The weight on Arin's shoulders pressed down harder with each passing second, like an invisible boulder grinding him into the earth. His legs wobbled, his muscles burning from the strain, until finally, his knees gave way.
Thud!
The sound echoed in the small room as his knees struck the unforgiving stone floor. A sharp, searing pain shot through him, and a guttural scream tore from his throat. "Ahhh!" The sound bounced off the dirty walls, mingling with the low hum of insects and the faint, wet squelching of a slime crawling nearby.
Dray's laughter cut through the noise, sharp and mocking. "Listen to you, screaming like a wounded animal," he jeered, leaning against the doorframe with an arrogant smirk. "And you thought you could act tough? Pathetic."
Arin's hands braced against the ground, his fingers pressing into the gritty, damp floor. He struggled to breathe under the oppressive force, his chest heaving as his mind raced. How am I supposed to survive this? he thought, the weight not just crushing his body but threatening to suffocate his will.
Dray took a slow, deliberate step closer, his boots crunching against the dirt and debris scattered across the floor.
Crunch, crunch.
He stopped just in front of Arin, towering over him. "Look at you," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "On your knees, where you belong. You'll never rise above this, Arin. Never."
Arin gritted his teeth, his head bowed as if in defeat, but his mind was anything but quiet. This isn't the end. This can't be the end.
"Say something," Dray taunted, crouching slightly to get a better look at Arin's face. "Or has the great Arin finally realized his place? Face it, you'll always be trash. Always. Nothing more."
Arin clenched his fists, the dirt beneath his fingers crumbling with the pressure. But he didn't lift his head, didn't give Dray the satisfaction of a response. The silence seemed to infuriate Dray, whose smirk faltered ever so slightly.
Dray straightened, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, if you won't talk, let me give you something to chew on." He turned and grabbed a loaf of bread from a small table near the door. The loaf was hard and stale, its surface dotted with green patches of mold.
Crinkle, crinkle.
He held it up for a moment, examining it with mock consideration.
"This," Dray said, tossing the bread at Arin's chest, thump, where it bounced and fell to the floor. "This is what trash eats."
The smell of the moldy bread hit Arin's nose, pungent and sour. His stomach churned, but he kept his gaze locked on the floor, his body rigid. Dray snickered, clearly pleased with himself.
"Enjoy your meal," he said with a smirk, turning toward the door. His boots scraped against the floor again, scritch, scritch, as he made his way out. At the door, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Oh, and don't waste your time dreaming about something better. People like you are born to lose."
With a sharp bang, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving Arin alone in the dim, grimy room.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint zzzz of a fly buzzing near his ear and the occasional skitter-skitter of insects scuttling across the floor. A slime oozed along the wall, its gelatinous body making soft, wet noises.
Squelch… squish… squelch.
Arin sat there, his knees still pressed into the hard floor. His shoulders sagged under the phantom weight of Dray's words, but his mind refused to succumb. This can't be it, he thought, his breathing slow and deliberate as he tried to steady himself. I've faced worse. I've endured more. I will survive this.
The moldy loaf of bread sat nearby, its sour stench invading his senses. He didn't even glance at it. His hunger gnawed at him, but his determination burned hotter.
Five months. The thought struck him like a lightning bolt. The TSA entrance exam was only five months away—a grueling test that was both mental and physical. He clenched his fists tighter, his nails biting into his palms. I'm nowhere near ready.
The realization brought a sharp pang of panic, but he quickly pushed it aside. I've relied on the system too much, he admitted to himself, his jaw tightening. It's time to rely on myself.
He leaned back against the wall, the damp, cold surface pressing against his sweat-soaked shirt. His mind raced, formulating a plan. Training—he needed to get stronger, faster, smarter. But strength alone wouldn't be enough. He needed resources, equipment, and above all, money.
His thoughts drifted to the trust fund his grandfather had left him. It wasn't much, but it was a start. A flicker of hope sparked in his chest, but it was quickly overshadowed by a darker thought—his aunt.
Why had she brought him back into her home after so many years of neglect? The answer now seemed glaringly obvious. The trust fund. His jaw tightened as anger bubbled up within him. She didn't care about him; she only cared about what she could take from him. And by making herself my guardian, she had the right to the trust fund.
"She thinks she can use me," Arin muttered, his voice low and venomous. "She has no idea who she's dealing with."
The room felt heavier now, the air thick with the smell of decay and dampness. The slime inched closer, its body making soft plop, plop noises as it moved. Arin barely noticed it. His focus was razor-sharp, his resolve hardening with every passing second.
I'll get out of here, he vowed silently. I'll train, I'll grow stronger, and I'll make them all regret underestimating me. His fists unclenched, his fingers tingling as blood rushed back into them.