In the bustling, unforgiving streets of New York City,
A thirteen-year-old boy named Daniel scavenged through overflowing trash bins, his dark skin smudged with grime, his clothes tattered and soaked from the earlier rain.
Hunger gnawed at his stomach—a constant, cruel reminder of his reality.
"In this world," he muttered under his breath, barely louder than the rustle of a passing breeze, "money and power reign supreme."
He paused, staring down at the half-rotten food clutched in his shaking hands.
"Those without them… suffer."
The words felt heavier than they should have for someone so young.
But Daniel had seen enough to know they were true.
His parents—crushed under the weight of debt and desperation—had abandoned him.
Left him to the streets without a word, without a backward glance. Just gone.
Tears welled in his eyes, hot against the chill of the evening air.
"If you weren't going to take care of me mom," he choked, voice breaking, "why did you even have me?"
"WHYYYYYYYYY!!!
MOOOOOOOM!!!
WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!"
His scream tore through the silence of the alley, echoing off the graffiti-stained brick walls. A stray cat bolted into the shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—but here, in this forgotten corner of New York City, the world stood still.
He dropped to his knees, hands clutching the damp pavement. Rain from earlier still lingered in puddles, mixing with the tears streaming down his face.
Alone.
The cold bit through his jacket. His sobs quieted, each breath more hollow than the last. His fingers trembled, not from the chill—but from the weight of everything he had lost.
Then…
A silence deeper than grief settled in.
And from that silence… came fire.
A fierce determination ignited within him, fueled not just by pain—but by desperation, hunger, rage. His breathing steadied. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, smearing dirt and tears into a single, defiant mask.
He looked up at the city skyline barely visible through the narrow opening of the alley.
"If money is power," he whispered, voice raw, "then I'll climb to the top… no matter what it takes."
He stood.
Twenty years later, Daniel stood at the pinnacle of everything he'd once only dreamed of.
A crisp white suit clung to his tall, lean frame. His head was shaved smooth, face clean and unreadable—a stark contrast to the ragged, starving boy who once cried in a New York alley.
Now, he was the leader of one of the world's most powerful criminal organizations—built on drugs, extortion, and ruthless money lending. He had clawed his way to the top, just as he promised himself he would.
But the higher the climb, the harder the fall.
And Daniel knew—one tremor was all it would take to bring the empire crashing down.
That tremor came in the form of betrayal.
It came in the face of a young man he had once taken off the streets—another stray like he had been.
A kid whose family had fallen into debt with Daniel's organization.
The same family that had thrown their son away when they couldn't repay what they owed.
Now, that boy stood before him—older, hardened, flanked by Daniel's own men.
Turned against him.
The young man's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
> "If you hadn't lent them the money, they wouldn't be in debt.
They wouldn't have abandoned their kid."
Daniel stared, unmoving. The words washed over him like rain on stone—meaningless.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't care.
He'd buried that weak, crying boy a long time ago.
He sneered—more out of instinct than certainty.
> "You're a fucking moron if you think your parents ever gave a shit about you."
The young man didn't flinch.
Daniel didn't blink.
His face was a wall—smooth, unreadable, unshaken. Whatever child had once lived behind those eyes was long gone, buried beneath years of blood, betrayal, and ambition.
There were no cracks. No flickers.
Just silence—and ice.
> "You're lying," he muttered.
"Suit yourself dumbass," Daniel shrugged.
---
A chilling smile spread across Daniel's face.
> "If you think I'm going to die without a fight," he hissed, "you're fucking stupid."
He lunged.
A knife flashed in his hand, sudden and precise. Gunfire exploded around him—bullets tearing into his body—but he didn't stop. He moved with the fury of a man who had nothing left to lose, a whirlwind of rage and violence.
He struck fast, cutting down gang members one after another. Blood sprayed the alley walls. Screams filled the air.
> "He's not human!" someone cried.
"He's a demon!"
Daniel laughed—wild, manic, unstoppable—even as more bullets tore into his chest, his legs, his stomach.
And still… he fought.
Until his body finally gave out.
He collapsed to the pavement, his white suit soaked in crimson, breath rattling in his lungs. The city lights blurred above him. The world slowed.
> I knew this might happen one day, he thought.
Those at the top… always fall.
His gaze lifted to the darkening sky.
> "If there's a God out there," he rasped, blood bubbling in his throat, "fuck you."
He felt no fear.
He had killed too many to pretend he deserved mercy.
But one question lingered:
> What happens after death?
Rebirth? Heaven? Hell?
Or just... nothing?
His eyes closed.
And everything went black.
---
Silence.
Darkness.
He was drifting in a void—weightless, formless. No pain. No time.
> So, he thought, it's just darkness after all...
But then—light.
Faint at first, like a distant star, it grew brighter with every moment. He felt himself pulled toward it—faster and faster—until the light engulfed him completely in a blinding flash.
---
Daniel slowly opened his eyes.
He was breathing. Alive. Warm.
Cradled gently in the arms of a woman.
She was dark-skinned, her ears long and pointed, her hair a cascade of white silk that shimmered in the strange light around them. Her eyes glowed softly with something ancient—something not entirely human.
She looked down at him, calm and composed, studying him as if he were a puzzle she had seen before.
Then she spoke—
Her voice low, soft, almost musical.
> "Hi, Draven."
He blinked.
Utterly bewildered.
> Huh?
Who the hell is she? And who the hell is Draven?
His eyes darted around—though his body felt… strange. Unresponsive.
> And where the hell am I, anyway? I just died. So... is this hell?
He looked around.
This didn't look like hell.
No fire.
No screaming.
No endless torment.
Hell—there wasn't anything remotely terrifying about this place.
And the woman?
She definitely didn't look like a demon.
> Maybe I'm in heaven instead?
He scoffed internally.
Yeah, right. I doubt I'd end up in heaven... but if this is heaven, then...
His eyes slowly rose to meet hers again.
> God?
She stared down at him—still, serene.
A dark-skinned woman with long, silver-white hair, pointy ears, and glowing silver eyes.
> Damn... I didn't think God was a Black chick.
He tried to speak, to ask who she was—
But what came out was a sharp, helpless wail.
A baby's cry.
> What the fuck?
Why can't I talk?
He raised his arms—
Tiny. Soft. Wiggling little fingers waved in front of his face.
> Hmmm. What the fuck... are those tiny arms?
Wait—what the actual fuck… ARE THOSE MY ARMS?!
Panic bloomed in his chest.
Thoughts scattered. Rationality broke apart.
> No. No no no no no.
Don't tell me...
> CRAP.
I'm a damn baby?!
The realization hit him like a truck.
Shock. Confusion. Disbelief.
All warring inside him, each screaming louder than the last.
And over it all—
The woman just held him quietly… almost smiling.