Eclipse drifted into uneasy sleep, and in the depth of his dreams, memories of his old life came flooding back.
He saw himself in his cramped apartment, a place more shadow than light.
The cluttered space bore few signs of life—a single bed shoved against a wall, a small desk, and his aging computer, its soft hum filling the silence.
His walls were bare, save for a fading calendar, long out of date.
He remembered standing in the doorway one evening, tired and expressionless, glancing around the room that felt more like a prison than a home.
Shadows clung to every corner, hiding the echoes of what he'd lost.
The familiar sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket intruded on the memory.
A message notification flashed, reminding him of his boss from the convenience store:
"Cover for Mark tomorrow. Don't be late."
It was never a question, always a command.
Eclipse—though he hadn't been known by that name back then—couldn't quite recall the last time anyone had addressed him warmly.
The thought left a hollow feeling in his chest, a reminder of how routine had replaced meaning, and how the mundane had worn him down like waves eroding stone.
The convenience store was small, wedged between towering apartment blocks and a busy street where the world continued to spin with or without him.
He could see himself behind the counter, wearing the faded store uniform, watching customers drift in and out.
Most of them passed by without sparing him a glance, their faces blurred by the monotony of his days.
He'd greet them out of habit, barely a flicker of emotion crossing his face.
Sometimes, he'd make awkward conversation with regulars, though their replies were often little more than polite nods.
His few friendships had faded as well, like his parents before them, who'd left him with no siblings and no extended family.
Eclipse remembered the emptiness that settled in his gut after their loss, a void that nothing seemed to fill.
He'd tried dating, meeting people, but everything ended the same way—with goodbyes he never seemed to see coming, and promises that were never meant to be kept.
The weight of solitude became his only reliable companion.
When he was done with his work, he bought two cups of ramen for his dinner and breakfast.
In the dim, gray evenings, he'd often lose himself in his favorite game.
Sitting in his dark room, only the glow of his computer screen lighting his face, he'd explore virtual worlds where his character lived a life far beyond his own—a life of danger, intrigue, and purpose.
That game had been his escape, a world where he'd found meaning, even if it was all pixels and code.
He'd remember staring at the screen late into the night, fingers hovering over the keyboard, feeling as though he were searching for something beyond the screen, something that was always just out of reach.
And then he'd fall asleep, the soft whir of his computer blending with the quiet hum of his lonely life, dreaming of waking up to something different—something more.
When light hit his eyes, he half-expected to see his familiar apartment ceiling.
Instead, there was a bright, foreign ceiling above him, and the sound of distant voices. "Silva! Silva!"
"Oh, right," he muttered, a frown tugging at his lips. "I'm still here."
And he felt the weight of reality settle on his chest once more.