When I was a kid, life was simple. I didn't have much—hell, I was poor asf back then—but I still laughed like nothing in the world could touch me. Back then, I thought happiness was just running under the sun, chasing after the wind with no weight on my shoulders.
I wanted to be an athlete. Running was my escape, my dream, my everything. But dreams don't always give a damn about reality. By the time I turned fifteen, I learned the truth—the hard truth. No matter how much I trained, no matter how many times I ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like breaking, my body stayed weak. Fragile, as if it was a twig.
The doctors confirmed it after a few checkups. Some genetic disorder, they said. My muscles wouldn't grow properly, progression almost at a standstill. Just like that, the dream I'd held onto since childhood crumbled to dust.
By sixteen, things got worse. My mind broke down too. Anxiety, insecurity, paranoia—they all came crashing in. I hated my height, hated the reflection in the mirror, hated the body I was trapped in. Slowly, I shut myself away from the world. Became a shut-in.
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MC POV:
"Fuck you, man! If you can't carry your goddamn team, then why the fuck did you even post that shit on the bulletin board?" I snarled at my screen, voice echoing in the dim room.
"Huh? The fuck you mean? It's your fuckin' fault we died, bozo! If you can't even kill a level 50 gargoyle, then just leave this fuckin' game, bitch!" The voice crackled from my headset, sharp and mocking. I couldn't even be surprised—I'd cursed them first, after all.
A second later, a notification flashed across my screen:
[You've been kicked out from the party]
"Fuck!" My fist shot up, trembling with rage, and I almost slammed it onto the desk—but stopped just short, the sound of my own heavy breathing filling the room instead.
It had all started so simply. I'd received an invite from one of the well-known parties—[Wildcard]. Their name carried weight in the community, famous for clearing events in exchange for valuable loot. Weapons, gear, rare items—they'd do the high level quests for you if you paid theme enough.
I had something they wanted. A rare helmet I'd gotten from an event—granted a massive 90% fire damage reduction. To me, though, it was useless. My entire build was based on agility and mobility. What use did I have for a hunk of metal?
That's when I saw his post. That bastard, asking for the helmet. I made a deal: he'd help me with a lightning raid, and I'd hand over the helmet after. Fair trade, right?
But midway through the raid, they ditched me—left me to fend off a swarm of gargoyles on my own. Later, the excuse was the same tired line: I was too weak to kill one.
"Fuckin' hell…" I muttered, staring blankly at the screen. "If four gargoyles come at you at once, what the fuck are you even supposed to do? You're fucked from all sides unless a goddamn miracle shows up."
My chest burned with frustration. "And why the fuck did I even pay him if he was just going to let me die and ditch me in the first place?" I was almost baffled at my own stupidity.
The room fell silent again, only the faint hum of the computer fan keeping me company.
The conversation had ruined my mood, so I shut down the computer and dragged myself over to the bed.
My room looked exactly like something out of a manga where the MC's a shut-in. Empty instant noodle cups were scattered across the floor, the stale smell of dried broth lingering in the air. The dim light barely filled the space, casting long shadows that made the place feel unsettling, almost eerie—like even the walls were tired of me being here.
Just as I was about to reach the bed, my foot pressed down on something cold and metallic hidden among the clutter. There was a sharp clink followed by a rush of weightlessness, and before I even realized what was happening, the world flipped upside down. My vision spun wildly, and the last thing I saw was the sharp corner of my bed rushing toward me like a blade.
*Dumm.*
The sound echoed in my ears, heavy and final. My consciousness flickered and then snapped back. I found myself sprawled on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. A chill crept down my forehead where something warm and sticky began to slide across my skin—blood, thick and cold, trickling toward my temple.
My body felt like it had been drained of everything. I couldn't move; I couldn't even open my mouth to scream. My hands twitched slightly but refused to obey me, and all I could do was lie there, helpless, my eyes locked on the dim ceiling above me.
"Is this how I die?" The thought echoed faintly in my head, distant and weightless. My eyelids began to grow heavier, each blink longer than the last. Strangely enough, there was no panic clawing at me, no tears, no rage. Just a dull emptiness, like all my emotions had leaked out with the blood on my forehead. It wasn't even sad anymore—just quiet.
Everything around me blurred and dimmed, the ceiling fading like an old photograph as my eyes slowly began to close on their own.