I am Ragno. Thirty years old. I stand at 1.84 meters and weigh 82 kilos. For fifteen years, I train my body without interruption, sculpting an athletic form through sweat and discipline. Every time I look into the mirror, I see the sharp lines of my muscles, the width of my shoulders, the clear definition of my abs. It gives me confidence. Sport is the foundation of my life, like breathing. If I skip even a single day, I feel something essential is missing.
My black hair, my strong facial features, and my green eyes… People say my gaze is unsettling yet magnetic, carrying a strange pull. Women notice me at first glance, and this is nothing new. But in this world, looks alone are never enough. If I don't have money in my pocket, if I don't hold power in my hands, women eventually turn their backs. That is my struggle: being desired outwardly, yet shackled by the lack of wealth.
We live in difficult times. Finding a job is nearly impossible. By thirty, you either have years of experience or your own business. Otherwise, survival itself is a battle. I choose a different path. I never give up on training, never sacrifice my body, but I pay the price. I am a classic citizen of ForksVille, trying to hold on to life in my own way.
Meeting women is never the hard part. Over the years, I am with many. In an age where technology rules every interaction, it only takes a few messages, a few photos, and within a night, a date is set. Sometimes, in a bar, I strike up a conversation, and it turns into a wild night until dawn. But things are no longer the same. Women now look differently. Their eyes go first to my phone, then to my wallet, and only after that to my face.
Today is supposed to be like any other. I am meeting a woman again. I prepare carefully at home, straightening my collar in the mirror, sliding on my watch, spraying my best perfume onto my wrists and neck. The scent wraps around me like armor, and I take a deep breath of confidence. The woman I am meeting is tall, around 1.75 meters, with a delicate frame. Barely fifty kilos, her body is slender and light. Blonde hair, blue eyes—she is like a dream. Through our conversations, I can think of nothing else. I picture touching her, feeling her, making her mine through the night. I want her breathless, screaming with pleasure, her body pressed against mine until sunrise.
My steps quicken. The evening is cool, the orange glow of streetlamps casting long shadows on the cobblestones. People hurry past, no one looking at anyone, every soul lost in their own race. That is when I hear it—a scream, sharp and panicked. My eyes catch a woman struggling in the distance, her bag ripped away by a thief who now sprints down the street.
I don't hesitate. My legs move on their own. Years of training pump through my veins as raw power. I know I can catch him. My heart pounds like war drums as I surge forward, pushing through the crowd.
The thief darts into narrow streets, twisting and turning, but I refuse to stop. My breath grows faster, my lungs burn, but my muscles carry me onward. Each turn brings me closer. At last, I corner him in an alley.
We stand face-to-face, both gasping for air. His eyes are wide, feral with panic. My hands seize the bag, pulling hard. He tugs back, desperate. I trust my strength, certain I can overpower him. He snarls, swinging his arm wildly, and I slam my shoulder into his chest. He stumbles back, crashing against the wall. I feel the rush of victory building inside me. I am stronger. I am faster. For a moment, I see fear in his eyes—the fear of a predator cornered by another predator.
I raise my fist and strike, knuckles slamming into his jaw. His head snaps to the side, blood spraying from his lip. He staggers, but doesn't fall. He lunges again, wild and desperate, and we clash, wrestling for the bag, for control, for dominance. My training gives me the edge; I force him down, twisting his arm, pinning him against the stones. Victory feels close—I am about to end this fight.
But then, in that flash of triumph, I hear her voice again—the woman screaming for help, her desperation echoing in my ears. I glance toward her for the briefest second. That single distraction costs me everything.
The thief rips his hand free, pulls a blade from his pocket. The steel flashes under the dim light. Before I can react, the knife plunges into my chest. A fiery pain explodes inside me. I roar, more in rage than in agony, and grab his wrist. With all my strength, I twist, forcing the blade away. We struggle, our bodies pressed together, my muscles straining against his wiry frame. I slam him against the wall again, his breath wheezing out, but blood pours hot and heavy from my wound, weakening me.
He stabs again—this time lower, into my stomach. My grip falters. My knees tremble. The world begins to tilt. Still, I fight. I slam my fist into his ribs, hear the crack, watch him cry out and stagger back. He limps, clutching his side, blood trickling from his mouth. I almost win—I can feel it. My body is a storm of fury and strength, but my blood drains faster than my will can hold.
I collapse to my knees. The bag slips from my hands. My vision blurs. He spits blood, snarls, and stumbles away, limping into the shadows. He escapes, but not without fear, not without wounds.
I fall onto my back, the stones cold against me. My chest rises and falls shallowly. I taste iron in my mouth. The woman is suddenly there, her face pale, tears streaming. She presses her hands against my wound, but it's useless.
As I fade, memories flood me. I see my past rushing before my eyes—moments of pride, of shame, of mistakes I never corrected. I see the jobs I never took, the chances I let slip away, the failures that shaped me. I see the women I once held, their faces blurring one into another, the warmth of nights that ended too quickly, the heartbreaks I caused, and the ones that broke me. My regrets pile up, heavy as stone. If I had made different choices, would I be here now? If I had valued more than just strength and appearance, would I have had a better life?
I want to scream, to rage against the unfairness, but my voice is weak. My heart pounds slower, each beat like a fading drum.
I look into her eyes—the woman whose bag I tried to save. She is crying, clutching my hands with a desperation that cuts deeper than the knife wounds. Her lips move, and this time, her voice reaches me.
"No one else would have done this," she whispers, her tears dripping onto my skin. "You are not meant to end here. Remember this moment. One day… we will meet again, in a place you cannot yet imagine."
Her voice trembles but carries a weight I cannot explain. My vision blurs, darkness closes in, yet her final words pierce through the haze:
"Do not fear death, Ragno. It is only the beginning.
Her gaze, filled with sorrow, is the last warmth I feel. My body gives in. My eyelids grow heavy, darkness swallows my vision. The sounds disappear, the lights fade. All that remains is endless black. Death wraps its cold arms around me, and I, Ragno, depart from this world.