In the beginning, David never had a worry in his mind. His early years were relatively peaceful, sprinkled with the usual ups and downs caused by family matters. Other than that, he had a stable and ordinary life. But everything changed when he was fifteen. That was the year his parents had a devastating falling out, shattering the world he had known.
His once-comfortable home transformed into a battlefield. Whenever his father was home, dread clung to the air like a thick fog. Something bad was always about to happen—his mother getting beaten, cruel words slicing through the walls like daggers, threats looming over them like an unshakable curse. For two whole years, David barely left his house. He was even afraid to leave his room.
One night, his mother, desperate and exhausted, told his father she had called the police. That single act ignited an uncontrollable inferno. His father, wild-eyed and furious, grabbed an M16, his voice venomous with rage. "I'd rather die fighting the cops than go to jail again," he had snarled, gripping the weapon like a man possessed.
Another night was worse. No one else was home. It was just David and his father. And a gun. His father held him at gunpoint, eyes hollow, voice eerily calm. David never knew if the man who gave him life intended to take it away. But in that moment, as he stared down the barrel of that gun, he knew—there was no other reason for it to be pointed at him for so long.
After everything, David wasn't the same. He carried the weight of his past like an iron chain. His heart hardened, his trust shattered. He resented the world, the so-called "friends" who abandoned him, the family who turned away. In his eyes, if even his own father could betray his own blood, then who in this world could he trust?
Eventually, his father was arrested. His mother vanished. And David and his siblings were left to fend for themselves. Their aunt took them in as foster kids, her kindness an unfamiliar warmth in a life that had been nothing but cold. But as the years passed, reality struck again—David and his siblings were now adults. The government provided assistance, enough for him to get a place of his own. For a brief moment, he thought, 'Maybe this is it. Maybe I can start over.'
But old wounds don't heal so easily. David wasn't good at getting things done. He was terrified of the outside world. One year passed, then another, and the realization hit him like a freight train—people in his situation were pushing forward, making something of themselves. And yet, he remained stagnant, weighed down by the ghosts of his past. No matter how many times people told him he was doing well, his own mind whispered, 'You could be doing better.'
At twenty, his lifeline was fraying. The government aid that kept him afloat would end in six months. He had nothing but a car to his name, a crumbling wall separating him from complete ruin.
On his twenty-first birthday, the countdown reached its final week. He sat alone in his near-empty apartment, staring at the last box of his belongings. His fingers drummed against the dusty cardboard. He had no plan, no future—just a growing sense of despair.
Then, his phone buzzed. A single message lit up the screen.
'Mark.'
An old classmate. Not exactly a friend, but someone who had always managed to survive, no matter what. David hesitated before reading the message.
"Got something that can help you out. Good money. No strings."
David stared at the words. It sounded suspicious. Too good to be true. But "good money" echoed in his mind, louder than reason. He had nothing left. Barely any gas in his car, a few dollars to his name.
Trust wasn't the issue. Survival was.
"Where and when?" he typed back.
The meeting place was an abandoned warehouse district on the outskirts of the city. The streetlights flickered, casting eerie shadows over the cracked pavement. The scent of rust and oil lingered in the air. David pulled up in his battered car, its engine sputtering in protest. Mark was already waiting, leaning casually against a black SUV with tinted windows.
"David, man! Wasn't sure you'd come."
"I almost didn't," David admitted, eyeing him warily.
Mark laughed, slapping his shoulder as if they were long-lost brothers. "Relax. This is easy. You just have to stand there, keep an eye on things. No danger, no strings. You walk away with a few grand."
David wanted to believe him. But something in Mark's voice felt rehearsed. Too smooth. Too practiced.
"Who's involved?" David asked.
"Just some business guys. Nothing major. Just a delivery."
David narrowed his eyes. "If it's just a delivery, why do you need me?"
Mark hesitated for a split second before grinning. "Insurance. Just in case. But nothing's gonna happen."
That was his first red flag.
An hour later, David stood inside a dimly lit warehouse. He leaned against a stack of crates, listening as Mark spoke with two men in suits. The air was thick with tension, an invisible noose tightening around his throat.
Then, the door creaked open.
A fourth man entered—tall, built like a tank, with a scar cutting across his cheek. He carried a briefcase and moved with the quiet confidence of someone in control.
Mark tensed beside him. "Shit."
David barely had time to react before the scarred man spoke.
"Where's the other half?"
Mark forced a laugh. "C'mon, man. We just need a little more time—"
A gun clicked.
David's blood turned to ice. The scarred man pulled a pistol, pointing it directly at Mark's head.
"Time's up."
Panic surged through David as he stepped forward. "Wait. What's going on?"
The scarred man shifted his gaze toward David, his eyes sharp and assessing. "Who the hell is this?"
"Nobody," Mark said quickly. "Just backup."
The gun turned to David.
"You bring backup because you don't trust me?"
Mark raised his hands. "No, man, it's not like that—"
A gunshot tore through the silence.
Mark collapsed, blood spilling across the concrete. David's breath hitched, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
The scarred man turned to him. "Pick up the case."
David's hands trembled as he reached for it. Every instinct screamed at him to run.
Then, the man's phone rang. A distraction.
David bolted.
Shouts erupted behind him. Another gunshot echoed through the warehouse. Pain seared through his side, sending him stumbling to the ground. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky. His vision blurred as heavy boots approached.
"Should've just stayed down," the man muttered, gun leveling with David's forehead.
David gasped, every regret flashing before his eyes.
'This was supposed to be my chance…'
Pain. Darkness. Silence.
David's last moments were a blur of agony, regret, and the cold sensation of blood pooling beneath him. He had failed. Everything he had struggled for, everything he had endured—it had all led to this.
He didn't want to die.
He wanted another chance.
A second before everything faded, a single thought burned in his mind:
'If I could do it all over again… I'd do it right.'
Then, nothingness.