Another day.
Or a year. Who knows? Time slips by here like a dripping faucet, a hollow echo that doesn't mean anything to anyone—least of all to me.
Another day as [ ]. Blank. Faceless. A title that isn't even a title. Just empty space filled in for the sake of someone else.
There are others like me. Dozens, maybe hundreds of [ ]s, drifting through this world with hollow eyes and empty minds, living out the same shadowy routines day after day. They don't see it—the faint, paper-thin lie around us, the way the light never quite reaches the edges, how the world feels less like something living and more like a dark, decrepit set. They just go on, shuffling through roles that mean nothing, whispering lines no one listens to.
But I see it. I can't unsee it.
And it's maddening.
Everywhere I look, all I see are these hollow faces, these [ ]s who pretend at life, nodding along to some silent beat they can't even hear. They stand around, filling space, unaware of how fake it all feels, how thin the walls of this world really are. I want to scream at them, to shake them, to drag them to the edge and show them what I see. Can't you feel it? Don't you understand that nothing here is real?
But they just smile, blink, turn away. Their eyes drift back to him.
The main character.
Silent, looming, a shadow against the murky landscape. He walks through this world with a quiet, lethal grace, his gaze as sharp as a knife blade, his aura heavy with something dark, something dangerous. He's like a lion moving among sheep, and whenever he's near, the air grows tense, filled with a weight that presses against my chest, makes it hard to breathe.
Sometimes, he even looks my way.
And sometimes, he kills me.
I remember every time, every slash of his blade, every broken bone, every last ragged gasp as my life drains away. And then, with some cruel magic, I'm back—staring out through blank, haunted eyes, left to drift again among the other [ ]s, who go on as if nothing happened. No one else remembers. They never notice.
But I do. And each time, I come back a little less whole, a little more aware of just how flimsy my existence really is.
I try to tell them. "Don't you see? This is wrong. He's wrong. He's a monster in plain sight." But they stare at me with those empty, clueless eyes, mumbling something about the weather or the price of bread or how lucky we are to have him in our world.
Lucky. Lucky, they say, to live in this crumbling, dark ruin, lucky to follow him in his bloody wake, lucky to be alive at all, as if being alive in this nightmare means anything.
No one listens. They only speak to fill the silence.
And I'm just another [ ], a nameless shadow supposed to fade into the background, to be forgotten. But there's something festering inside me now—an anger, an itch that I can't ignore. I feel it every time he kills me, every time I'm forced back to life to repeat the cycle. I can't stop wondering: why me? Why can't I fade away like the rest of them? Why do I remember?
And why… why can't I die?