"Shit, shit, shit!"
The words hissed through my clenched teeth, barely audible over the rhythmic scuff-scuff of my school blazer against leather. My knees were buried in the gravel of the school's back alley, the sharp stones digging into my skin like miniature daggers. But that pain was nothing compared to the acid burning in my chest.
"Is it because I'm poor?" I whispered to the dirt. "Or am I just too damn weak to exist?"
You might be wondering why a grown up eighteen-year-old guy is kneeling in the muck. It's simple, really. Right now, I am using my own school uniform—the only one I own—to buff the scuffs off the fucking expensive designer boots of Logan Cinandra. My "favorite" bully.
I know what you're thinking.You're pathetic. Why don't you just stand up? Believe me, I've asked myself that every day. But when you're an orphan with zero safety net, "choice" is a luxury you can't afford
My name is Tom Anderson. A few years ago, I had a life. My parents were successful businesspeople—always busy, always on calls, but they were there. Then came the rainy Tuesday that changed everything. A hydroplaning truck, a twisted frame of metal, and suddenly, I was the sole occupant of a house that felt far too large.
The silence that followed was deafening. I waited for the cavalry—the aunts, the uncles, the cousins who used to laugh at our Christmas parties. They never came. Not a single phone call. Not a single "Are you okay, Tom?" The only ones who encouraged me during my hard times were just strangers who helped me on my feet again. It turns out, when the money stops flowing, the family tree withers pretty fast.
It took me three months just to learn how to breathe again. I stop attending classes, stopped eating properly, stopped even thinking that I woke up the next morning.
I survived on my parents' meager remaining savings and started a side hustle, flipping refurbished gadgets just to keep the lights on. I was a second-year in Shang city high school, trying to play at being an adult while drowning in a sea of grief.
High school is a breeding ground. You can graduate as a scholar, or you can graduate as a professional thief, a gangster's, or a brawler. Seeing the way the world treated the weak, I chose the path of the martial artist. I joined a local dojo, hoping that learning a few katas would give me the spine I lacked.
That was my first mistake.
Logan Cinandra noticed. Logan isn't just a bully; he's a predator. Standing at one-seventy-five centimeters with a frame made of lean muscle and bad intentions, he dominates every room he enters. A sprawling dragon tattoo crawls up his neck, disappearing into his Gallas hairline, while the rest of his body is a canvas of ink. He's the leader of a local street gang, a guy who views the school hallways as his personal hunting grounds.
I'll never forget the first time he confronted me about the dojo. He pulled out a cigarette, the orange cherry glowing like a warning light.
"So, Tom," he puffed, the smoke hitting my face. "I hear you're playing Bruce Lee. What's the plan? You gonna use those fancy moves to knock me out the next time I ask for your lunch money?"
His lackeys erupted in laughter. I wanted to scream. I wanted to bury my fist in his perfect, smug face. But the last time I'd tried to fight back, Logan had systematically dismantled me. He didn't just beat me; he humiliated me.
"Come here, buddy," he said, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulder. "Let's have a chat in the corner."
That "chat" ended with me coughing up blood and, eventually, my current occupation: 'The boot polisher.'
The only reason I hadn't jumped off a bridge was Suki. She was the one person who didn't look at me like I was a stain on the floor. When we walked together, strolling back home for a few brief moments, I felt like a normal eighteen-year-old.
Until the afternoon we ran into Logan.
The moment I saw him leaning against that brick wall, my heart dropped into my stomach. "Please, not today. Not in front of her.
"Well, well," Logan smirked, pushing off the wall. "Tom, where did a loser like you find a gem like this?"
He reached out, his tattooed hand moving to caress Suki's cheek. My brain screamed danger, but my heart moved faster. I slapped his hand away. The sound of the slap echoed in the quiet street.
The air turned frigid. Logan's eyes went dark.
"Tom," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "Since when did you grow a pair?"
Before I could even inhale, a fist buried itself in my gut. I folded like a lawn chair, the world spinning as I hit the pavement.
"Stop it!" Suki screamed. "He hasn't done anything to you!"
Logan ignored her, leaning down to whisper in my ear so only I could hear. "I'm going to break you, Tom. And then I'm going to take her. Because a weakling like you doesn't deserve someone like her."
The rage that boiled in me was unlike anything I'd ever felt. I tried to stand, but a second punch caught me square in the jaw. Darkness flickered at the edges of my vision.
Then, a miracle happened. WHACK.
Suki had slapped him. Hard.
Logan stood frozen, his hand moving slowly to his reddened cheek. "Did you just hit me?"
"You're a monster!" Suki shouted, her voice trembling but brave.
Logan's face contorted into something demonic. He raised his hand to strike her back, and I found a final reservoir of strength. I lunged forward, grabbing his wrist. For a second, I thought I'd won. I thought my pride was intact. Logan ripped his hand away, looked at me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and walked away without another word.
"You'll regret that," he whispered as he passed. Little did I know that my actions will lead to my downfall.
A week later, I was walking home from evening lessons. The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the outskirts of Shang City. The streets were empty.
A figure stepped out from behind a dumpster. Logan. But he wasn't looking for a fistfight this time. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a matte-black handgun.
The world slowed down. My breath hitched in my throat. This wasn't a schoolyard scrap. This was the end.
"Tom," Logan said, his finger tightening on the trigger. "I told you that you messed with the wrong person. In this world, the weak don't get to have pride. They just get buried."
BANG.
The sound was Louder than I expected. Then came the heat. A searing, white-hot bloom in my chest that forced the air from my lungs. I hit the ground, but I didn't feel the gravel this time. I felt... nothing.
"Is this it? My parents died for nothing. I suffered for nothing. I tried to protect Suki, and all I did was leave her alone in a world full of Logans."
The unfairness of it all began to crystallize into a cold, hard diamond of hate. If the world wanted me to be a victim because I was "kind" or "weak," then I was done with being human.
If I get another chance, I thought as the darkness of the void began to swallow me whole, I won't be a hero. I won't be a victim. I will be a monster. I will be the nightmare that keeps people like Logan awake at night.
The light faded. The pain vanished. And then, in the middle of the black void... a screen flickered to life.