The room spun as I lay there, my mind wrestling with the chaos that had just erupted. The taste of blood mingled with the bitterness of betrayal. This was the final, unmaskable truth of a family facade that had long since cracked.
For a heartbeat, the room remained suspended in stunned silence. Then, the chaos resumed. Guests surged forward—some to help, others to gawk. The cacophony of voices blurred into a buzz, but I focused on one thing: the red dot, the recording. A lifeline amidst this nightmare.
I struggled to sit up, aided by someone whose face was a blur. My head ached fiercely, but clarity was returning. Nearby, my father stood, his features twisted with an amalgam of rage and something else—perhaps the dawning realization of what he had done in front of a legion of witnesses.
