I hated my life. I hated every fucking thing about it—my parents, my sister, my school, my supposed "future."
They all basked in success while I wallowed in absolute nothingness, crippled by social anxiety they consistently refused to acknowledge.
Dad was a famous game developer, the smug creator of some pioneering virtual reality system that allowed people to immerse themselves in fictional worlds.
Mom was a former beauty queen, having won some "Next Top Model" reality show years before I came kicking and screaming into their twisted little world.
And my sister, younger than me by a few years, was their perfect golden child —a genius who breezed through high school with straight A's while I got pelted with spitballs and insults about being the "mobster's flunky son."
Yeah, that's right. The parents of the little shits who bullied me had lost their cushy jobs thanks to my dad's influence and connections. Mom told me he used to run with a local gang before turning his life around. But everyone knew he still had strings to pull, enforcers on standby.
Even the teachers lived in fear whenever he stormed into my school, his presence alone enough to have them stuttering. Being stinking rich was nice, I guess. But did they ever feel the walls shake when Dad flew into an unstoppable rage? See Mom walking on eggshells, desperate to avoid his wrath?
I sighed deeply and moved my mouse, clicking over to my browser to look at the college applications they'd been pressuring me to submit.
This was my last chance, their final warning—get into a reputable school or face consequences too terrible to imagine, not even God's mercy could save me.
My cursor hovered over the email from the renowned Saint Peter's University, the one place my parents were desperate for me to attend.
A notification indicated they had responded to my application.
Great. Now my heart was pounding wildly, nerves struck taut like a cord about to snap as my entire future hung in the balance.
Bracing myself, I clicked open the email and felt the air leave my lungs.
Another rejection letter filled the screen, the bright red header glaring at me in the glow of my computer monitor.
["We regret to inform you..."]
Blah blah blah. It all blurred into that same suffocating disappointment I'd felt for 17 years.
Seventeen years of dreams shattered, of never being good enough, of walking through life as a failure, a god damn nobody.
My parents, the proud overachievers they were, would undoubtedly view this as the ultimate, damning proof of my worthlessness. The final nail in the coffin of their embarrassment over my existence.
I stared at the hated word again, half-hoping through delusional desperation that it might suddenly change into an acceptance before my eyes.
But no, it remained stubbornly unchanging.
[Rejected.]
Shame and rage roiled through me. With a choked cry, I slammed the laptop lid shut and hurled it with every ounce of strength across the room, making it shatter into a million pieces against the wall.
I didn't care. At that moment, I simply didn't care about anything anymore. Not the laptop, not the consequences that would surely follow from my parents.
Everything hurt. My hands. My damn pride. One brick wall after another.
Any minute, Dad would barge in yelling for me to shut up. Sure enough, I heard his thundering footsteps upstairs before my door flew open with a bang.
Dad stormed in, mouth opening until he saw the laptop shards glittering on the floor. Mom was behind him, hand covering her mouth in shock.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Dad shouted, spit flying.
"You!" I screamed back at them both, no longer able to contain my anger. "All of you are the problem!"
He caught on quicker than expected. "Another rejection? Is that why you're acting like this? Is failing all you're good for?" He bellowed, voice shaking the walls. "You're a disgrace, Zayn! Just like always!"
"Maybe if you weren't too busy playing mob boss," I spat back, venomously. "You'd actually care about your son instead of your damn reputation!"
Mom recoiled, eyes widening in fear and shock. "Zayn! Don't speak to your father that way!"
But I couldn't stop. The dam had burst, years of pent-up anger boiled over. "Don't you get it? I'm drowning here! School is a daily nightmare, and all either of you care about is how I make you look!"
Tears burned my eyes, not from sadness but from a burning need to be heard, to have my pain be acknowledged. "Do you have any idea what kind of hell they put me through there? The fucked up rumors, the bullying, all because of you?"
Dad's face contorted with rage. "You ungrateful little bastard. You think being the son of a respected businessman is easy? The whispers behind my back, the threats to our family?"
He stepped closer to me, using his larger frame to tower over me in a blind attempt at intimidation. "You think I clawed my way up from nothing and built this life for you to just throw it all away with your pathetic grades and that smart, disrespectful mouth?"
I flinched, but held my ground, squaring my shoulders. "This isn't your life, Dad. It's mine! And I'm not living it bowing to your twisted rules and expectations anymore!"
Tension grew thick, Mom hovered anxiously between us, a trapped bird caught in the crossfire of a battle between father and son that had been brewing for years.
Then, the unthinkable happened—Dad's hand cracked across my cheek. The world tilted violently, stars exploding as I staggered, struggling not to crumble from the blow.
In all my seventeen years, he had never raised a hand to me, no matter how furious. The closest he ever came was pounding his fists through drywall or hurling glasses in terrifying rages.
But this...this vicious backhand was a declaration of war, confirming my worst fear. He didn't just resent or disapprove of me. He truly, deeply hated me. Hated me with every fiber of his being.
White-hot tears finally spilled from my stinging eyes as I screamed, "All of you can go to hell!"
Mom gasped, hand flying to her mouth in horror. I didn't wait for more—I bolted from my bedroom, adrenaline coursing through me like wildfire.
Legs pumping, I practically flew down the stairs.
As I passed my sister's room, she emerged into the hallway, arms crossed over her chest with that annoying look of smug superiority.
"Well, well, look who messed up for the last time," she scoffed, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder.
I wanted to stop, to hurl something biting back at her, but the urge to flee was too strong. I kept running until I burst through the front door and out across our perfectly mowed lawn.
"Zayn, stop!" Mom's panicked voice came from behind.
"No," I growled through gritted teeth. "No more trying. No more pretending. I'm done!"
"Oh my god! Sto-" Mom screamed as I stepped into the street without looking, ignoring her pleas.
Wham!
The bone-jarring impact cut off the rest of her frantic cry. Something huge struck me from the left, the force flipping me ass-over-teakettle through the air in a kaleidoscope blur of motion and color.
Then I crashed onto the asphalt with a bone-crunching thud, tasting my own blood as searing pain ripped through me. Gravel tore my skin, teeth broke from my jaw, my skull bouncing violently off the road.
Suddenly it all went silent except the sluggish thump...thump...thump of my slowing heartbeat.
Was this it, then? All that life had to offer me in the end?
A dad who only cared about appearance and status. A mom too cowardly to ever stand up for herself or her son. And a brilliantly gifted sister warped into a heartless monster by the toxic environment we were raised in.
I had run into the street like a dumbass, ignoring Mom's frantic shouts to stop until the Impact violently cut her off. Now drifting in stillness, I selfishly wished I could hear her voice one last time.
To know if she had finally been about to apologize for the lifetime of neglect and indifference that brought me to my final moments.
But instead of Mom's familiar tones, an artificial robotic voice reverberated in the darkness.
[Ψ Welcome to Hell's Legacy: Rise Of The Daemon King! Ψ]
[Please enter your in game name:]
I stared dumbfounded at the flashing cursor on the screen, confusion rapidly giving way to a sinking realization.
I was dead. Killed when I foolishly ran into traffic, yet somehow I found myself back in my bedroom.
Was this all a bad dream?
Another message appeared.
[Ψ This is a one-time chance. Choose wisely. Your decision is permanent. Ψ]
How could anyone process this insanity in mere minutes? I shook my head and unplugged my desktop, but the screen remained powered on. "What the hell?"
[Ψ You have run out of time, the system has made a decision for you. Ψ]
"No, no, wait!"
[Ψ Confirmed. Beginning Semblance Download…Ψ]
Flurries of vivid images and strange shapes flooded my vision as loading bars flickered one after the next. As the final bar completed, a thunderous roar drowned out all else, and the world dissolved to black.
[Ψ Welcome to Hell's Legacy: Rise Of The Daemon King! This is now your reality! Ψ]
My eyes cracked open, adjusting to the blurry lights and frantic movement around me.
The voice belonged to an old woman with gray, watery eyes. She had a maid bonnet on her head and she was holding me in her arms.
"Something's not right with the boy, m'lady. Lord Ryker will have my hide if he sees such an...an…." she shuddered, the word dying on her lips.
Ugly?! Just who in hell was this pruned face, no teeth having old woman talking about?
While I may not have been the brightest mind out of the bunch, I sure as hell was blessed with my mother's stunning looks.
But as the hunched woman turned slightly, catching our reflections in a wall mirror, I saw the ugly truth.
I was just a newborn infant swaddled in linens, my features marred by a terrible jagged birthmark slashing across my left eye and a skull-shaped birthmark on the back of one tiny hand.
The old hag was right—this helpless baby was an ugly, twisted thing. But...what in the name of all the gods was happening here? Surely this hideous child could not be me, could it?