HUNTER’S P.O.VThen the screen flickered. The footage warped. The warm light of the home videos turned cold. The happy scenes stuttered, skipping unnaturally, and the sound distorted into a low, static hiss. A new video began. It was unfamiliar—not a home video. The angle was lower, the lighting dim. I recognised the tiled floors of my childhood bedroom.There was Ma, scrambling on the floor, her blouse already torn open, breasts exposed, eyes wide with pure terror. A masked man loomed over her. Behind the camera, a second man held the lens steady, breathing hard. The masked man and the one filming had forced their way into the house. They must’ve barged straight into my room, where Ma, had been searching for something—probably for my birthday, but that was where she had been the moment the sickos arrived. She screamed the moment the door smashed open. Her voice cracked as she begged them to leave, to take whatever they wanted, just not to hurt her.They ignored her.Hands seized
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