A sharp, panicked scream tore through the corridors, bouncing off the walls and jolting the few staff members still awake. Once again, it came from Noah’s bedroom.
Noah was only six, yet his eyes carried a weariness no child should know. That night—like so many before—he struggled against his father’s hands. Michael Turner, an overworked executive still in his rumpled suit, dark circles etched deep beneath his eyes, held his son by the shoulders with patience long gone.
“That’s enough, Noah,” he snapped, his voice raw. “You’re sleeping in your bed like a normal kid. I need rest too.”
With a firm shove, he pressed the boy’s head down onto the pristine silk pillow at the head of the bed. To Michael, it was just another expensive detail—one more symbol of the success he had built at the cost of sleep.
To Noah, it was something else entirely.
The second his head touched the pillow, his body arched violently, as if jolted by electricity. A scream burst from his chest—not rebellion, not a tantrum, but agony. His hands clawed upward as tears streamed down his already flushed face.
“No, Dad! Please! It hurts! It hurts!” he cried.