The world.
I always thought of it as something hollow, something meaningless.
We live, we strive, and in the end, we just die.
That's all there is—a cycle of struggle followed by an inevitable end.
I used to find comfort in that simplicity.
Life was a process, a machine, and I was simply one of its parts.
Efficient. Mechanical.
But now… now it's different.
The air feels different—colder, more hostile.
The thoughts that fill my mind aren't mine.
They don't belong to me, or at least, not entirely.
I can hear it.
A voice inside my head, whispering.
Ah, it's you. Draven.
Would you care to tell me a single thing?
Who am I?
Did I manage to become a better version of you?
Or are we, in the end, the same thing?
Would we end with the same fate?
No.
Perhaps the question should be phrased differently…
Who are you, Draven?
No.
Who… am I?
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