pauses between life's bigger moments, the unremarkable stitches that held everything together.
Sitting together, staring at three sheets of paper, was a family of three—a father, a mother, and a little pipsqueak of a kid.
The father and child mirrored each other perfectly, both staring at the papers with the same furrowed brows, as if deciphering solving world crisis ,but in reality they were trying to pick a paper with their weekend destination.
They were deciding where to go for the weekend:
A zoo—a place of wonder, where the child could marvel at animals, unaware of the existential boredom etched into the lion's gaze. An exhibition—a chance to learn, though the kid would likely spend most of the time running in circles around the display stands. A park—simple, timeless, where time would slow down, and the world would shrink to the size of their picnic mat.
Mundane. Simple. But even the simplest choices held meaning.
Beside the man was a tiny bean who had sported a Cerelac mustache, making the resemblance even more jr.johnly. Jane, watching them, couldn't hold back her laughter spilling the water across the table while the water made only one paper wet.
It was rarely the grand vacations or extravagant outings that shaped a childhood. More often, it was the small moments—holding a parent's hand on a walk, an afternoon of hide-and-seek, or the time Dad let them stay up an hour past bedtime.
Parents often don't realize the invisible weight of these small decisions. With every "yes" to a spontaneous ice cream trip or every "no" to one more bedtime story, they're curating memories that will linger long after childhood fades.
Because in the end, kids wouldn't remember which weekend they went to the zoo, the exhibition, or the park.
They'd remember that they chose together. That their parents laughed. That their dad made everything feel important. That their mom's smile turned even the dullest afternoon into something golden.
Even the smallest choices held meaning.
Even the most mundane moments shaped a childhood.