Luv turned eighteen on a warm spring morning.
Sunlight spilled through his window, catching the dust in the air like tiny sparks. His mother called from the kitchen, telling him breakfast was ready. His father patted his shoulder, saying, "You're a man now."
It should have been the best day of his life.
For years, Luv had imagined adulthood as a doorway — a step into freedom, into purpose, into something greater than the ordinary rhythm of school and small-town gossip. He believed his friends would stand with him, that the girl who smiled at him would walk beside him, that the people he trusted would always protect him.
But by nightfall, those beliefs had crumbled into ash.
The first crack appeared at noon. A close friend, the one who used to share lunches with him, laughed at his expense in front of others, repeating secrets Luv had once whispered in confidence. The laughter that followed wasn't friendly — it was sharp, cutting, filled with ridicule.
The second came in the afternoon. The girl he liked — the one who had held his hand under the classroom desk — admitted she had never seen him that way. She confessed her affection was only an act to get closer to someone else. Her eyes had no malice, only indifference, as if his feelings had been nothing more than a disposable tool.
By evening, the whispers grew louder.
"Luv's too soft."
"He'll never amount to anything."
"He's useless."
Each word struck like a blade, and each blade carved away the boy he thought he was.
He didn't scream.
He didn't argue.
He didn't even ask why.
He only stood there, silent, realizing that the people who filled his world had never truly seen him. To them, he was only convenient. Only temporary. Only weak.
That night, when he walked home, the streets seemed emptier than ever. He left his phone on his desk, unread messages still glowing across the screen. He closed the door to his room, and when the sun rose again—
Luv was gone.
No notes. No explanations.
Only silence.
Three months later, whispers floated in his city.
"Where did that boy vanish to?"
"Maybe he ran away… couldn't handle the shame."
"He was too weak for this world anyway."
But no one searched for long. No one waited at his doorstep. In their eyes, Luv was already a forgotten chapter.
Far away, hidden from all who once claimed to know him, the boy they dismissed was still alive.
In seclusion, Luv broke himself apart and built himself again.
The days bled into each other — mornings of running until his lungs burned, nights of push-ups until his arms shook. He devoured books left behind in abandoned libraries: strategy, philosophy, anatomy, survival. He taught himself how to move without sound, how to endure hunger, how to sharpen a blade and wield it as if it were part of his own body.
The kind boy who once smiled at everyone was slowly erased.
Pain became routine. Loneliness became discipline. Emotions became noise he no longer needed.
By the time Luv turned twenty-two, the reflection in the cracked mirror of his hideout was unrecognizable. Black hair fell over eyes that had lost all warmth. His body, once lean and frail, had grown sharp with muscle. His hands were calloused, steady, dangerous.
No one who had known him before would dare call him "useless" now.
And yet, as he stared into those cold, empty eyes, he felt nothing. Not pride. Not sorrow. Not even anger.
Only silence.
Still, deep in that silence, something faint remained. A flicker. An ember.
A dream.
It was childish, almost foolish — but it lived on inside him, no matter how much he tried to kill it.
The dream of adventure.
To see the world. To live freely. To do things worth remembering.
He almost laughed at himself. What place did dreams have for someone like him, who had thrown away his old life and abandoned all emotions?
But fate often begins with small, quiet steps.
That night, as he sat before the glow of his old laptop, a forgotten forum thread lit up on the screen. A single line of text stared back at him:
"Is anyone else tired of betrayal? Is anyone else dreaming of something more?"
Luv's fingers hovered over the keyboard. He hadn't spoken to anyone in years.
And yet, for reasons he couldn't explain, he typed a reply.