The street lamps buzzed overhead, casting pale halos on the damp asphalt. The world smelled of exhaust fumes, cheap cigarettes, and rain that never quite fell. He didn't know how long he had been walking. His feet moved of their own accord, slipping him past shuttered shops and silent intersections.
After leaving his friend's apartment, he had wandered aimlessly, hollow and numb. The image of his boss's wife — tangled in sheets with someone he once called a brother — played on a broken reel in his head. That luxurious black hair. The glitter of gold rings against soft skin. Her laughter, low and teasing. The way she clutched the bedsheets as if enjoying every second.
And before that, his own wife. His home. Her betrayal. The bed he bought with his own salary. The room where he imagined growing old together — defiled. Not a word of apology. Not a single tear shed.
He was tired.
Not physically, but deeply. A soul-deep exhaustion that years of mediocrity had carved into him. Always the backup. Always polite. Always silent. A man who swallowed pride in meetings, let others steal credit, and waited for affection that never came. The kind of man who left the room quietly instead of yelling. Who smiled when others mocked his clothes or his pay.
A loser.
His fingers trembled as he touched the silver ring on his hand — something he had found on a mountain trail years ago. It hadn't meant anything back then. Just a strange, polished ring lying alone on a boulder. He had worn it ever since. Not out of sentiment, just habit.
Tonight, for the first time in years, it felt warm.
He stopped walking when he heard it — a sharp, muffled cry from a narrow alleyway between two abandoned buildings. He froze, heart catching in his throat. It wasn't loud, but it carried. A shout, a slap, a thud.
Then another cry — raw and human.
He turned his head slowly, gaze narrowing at the shadows shifting in the alley.
Normally, he would have walked past. That's what the world taught people like him. Don't get involved. Don't play hero. But tonight… tonight something cracked.
Maybe it was the silence of his wife as she let another man touch her.
Maybe it was the indifference in his friend's eyes.
Maybe it was the fact that no one had ever fought for him — not even himself.
He stepped into the alley.
The darkness swallowed him quickly. Trash bins lined the narrow path. Rats scattered at his approach. Further in, three figures loomed — two men and a woman pressed against the wet brick wall. Her clothes were torn, her arms pinned. She struggled, kicking and spitting, her face contorted in horror.
The men turned at the sound of his footsteps.
One of them — tall, broad, a jagged scar across his cheek — raised a pistol. "Get lost," he growled.
He didn't move. His voice came out hoarse, broken. "Let her go."
There was a beat of silence. Then laughter.
"Look at this guy. Office worker? Grocery boy? Thinks he's a hero." The second man smirked and took a step forward. "You deaf? You walk away, or you die."
"I said let her go."
His hands were shaking, his knees weak. But he didn't run.
The man with the scar didn't hesitate. The gun fired once.
Pain tore through his shoulder as the bullet shredded flesh. He staggered back, mouth wide but no scream came. Then another shot — this time through the thigh. His leg collapsed beneath him. He hit the ground hard, coughing blood.
Then a third shot — his other shoulder. The fourth — the other leg.
His world shrank into pain.
They didn't kill him immediately. That would have been a mercy. Instead, they turned back to the woman.
"No one's coming now," one of them muttered, dragging her back into position.
She screamed again. Kicked. Bit. But there were two of them and only one of her. He could only watch, paralyzed, bleeding into the alley floor. His fingers twitched. He tried to crawl. He couldn't even move his arms.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with grime and blood.
It felt like hours, though it must have only been minutes. At some point, her screams turned to sobs, then to silence. He wasn't sure if she passed out or gave in. Either way, it crushed him.
He had done nothing.
Just like always.
He had tried, once — a single act of courage — and this was the result. Crippled. Helpless. Defeated.
They were laughing again, zipping up, high-fiving like it was all a joke.
Then, one of them walked up and crouched beside him.
"Next time, mind your business," the man sneered.
The gun pressed against his forehead.
Click.
---
There was no sound. No light. Just falling.
His body floated in a void — no pain now, no weight. His thoughts unraveled slowly, drifting like ash in the wind.
Was that it?
He thought about his childhood. His mother's calloused hands. The quiet warmth of his father's evening stories. He remembered getting bullied in school, never fighting back. Always avoiding confrontation. Always hoping someone would help.
No one ever did.
He thought about love. How he had never really felt it. His wife… she had been beautiful, yes. But cold. Distant. Their marriage was a transaction, forced by relatives. He had hoped she would open up. That she would see the real him one day. But she never looked his way — not truly.
He never even kissed her.
He had waited. Waited for affection, waited for intimacy, waited for someone to choose him.
They never did.
He had lived a life of silence. A life of compromise. Never great enough to be praised. Never evil enough to be hated. Just forgettable. Gray.
He wanted to curse. To scream. But there was nothing left in him.
Just…
Why?
Why was I even born if it was all meant to be like this?
The void pulsed.
Then, warmth.
A soft light flickered at his hand — the ring. The same silver band he had worn for years. It glowed now, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. He felt it — a pulse not his own. Something ancient. Something watching.
And then… a whisper. Not in words, but in feeling.
"You have been chosen."
.
.
.
The sky wore mourning robes of gray as the first drops of rain began to fall—soft, misty tears from the heavens, as if the world itself wished to offer a farewell. The small graveyard tucked behind the city's southern hill was filled with a surprising number of people, more than one might expect for a man whose life had been lived quietly, even invisibly. A man who, in death, finally drew a crowd.
Among the gathered, some faces stood out not for the grief they bore, but for the secrets they carried.
His wife stood near the front, dressed in a black saree that hugged her frame like an elegant lie. Her face was a mask of solemnity, the kind that fools many but not all. Her hands clutched a white flower bouquet, trembling just enough to seem mournful. But those who knew her—truly knew her—could see something behind her eyes. Not loss. Not sadness. Relief, perhaps. Freedom.
Beside her stood her friend, a young man with fair skin and a confident smirk barely hidden behind lowered eyes. No one seemed to question why he stayed so close to her, why his hand occasionally brushed hers as if rehearsed. Only those with sharp eyes and bitter memories might have recognized him. He was the one the dead man saw last—through the crack in a half-open bedroom door, bathed in betrayal.
The man's former best friend, a lanky figure with round glasses and an easy smile, hovered near the back. He looked the part of a grieving friend—quiet, head bowed. But there was no tremble in his fingers, no tightness in his jaw. Only a strange calmness, almost as if he was waiting for the whole show to be over.
Then there was the boss—a well-built, middle-aged man with trimmed hair and a sharp suit that seemed too expensive for the occasion. He sat in silence, a cigarette dangling from his fingers despite the gentle rain. Every few moments, he glanced at his phone, barely hiding the impatience. Perhaps the only real loss he felt was the absence of a quiet, obedient employee. The man had died like he had lived—silently, unremarkably.
Next to the boss stood his wife, a beautiful woman with long, dark curls, red lipstick, and eyes that surveyed the room like an empress. She wore black too, but in a way that made it clear she was mourning fashion more than any man in the ground. She cried, yes—but only after checking who was watching.
As the ceremony ended, the crowd began to thin. A few coworkers came and left, offering brief condolences and shaking their heads with comments like "Such a quiet man…" or "Didn't deserve that kind of end."
None of them truly knew him. None had looked past his silent demeanor. He was the office ghost. The background soul. No one remembered his birthday. No one asked why he always ate lunch alone.
And now he was dead.
Back at his apartment—a small, neat home he'd kept tidy all his life—unspoken things stirred.
The boss was the first to arrive, his coat dripping rainwater onto the polished floor. He muttered something about needing a moment of quiet. No one stopped him as he sank into the living room couch, lit another cigarette, and closed his eyes. The dead man's scent still lingered in the apartment, a mix of cheap aftershave, coffee, and loneliness. The boss seemed unmoved.
From the closed bathroom door came muffled sounds—soft at first, rhythmic. It wasn't long before the noises grew louder. Anyone passing might pause, raise an eyebrow, and move on. It didn't take much imagination to guess. A woman's low gasps, a man's stifled moans. Someone said it was the boss's wife and someone else. Few cared to know who.
The dead man's spirit, if it had lingered, would have watched in hollow silence.
In the bedroom—the room he once called his sanctuary—the door was closed. But not for long.
The boss rose from the couch and wandered to the hallway, cigarette still in hand. Something drew him forward. Some curiosity or twisted instinct. The door creaked open slightly beneath his fingers, revealing a familiar scene.
The wife. His wife. On the bed she once shared with the man now buried under rain and mud. She wasn't alone. Her moans, soft and musical, filled the air. The same boy from before—the one the man saw that night—was with her again.
They didn't notice the door open at first.
But when they did, they froze.
For a moment, time stood still.
Then the boss stepped in, eyes scanning the room. No words were exchanged at first. Only silence. The boy looked panicked, trying to cover up. The woman gasped, clutching the sheets to her chest. Her face turned pale.
The boss didn't speak. He closed the door behind him.
From the hallway, only sounds could be heard. A soft gasp. A low murmur. Then another voice—hers—half-resisting, half-inviting. Eventually, the boy protested. Then, nothing but heavy breathing and muffled words. Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps it was exactly what they wanted.
And outside that door, in the living room, the world continued to spin.
A photo still sat on the shelf near the window. A picture of the man, smiling awkwardly at a work event. No one glanced at it. No one remembered that smile or wondered what it had masked.
Up above, the sky finally cleared. But inside, in the home that once belonged to a man who only wanted a little love, a little respect—there was no sunshine.
No memory of him lingered in that moment.
Only betrayal.