"I am Rubin, and this is my story.
The words leave my lips in a whisper, almost drowned by the cold wind sweeping through the empty street. Neon signs flicker across the road, a convenience store humming with life on the other side. But here, at the bus stop, it is quiet. Too quiet.
I pull my knees close, my breath fogging in the night air. Sixteen years old, yet it feels like I have lived six lifetimes already.
I remember their faces—my parents. Brown skin like mine, sharp eyes always darting over their shoulders. I never understood why back then, but I know now. They were running. Criminals, fugitives, whatever the world wanted to call them. They crossed borders with me in tow, always whispering, always afraid.
Until one night, when they didn't.
I was five, maybe six. They left me in the East, in a city I didn't know, in a country that wasn't mine. They didn't say goodbye. Maybe they thought they were protecting me. Maybe they thought I'd be better off without them.
I guess they were right.
The orphanage took me in. A place where walls were thin, food was thinner, and dreams were nonexistent. But it was a place to sleep, and I was grateful.
Still… kids notice things. They noticed I didn't look like them. They noticed I had no parents. And they noticed quickly how easy it was to corner the boy who couldn't fight back.
I lost count of the times I was shoved into the dirt, mocked for my skin, for my accent, for simply existing. The bruises faded, but the whispers didn't.
And yet… not everything was cruel.
There was one staff member, a kind woman whose name I still remember, though I won't say it aloud. She treated me like I mattered, like I wasn't just some stray the world had tossed aside. When I was sick, she stayed by my bed. When I cried, she never told me to 'be a man.'
And then there were the two.
A boy and a girl, close to my age. They didn't see me as different. They laughed with me, shared food with me, defended me when no one else would. For the first time in my life, I thought maybe—just maybe—I could belong.
But belonging doesn't last.
One day, they were gone. Adopted. Smiling faces leaving through the gates, while I stood frozen, my hand half-raised in farewell.
I never saw them again.
That night, I sat on the same steps I'm sitting on now. Same loneliness. Same emptiness. Sixteen years, and nothing had changed.
Is this really all there is for me?"
"I stare at the empty street, the glow of headlights painting the asphalt in long streaks of white. My thoughts circle like vultures.
What am I even doing here? Sixteen years gone, and what do I have to show for it? No family. No dreams. Just another face in a world that doesn't care.
Do I really want to live like this? Do I even have a purpose?
The questions gnaw at me, louder than the silence. For a moment, I feel like there's only one answer.
Before I realize it, I'm on my feet. My body moves before my mind does. Step after step, I cross the road, eyes locked on the shining lights ahead. A truck barrels down, horn blaring, tires screeching.
For a split second, everything slows. The air vibrates with the deafening sound of metal and fury. My heart stops.
So this is it.
…
But then—WHOOSH.
The truck blasts past me, missing me by inches, the gust of wind nearly throwing me off balance. The driver shouts curses, leaning on the horn like he wants to rip it out of the dashboard.
I blink. My legs are trembling. My ears are ringing.
And then I laugh.
'Pfft—seriously? Did I just… almost Truck-kun myself?'
I clutch my chest, still feeling the thundering rhythm of my heart. For a moment, I can't tell if I'm terrified or relieved. Maybe both.
'I'm not going to die like that,' I whisper, a grin tugging at my lips despite the adrenaline flooding me. 'No way. Not me. I'll persevere. I'll live my life to the fullest—freely.'
The truck fades into the distance, its horn still echoing in my ears.
I take a deep breath, and for the first time in a long time, I feel… alive."
"I walk the rest of the way through the cold streets, the echoes of the truck's horn still buzzing in my ears. My legs feel light, but my head is heavy with thoughts. By the time I reach the old orphanage gates, the lights inside are dim, most kids already asleep.
As I push the door open, a sharp voice cuts through the silence.
'Rubin! Do you even know what time it is?'
The caretaker stands there, arms crossed, lips pursed so tight they could probably cut glass. Her tired eyes bore into me like I've just committed the gravest of sins.
I bow my head slightly. 'Sorry. I lost track of time. It won't happen again.'
Of course, I don't mean it. Not even a little. But I've learned it's easier to say what people want to hear than to fight battles that don't matter.
Her scolding goes on, about rules, responsibility, discipline—all the usual greatest hits. I nod at the right moments, apologize again, and finally she lets me pass.
As I head down the corridor toward the dormitory, I catch her voice in a faint whisper.
'That boy… always trouble. Just like his parents.'
I pretend not to hear it, but the words sting. I grip my fists tighter, forcing my face into something calm. I've lived with whispers all my life—bullies, strangers, even adults who should've known better. After a while, you learn to smile through it. Or at least, fake it well enough.
I've gotten good at that.
I may not have much, but I've survived this long because I know how to deal with people. Smile when you should, shut up when you must, and never let anyone know how much it really hurts. That's the secret.
I'm not the strongest. Not the fastest. Hell, I'm not even particularly good-looking—just… average. Average face, average build. I disappear into the crowd like a background character.
But my brain? That's what keeps me alive. Numbers make sense to me—math, science, logic. The world is cruel, but at least numbers don't lie.
Of course, I'm not perfect. I've got… let's call them 'quirks.' Bad habits, really. Like eating instant ramen three nights in a row and calling it a 'balanced diet.' Or procrastinating on homework until I suddenly become the fastest mathematician alive at 2 A.M. Or the fact that I sometimes talk to myself—out loud—like I'm narrating my own anime.
Yeah… I'm that guy.
But hey, I've made it this far, haven't I?"
"I slip quietly into the dormitory. The room is dim, filled with the soft rhythm of sleeping breaths. Rows of beds line the walls, and on each of them, the faces of kids who, for better or worse, are my family.
I stand there for a second, watching them. Their cheeks puff out as they snore, drooling all over their pillows. Not exactly the picture of angelic siblings, but… yeah, these faces are the closest thing to home I've ever had.
It's funny, really. Every scar I carry, every nightmare I've lived through, somehow circles back to rooms like this.
I remember when I first got here—got beat up for stealing bread. They didn't even need the bread; they just wanted to show the 'new kid' his place. At the time, I thought, Wow, what a welcoming committee. Looking back, it was basically the orphanage version of a handshake.
Then there was the time I got locked in the bathroom for half a day because I mouthed off to one of the bigger kids. Traumatic? Sure. But I learned two important things: never underestimate a kid with a mop handle, and bathrooms echo so well you could start a solo concert in there.
Or the countless times I got mocked for being different, for not having parents, for my skin, for my accent. Traumatizing? Maybe. But it taught me how to fight with words sharper than any blade.
I guess most people would call these experiences tragic. Me? I call them my free training arc. Life was my abusive mentor, and somehow, I came out smarter, sharper, and harder to break.
I flop down on my creaky bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. The smell of detergent and stale sheets fills my nose. Around me, these kids—the only constants in my life—snore, mumble, kick their blankets off.
Do I love them? No. Not really. But they're the backdrop of every memory I have. Brothers and sisters, not by choice, but by default. A messy, annoying, imperfect family.
And the truth is… even if I don't like them, I don't know what I'd be without them."
"I roll over on the thin mattress, eyes heavy. Sleep pulls at me like a tide. Just as I'm about to drift off—
'I need you…'
My eyes snap open.
The voice is soft, feminine, but sharp enough to cut straight through my half-dreaming state.
'…Help me…'
I sit up instantly, heart racing. What the hell was that?
I glance around. The room is silent. Everyone is out cold, drooling and snoring in their peaceful little dream worlds. Typical.
Was that… in my head? No, no, no. Too clear for imagination. Maybe some brat's pulling a prank.
I pad across the creaky wooden floor, checking corners, glancing under bunks. Nothing. Just the same old stink of detergent and damp wood.
Then—
The world shakes. Hard.
The floor lurches, walls rattle, and before I can even curse, the whole building groans like it's splitting in two.
'What the—?! An earthquake?! Here?!'
Wood splinters. Beams crack. Screams fill the night. The ceiling crashes down. And then—black.
…
My body is heavy. My eyelids refuse to open. Somewhere in the darkness of my mind, a single thought crawls out:
Am I dead?
Figures. I spend all this time giving myself a pep talk about living, persevering, never giving up—then boom. Crushed to death in my sleep. The world just went: 'Nah, Rubin, you're not main-character material.'
Honestly, what rotten luck.
But then—light.
My eyes crack open.
And there she is.
A silhouette. Towering, ethereal. Her voice is the same one I heard before—sweet like a lullaby, but soaked in pain.
'Please… help me…'
My breath catches. I want to move, to reach her, but all I can do is stare.
Her eyes glow in the dark, piercing through me. Dark blue. So vivid, so impossibly beautiful, they don't even look real. Not even the prettiest actresses or K-pop idols could compare—and trust me, I've done the research.
Tears spill from those perfect eyes, falling like drops of glass. She raises her hand, trembling, and points at me.
A tiny flicker of light breaks free from her palm. It floats forward, slow, deliberate… and slips into me.
My chest jolts. A strange heat spreads through my veins. Not painful, not pleasant—just… different.
Her lips part, and her voice trembles again.
'Will you… help me?'
And without even thinking, without even understanding, I nod. The words tumble out before I can stop them:
'Y… yes.'
Her sorrow melts into a faint smile.
And then the darkness swallows me whole."