Don't you think life would be far more tolerable if magic actually existed? Imagine waking up, muttering a spell called Fresh Body, Fresh Mind, and stepping into the day with a clean head, clear eyes, and not a hint of exhaustion. With that kind of help, maybe I could've gone full Einstein. Instead, I got sunlight clawing past thin curtains, stabbing my eyes like an alarm clock with a grudge. My back still ached from the week before, but missing class wasn't an option. Not for me. I wasn't one of those students who wasted mornings on games, late-night hangouts, or, God forbid, dating.
I was the type who faded into the edges of a lecture hall, unseen and unremarkable.
Debt layered itself on me like sediment, suffocating but immovable. I wasn't even sure if finishing my degree was worth it anymore, yet quitting wasn't an option. Education was the only chance I had to chip away at the mountain of borrowed money looming over me. I'd tried socializing once and somehow ended up calling someone's cat "Dad." That alone was enough to steer me back into isolation. My hobbies didn't help: late-night ASMR videos and philosophical rabbit holes about consciousness. Something about hearing a whisper at two in the morning while wondering how the brain thinks about itself felt oddly comforting.
So no, I didn't exactly have friends lined up outside my door. I dragged myself out of bed like stale gum peeling from a desk, crossing my cramped room where a collapsed pile of laundry leaned against the wall. My mattress had surrendered years ago; the permanent dent in the middle proved it. The bathroom mirror confirmed the horror: dark eye bags like bruised coins, hair resembling a static-charged haystack, and skin that suggested I belonged to a morgue rather than a university.
Cold water helped. A little.
"Begone, corpse," I muttered, splashing again until I could almost pass for awake. Toothbrush in one hand, phone in the other, I scrolled through job postings: one rejection, one pending for weeks, one night shift that required cloning myself. Not that cloning would help—my double would probably develop free will, quote Descartes, and file for independence. I pulled on the least-wrinkled hoodie in my possession, a pair of cheap jeans, and sneakers that had survived longer than they should have, mostly thanks to duct tape.
Once, I stapled the sole back on during class. It detached mid-step and hit someone in the face. I apologized on my knees, mortified, and that awkward moment introduced me to Kim, who became the closest thing I had to a friend.
[Class starts in 42 minutes.]
The notification jolted me. Bag, laptop, charger, battered notebook. Out the door. The corridor stretched endlessly. Calculations churned in my head: sprint to the bus stop, ten minutes of grace. I half-skipped down the stairs, twisted my ankle, and muttered a curse. The bus pulled in just as I limped to the curb. No seats, only a cold metal bar to cling to as the city swayed me side to side. My stomach groaned, reminding me I hadn't eaten; maybe the dizziness was hunger, or maybe it was just exhaustion.
By the time I reached campus, the IT faculty towered over me in a blinding yellow facade. Whoever had picked the paint clearly hated students' eyes; blue would've been kinder. The first semester I got hopelessly lost inside its labyrinth, map in hand, humiliated in front of strangers. Now, at least, I knew the shortcuts. My class, naturally, was always at the far end. I slid into the lecture hall, hoodie flapping, shoes wheezing their last breaths. The professor fiddled with the projector. I retreated to my usual hiding spot near the back, sinking into the invisibility zone. My temples throbbed, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. A sharp smack landed on my back.
"Hey, Ren. You look like hell. Worse than usual. You okay?"
Kim. White shirt, black hair, unshakably casual. The only one who consistently bothered to acknowledge me. "Thanks for the compliment," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "Another long night, that's all." He looked ready to push, but I added quickly, "I can't let it mess with my grades." That shut him down, though worry lingered in his eyes.
And then the air changed.
A chill spread through the room like an unseen fog. Lights stuttered once, twice, before settling into a weak flicker. The hum of conversation vanished, leaving only a silence so absolute it pressed against my skull. People froze mid-gesture: Kim with his hand still scratching his temple, a girl holding her pen above paper. No one moved, no one breathed.
"Kim?" My whisper dissolved into the stillness.
The shadow appeared without sound. It bled from the corner like spilled ink, shapeless yet deliberate, its attention fixed solely on me. My body ignored every command. My legs weighed a hundred kilos, my arms numb and useless. The thing drifted closer until its presence swallowed the space around me.
No face. No eyes. Just intent.
Its not-hand pierced my chest as if my ribs were smoke. Cold gripped my heart, then squeezed. Agony burst through me. My mouth opened, but whether I screamed aloud or only in my mind, I couldn't tell. The voice arrived next—fractured, broken, like corrupted audio stitched into words:
"YO…U SH…ALL BE… CUR..SED."
The message wasn't spoken; it was embedded, stamped into my bones. Darkness claimed me, and I was falling into a void so absolute it erased the very concept of sound. When I opened my eyes, I was back in class. Sweat glued my hoodie to my chest. My lungs rasped. Every gaze was on me.
"Mr. Ren!" the professor snapped, her voice muffled as if filtered through water. "Why are you screaming? If this is a performance, get out." Kim's face had drained of color. His lips trembled. "Ren… you were screaming. Like you were dying. Just go home, man. Please." He was right. My hand shook as I raised it. "S-sorry. May I leave early?" The professor waved me away, disgust plain in her eyes. I shoved my things into my bag and staggered out while whispers chased me down the hall. The sole of my shoe tore free with a pitiful snap. Perfect timing.
I limped toward the exit, shame curdling in my stomach, when the world softened. She appeared. A woman in white, hair the color of moonlit water, her presence quiet yet overwhelming. A faint floral scent brushed the air, and for one moment the pain eased."W-wait," I whispered, reaching. But she was gone. Hallucination. Had to be. I forced myself onward, lungs aching. Almost to the bus stop. Almost safe. And then I saw it again. The miasma. Black, writhing, threading through cracks in the pavement and weaving between the trees.
"No."
I chased it, stumbling across the street. "What did you do to me?!" It turned, faceless yet aware, and sliced the air open with something that wasn't a hand. Reality tore like paper. It had no mouth, but I felt its grin inside me.
"Fi…na…lly. You wa…lked rig…ht in. How beau…ti…fully stu…pid."
The rift sealed. The world snapped back. A horn blared. Brakes shrieked. Headlights swallowed me.
Impact.
Silence—then nothingness. That thing had lured me into traffic to finish what it started. Everything I had worked for was stripped away in an instant. Oddly enough, anger didn't come. Only emptiness. "If I had another chance…" A voice drifted through the dark. Feminine. Gentle.
"Do you want another chance?"
"Yes!" My answer tore out of me. "I regret everything. I want to live. Please." A pause. "Then it shall be so… but on one condition." The void held its breath.
"Bear the world's burden."
I almost laughed. "How?" Her whisper curved around me, calm and final. "May luck be with you, Ren."
"Wait! Who are you?!" Darkness surged again, pulling me downward, until falling was all that remained.