Within a lavish bathroom, a boy stood butt naked.
His obsidian black hair clung to his forehead due to the cold water pouring from the shower.
His pale skin was riddled with many small scars, the result of his battles. The potion healed most of them, but not without a small trace.
His crimson eyes were currently deep in thoughts.
Who was the spectator?
That was the most glaring question he had.
He didn't know who it was, but from what Failed Possibility had said, it was keeping an eye on him.
How did I not notice?
Are they one of 'Them' my mother mentioned?
If so… what did they want?
He understood their strength was something he couldn't comprehend at his current strength. But that made his question even more as to why they hadn't killed him yet.
Then, there was his possibility, someone who sliced through the spectator's vision without breaking a sweat…
…and yet, according to the system, he was a failed possibility.
