"The pretense of fairness was created by god to make the living equal. Humans changed that"
----------
"Is it wrong to be average?"
The words slipped from my lips like a whisper into the void.
"I told myself if I just worked hard enough… I could do it. I could make something of myself. But maybe…"
I laughed. It was more of a chuckle.
A hollow sound—dry, brittle. It cracked in the still air like glass.
"Maybe 'hardworking' is just another word for pity. In this case… self-pity."
My whole life, I envied those with talent, because I had none of it.
I hated how easy it was for them. The grades. The praise. The smiles.
I wanted to be great.
I wanted to prove them all wrong.
But the world doesn't reward effort.
It never did.
No… the world isn't cruel.
It's honest.
Brutally honest
All I ever did was push forward and endure. Some like me never had a choice. Its a luxury I was never born with.
No family. No connections. No support.
Just a name, whispered by a dying woman who brought me into this world.
My mother.
And a father who never even turned to look at me when I was born.
When I look in the mirror… I don't see hope.
I see trash.
A discarded... thing.
Studying was my escape. I believed if I worked hard enough, I could claw my way out.
But that was a lie.
A delusion I wrapped around myself like a blanket in winter.
Because every time I reached for the light…
It moved further away.
That—is what it means to be hardworking.
Not everyone was meant for greatness.
---
The rain fell in endless rhythm, soaking into the cracked pavement outside the orphanage gates.
Thin streams of water ran through the gutters like veins in a dying world.
Vergil stood still, the downpour matting his black hair to his brow.
His brown eyes, once lit with resolve, had dimmed to dull embers.
No graves to visit.
No family to support him.
Just him.
'Its lonely,' he thought.
He should've felt something. Regret. Anger. Grief.
But emptiness doesn't feel, it devours one from inside.
His fists clenched, trembling—not from cold, but from erosion.
The world hadn't broken him in a single blow.
It had chipped away.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Until all that remained was a boy, dead inside.
He had tried everything. Grades. Labor. Sacrifice.
And yet—
Only dead ends.
'Would it be better to die?'
Would death be kinder than this unrelenting spiral of sorrow and regret?
Then—
A hand.
Rough. Leather-gloved.
Clamped over his mouth.
His eyes widened—
But it was too late.
A sharp pain bloomed at the base of his neck.
Something pierced him.
He thrashed—gasped—
But the drug coursed through him like fire.
And the world went black.
---
Vergil's consciousness flickered like a dying candle. The brief moments of awareness, distorted, slipping through his mind as if colouring a canvas in black paint. When he came to and his eyes fully opened, his vision of the world was distant as if observing through a thick cold fog.
He lay flat on a cold slab, every muscle heavy and unresponsive. Leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles, binding him tight. Above him, the ceiling was a harsh, blinding white, fractured by the trembling shadows of figures moving nearby.
They weren't doctors. Not healers. Surgeons—predators cloaked in sterile masks.
A voice cut through the haze from his left.
"The kid's awake, boss."
Vergil turned his head weakly but could only make out blurred shapes, the glint of sharp tools catching the sterile light. Panic coiled in his chest, cold and slow.
Another voice, clinical cold which rattled off details like a ledger.
"Organs are in excellent condition as ever . Blood type matches the client perfectly. Liver, kidneys, heart—all viable. The rest can be sold on the black market for extra cash."
A low, cruel chuckle echoed around him. Then words that froze his blood.
"Well, if we can't find the father to pay us back… the son's organs will do just fine."
Rage flared deep inside him. That name—the man who had haunted his life—seared like acid.
The bastard…
Still ruining me, even now.
Something inside shattered. A wild, bitter laugh slipped past his lips, soft at first, then rising—hysterical and raw. The surgeons exchanged uneasy glances.
"Is he delirious?" one whispered.
"He won't be for long," another said, raising a syringe.
The mafia boss leaned close, lips curling into a twisted smile.
"Keep him awake. Let him feel it. This is what his father bought."
A searing pain shot down Vergil's spine as the injection took hold. His body went numb, paralyzed, but every nerve screamed with agony.
He couldn't cry out. Couldn't move. But he felt everything.
Cold steel kissed his skin—the scalpel's bite sharp and merciless. Then a high-pitched whine filled the room—the relentless buzz of a bone saw.
They tore into his ribcage. Each vibration rattled through his body like an earthquake, yet he lay still, trapped in his own flesh.
Kill me... The plea formed inside, silent and desperate. His lips wouldn't move. His voice never came.
He stared upward as red mist clouded his vision.
---
His heartbeat slowed. Darkness crept into the edges of his sight. The sounds that horrified him faded, swallowed by the pounding noise in his ears.
"No…" The word echoed inside, fragile and trembling.
I want to live. Just one more chance.
But no answer came. Only silence. And the steady drip of blood.