The door to Lanark's small apartment creaked as he pushed it open. The space was dimly lit, a single overhead bulb casting a tired yellow glow over the sparsely furnished room. It was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside. But tonight, the silence felt heavier—suffocating.
Lanark dropped his bag by the door and stumbled to the couch, collapsing onto it with a groan. His body ached from Druwel's blows, but it was the pain in his chest that hurt the most. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.
The memory of Druwel's laughter, Clair's worried expression, and his own helplessness replayed in his mind like a cruel, unending loop.
"What is wrong with me?" he muttered, his voice breaking.
He looked down at his hands, calloused from hours of practice with a controller and sword alike, but they felt useless. In *War Zone*, he was a weakling. In the real world, he was no better.
---
Lanark had always dreamed of being a Gamer—a true one, someone who could walk into the *Zone* and command respect. He remembered the first time he had logged in, the excitement coursing through his veins as the world materialized around him. He had believed he could be great.
But reality had been far less kind.
The Terims, those weak and clumsy beasts, had nearly killed him. He still remembered the shame of barely surviving, of staggering out of the game only to be mocked by the other players. Druwel's words had stung then, but tonight they burned deeper.
"Pathetic."
Lanark clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
"I couldn't even protect her," he whispered.
---
The thought of Clair made his chest tighten. She deserved better—someone stronger, someone who could shield her from people like Druwel. He hated the look she had given him tonight: a mix of pity and concern.
He stood abruptly, pacing the small room. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he replayed the scene in his mind.
Druwel's mocking smirk.
The jeers of the other Gamers.
Clair's voice, desperate and pleading.
Lanark slammed his fist against the wall, the dull thud reverberating in the quiet.
"What's the point?" he muttered, his voice raw. "I keep trying, but I always fail. In the game. Out of the game. Everywhere."
---
He sank back onto the couch, his head in his hands. The memories of his countless failures piled onto him, a weight he couldn't escape.
He thought about the hours he had spent training in *War Zone*, trying to master his long sword. He had studied strategies, watched streams of top players, even mimicked their techniques. But no matter how hard he worked, it was never enough.
The leaderboard was an unforgiving place. Druwel, with his perfect stats and flawless victories, was untouchable. And Lanark? He was at the bottom—a name no one remembered, a player no one respected.
The failures extended beyond the game. Clair had been so kind to him, so supportive, but tonight he had seen the doubt in her eyes. How long could she keep believing in him when he couldn't even believe in himself?
"She'll leave," he whispered, the thought chilling him to his core. "Why would she stay with someone like me?"
---
Lanark stood and moved to the window, staring out at the city. The lights glittered like stars, mocking him with their brilliance. Somewhere out there, Druwel was probably celebrating his latest victory, basking in the admiration of his followers.
Meanwhile, Lanark stood alone, battered and broken.
He thought about quitting—giving up on the *Zone* entirely. Maybe Druwel was right. Maybe he wasn't cut out for this life. Maybe he should stop trying to be something he wasn't.
But the thought of quitting brought no relief. It felt like surrender, like letting Druwel win.
---
Lanark's mind drifted back to his childhood. He remembered the stories his father used to tell him—tales of heroes who faced impossible odds and rose above them.
"You don't have to be the strongest to be a hero," his father had said once. "You just have to keep going. That's what makes a hero."
Lanark clenched his jaw, his father's words echoing in his mind. He had always believed in those stories, in the idea that perseverance could overcome anything. But tonight, that belief felt like a distant memory.
"Am I even worth it?" he asked the empty room.
---
Hours passed as Lanark sat by the window, lost in thought. The city outside began to quiet, the lights dimming as the world drifted to sleep. But Lanark's mind refused to rest.
He thought about Clair. Her laughter, her smile, the way she had looked at him with such faith in his potential.
He thought about Druwel. The way he had humiliated him, torn him down in front of her.
And he thought about himself. The boy who had dreamed of being a hero but had never lived up to the title.
---
As dawn began to break, Lanark stood and walked to his desk. The holographic display of *War Zone* flickered to life as he logged in. His avatar appeared on the screen, battered and unremarkable.
Lanark stared at the screen for a long moment, his fingers hovering over the controls. He could quit. He could walk away from the game, from the humiliation, from the endless cycle of failure.
But something stopped him.
A small, flickering ember deep inside—a stubborn refusal to let Druwel's words be the end of his story.
"I'm not done yet," he muttered.
It wasn't a declaration of victory. It wasn't a promise of greatness. It was simply a decision—to keep trying, no matter how many times he fell.
Lanark closed the game and turned off the display. He wasn't ready to face the *Zone* again, not yet. But he would be.
---
The morning light seeped through the curtains as Lanark lay down on the couch, exhaustion finally overtaking him. His body still ached, his pride still stung, but for the first time that night, his mind was quiet.
He had a long way to go, but he wasn't giving up. Not yet. He was sure of this . He squeezed his fists and slammed against the table.