Bang!
The gunshot ripped through the silence. The man—no more than his late twenties—collapsed before his body could even register the danger.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The gunman fired again, methodical and unhurried, making certain there would be no chance of survival.
The wounded man lay sprawled on the ground, agony tearing through him as his consciousness ebbed with every shallow breath. Still, hatred burned fiercely in his eyes as he locked his gaze on the figure approaching him.
"Why...?"
Thud!
A brutal kick slammed into his ribs. The sound of bone cracking rang out, wet and unmistakable. Only then did the gunman feel a fleeting sense of satisfaction.
"Isn't it obvious?" he replied, his voice cold and detached. "You saw something you shouldn't have. That alone is reason enough." He looked down at the broken body beneath his boot and curled his lip into a sneer. "Why leave loose ends? It's easier to erase you now than deal with consequences later."
"I—I won't tell anyone," the man pleaded, his voice trembling. "Please... spare my life."
--
Cain Norm lived an unremarkable life. He held a steady job, paid his bills on time, and passed through the world without leaving much of an impression. Once, he'd had a girlfriend—someone he believed he might build a future with—but it hadn't lasted. They drifted apart, quietly and without drama, and he found himself alone again.
There was nothing special about him. No rare talent and no burning ambition. As the years passed, his life narrowed into a predictable routine: work by day, drinks after long, draining shifts, and solitary walks home under dim streetlights. It wasn't a happy existence, but it was stable. And for Cain, that had been enough.
At least, until now.
"Ahh!"
Cain stopped short. A woman's scream cut through the night, sharp and sudden. He scanned his surroundings, heart beating a little faster, then exhaled and shook his head. Too much alcohol, he told himself. His ears were playing tricks on him.
He took a step forward.
"Ahh!"
The scream rang out again, closer this time, raw with panic.
"Someone... please... help me!"
His blood ran cold. There was no mistaking it now.
"What the hell is going on?" he muttered, the fear in her voice sinking into him. Whoever she was, she wasn't just frightened—she was in real danger.
Without thinking, Cain turned toward the sound. It was coming from an old building nearby, one locals whispered about as a criminal hideout. The warning bells rang in his head, and the possibility of walking straight into trouble made his stomach tighten.
Still, his feet moved.
He couldn't bring himself to ignore a woman screaming for help.
Cain broke into a run toward the building. As he reached it, laughter drifted down from above, male voices loud and careless. His stomach tightened. He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what kind of laughter that was.
He took the stairs two at a time, pulling out his phone as he climbed.
"Before I call the police, I need to be sure there's actually something going on," he muttered under his breath. If he called it in and it turned out to be nothing, he could easily end up in trouble himself for public intoxication, if nothing else.
By the time he reached the third floor, reality hit him like a punch to the chest.
A naked woman lay on the floor, her body soaked in blood. Two men stood frozen nearby, their faces drained of color, while a bald man loomed over her, driving a knife into her again and again. He did not hesitate. He did not slow down. Blood splashed across his face, yet he kept stabbing, expression empty and mechanical.
Clack.
Cain's phone slipped from his numb fingers and hit the floor.
It was instinctive. This was the first time he had ever witnessed a murder.
All three men turned toward the sound.
For a brief moment, no one moved. Surprise flickered across their faces. They clearly had not expected anyone else to be there. Then the bald man straightened and snapped at the others, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Go after him!"
The two men lunged forward, knives flashing in their hands. In their minds, failure was not an option. If he escaped, they would spend the rest of their lives behind bars. They had no intention of letting him live.
Fear locked Cain in place for a heartbeat. Then the reality of his situation hit him. If he did not move now, he would die here. His body reacted before his thoughts could catch up, forcing itself into motion.
"Catch him!" the bald man roared. "If you let him get away, you're dead tonight!"
Cain sprinted across the second floor, his breath ragged, his vision blurring. His legs, weak and trembling, finally gave out beneath him. He slipped and pitched forward, tumbling down the stairs. His body slammed against the steps again and again before crashing hard onto the ground floor.
"Not now..." he muttered, his voice thin as he struggled to push himself up.
It was too late.
The two men were already there. Seeing him sprawled on the floor, they both exhaled in relief.
"Damn," one of them sneered. "I thought you were actually going to escape, old man." He flicked his gaze toward the other man and gave a sharp signal.
The second hesitated.
"What are you waiting for?" the first snapped. "Kill him! Or Gratt will kill us instead!"
At the sound of that name, hesitation vanished. The man swung his knife, aiming straight for Cain's chest.
Cain twisted aside at the last possible second. The blade missed him by inches. Acting on pure instinct, he grabbed a pile of nearby trash and hurled it at the attacker's face. The sudden mess forced the man to flinch and turn away.
It was enough.
Cain scrambled to his feet and ran.
Straight for the exit.
It was only twelve meters away. Normally, it would have been nothing. Now it felt impossibly far. As he ran, he shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking as it echoed through the building. He screamed for help, praying that someone, anyone, might hear him in the dead of night.
The attackers did not hold back.
One of them hurled a knife. It struck Cain squarely in the back, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Behind him, the man who had thrown it broke into a grin, shock and delight flashing across his face at the realization that he had actually hit his mark.
Cain stumbled forward, a broken groan tearing from his throat. Pain unlike anything he had ever known ripped through his body, white hot and overwhelming.
"This..." he gasped.
But he did not stop.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself onward. Running for the exit was his only chance. If he stopped, even for a moment, he would die.
"What are you doing?" the bald man shouted furiously. "Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison?"
As he spoke, he drew a pistol from his waist.
He gave chase without hesitation. Cain was already limping, his movements slowing, his strength bleeding away with every step. When the distance closed enough, the bald man raised the gun and fired.
And that was how Cain ended up in this nightmare.
"Please... spare my life," Cain begged, his voice cracking as he collapsed. "I swear I won't tell anyone. I didn't see anything. I saw nothing at all."
He clutched at the floor, desperation driving him to plead, to bargain, to scrape together any words that might convince them to let him live. He promised silence. He promised obedience. He promised everything.
But Gratt was not convinced.
Men like this, men who had seen what they were never meant to see, could never truly escape their conscience. Fear faded. Guilt lingered. And sooner or later, they always talked.
"No," Gratt said calmly. "This is the cleanest way."
He stepped closer and pressed the gun against the back of Cain's head.
"A dead man can't talk."
"Let's go," he said coldly.
Why did it have to end like this?
I was just an ordinary man, living an ordinary life. I never hurt anyone. I never committed some unforgivable sin that deserved an ending like this.
I wanted a better life. I truly did. Yet no matter how hard I tried, it always slipped out of reach, as if the world itself refused to let me grasp it.
Eventually, I stopped chasing dreams. I settled for what was in front of me and told myself that if something was truly meant to be mine, it would come on its own. That lie was easier to accept than admitting I had failed.
No matter how hard you try, there is always someone better. Someone more talented. Someone who seems as though they belong in that world, while you struggle just to survive in it. Over time, the questions creep in, quiet at first, then relentless.
Why was it never me?
Why didn't I have their talent?
Why was I never given a chance?
Maybe this is simply how the world works. Fortune smiles on a few, while the rest live lives so hard and insignificant that no one ever notices them.
Even so, was this really fair?
Did I deserve to die like this?
I wanted to live.
I wanted another chance.
I wanted a new life.
But it was already too late.
Everything was over.
-
Tweet. Tweet. Tweet.
Birdsong drifted through the open window, carried by a soft morning breeze. Pale sunlight slipped past the curtains and settled across the figure lying on the bed.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
The brightness struck at once. He turned his head away, squinting as the light burned against his vision.
"Argh!"
Pain detonated in his skull, sharp and brutal, as though a metal bat had been brought down on his head.
"It hurts..."
He collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching his temples and breathing through the agony until it slowly began to fade.
Minutes passed.
He lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling. Then, without warning, the memories surged back.
Gunshots.
Searing pain.
Blood.
Death.
His breath hitched. Panic tightened in his chest.
He sat up abruptly and checked himself, hands moving over his body. Then he froze.
There were no wounds.
"What the hell is going on?" he muttered. The pain, the terror, the faces of the men who had killed him were all still painfully clear.
For a moment, he tried to convince himself it had been a dream. A nightmare brought on by too much alcohol. But the thought rang hollow.
"No... that wasn't a dream."
He drew in a steady breath, forcing himself to calm down, trying to piece his thoughts together. That was when his gaze drifted toward the mirror across the room.
His body went rigid.
"What?"
He stared at the reflection, disbelief washing over him.
"Who the hell is that?"
The shout echoed through the room.
Footsteps hurried toward the door, and moments later a woman rushed in.
"Young master! Are you all right?" she asked, her voice tight with worry.
"...Young master?"
He barely noticed her. His eyes were still locked on the mirror.
"Are you still in pain, young master?" she continued, hovering uncertainly, afraid to touch him. "I'll call a healer at once."
She turned and hurried out, leaving him alone once more.
"Healer...?" he whispered. "Young master...?"
He looked back at the mirror.
A young man with smooth brown hair and a slender frame sat on the bed, staring back at him with the same confusion.
"But more than anything else..." he muttered, his voice trembling, "what kind of world is this?"