As Ethan approached the small house at the end of the street, his heart felt heavier with each step. The loneliness of the world outside contrasted sharply with the emptiness of the home awaiting him. He reached for the keys hidden beneath a flower pot on the porch and turned the lock with a soft click. The door creaked open, and the familiar, worn smell of his house greeted him.
Inside, the house was modest, almost pitiful. The walls were a dull beige, chipped in places where time had left its mark. A threadbare rug lay half-unraveled in the middle of the floor, while old furniture—once cherished, now faded and scratched—lined the room. The couch sagged under its own weight, its fabric threadbare and patched in a few places. A small wooden table sat beside it, a coffee mug permanently stained with old rings of forgotten drinks. Dust floated lazily in the light streaming through the half-open blinds, giving the entire room an air of neglect. It was a house that had once been filled with life, but now, it felt hollow.
Ethan moved slowly through the room, his footsteps heavy on the creaky floorboards. His gaze drifted over the furniture, each piece telling a story of time gone by. His heart squeezed with a familiar ache as he walked past the old armchair where his father used to sit, reading stories to him. The chair, now abandoned and covered in dust, stood as a silent reminder of the warmth that had once filled these walls.
At the far end of the room, on the wall above the fireplace, hung a portrait. A portrait of a man and woman, standing together, their faces warm and full of life. Ethan stood in front of it, staring at the faces of his parents. His mother had been beautiful, with long chestnut hair and a gentle smile that could light up any room. His father had always been the calm strength, with dark eyes that saw right through him, yet always seemed to soften whenever Ethan needed guidance.
"I miss you," Ethan whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. His eyes lingered on the portrait, and the ache in his chest deepened. "Why did you leave me? Why did you have to go?"
His fingers traced the frame, and a wave of memories crashed over him. He remembered their laughter, their kindness, how they had always been there for him—how they had made him feel special, even when others tried to tear him down. They were the kindest souls, the kindest people he'd ever known. It didn't seem fair that they had been taken so suddenly.
It had been three years since the beast wave.
The beast wave had come without warning. A horde of terrifying creatures, twisted and savage, had swept through the land, destroying everything in their path. His parents had fought valiantly to protect him, but they hadn't stood a chance against the relentless tide of monstrous beasts. Ethan had watched in horror as the last of their strength failed them, as the creatures overran their village and tore through the defenses his father had so carefully crafted.
He had been just a child, unable to do anything but watch from a hiding spot as his parents fought for their lives. And in the end, it hadn't been enough.
Ethan had barely escaped with his life, finding refuge in a small cave where he hid for days, terrified and alone. The loss of his parents had shattered him. It had left him with nothing but emptiness and a sense of abandonment. They had been his world, and now, he had to navigate it without them.
Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled away from the portrait, wiping them furiously. His breath caught in his throat as he turned away from the memories, the weight of his grief threatening to consume him.
He walked toward the bathroom, hoping to wash away the heaviness in his chest. The small space felt cold and impersonal, a reflection of how he had felt inside ever since that day. He splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.
Ethan's silver hair clung damply to his forehead, the strands falling just above his sharp, well-defined features. His face was handsome—striking, even—but there was an emptiness in his light golden eyes that spoke volumes. He was tall, with a lean but muscular build, the result of years spent running from bullies, fighting to survive. His eyes, though, were what people noticed first—striking golden eyes that seemed to hold secrets, too many for one person to bear.
He studied himself for a moment longer, the weight of his reflection settling heavily on him. His chest tightened. "I should be dead," he muttered under his breath, his words tinged with bitterness. "I should have died with them. Why am I still here?"
He couldn't understand it. Why had he been spared? Why had he been forced to endure all the cruelty of this world, the loneliness that felt more suffocating than the monsters that had taken his parents?
His gaze hardened as he gripped the edge of the sink. "I hate this life," he whispered to his reflection, his voice cracking with raw emotion. The pain in his chest, the deep-seated anger, was overwhelming.
Without thinking, he reached up and slammed his fist into the mirror. The glass shattered with a loud crack, and small shards rained down around him, the sound ringing in his ears. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, surrounded by the remnants of the mirror. A part of him felt relief in that moment, the release of tension, the shattering of something that had long been broken.
But as the adrenaline began to fade, the emptiness returned.
He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the pieces of glass scattered across the floor. He turned and walked out of the bathroom, still feeling like a stranger in his own skin. He moved toward his bedroom, the silence of the house pressing in around him.
Ethan lay down on the bed, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind raced with thoughts of his parents, of the fight with Jarek, of the strange surge of power he'd felt earlier in the day. Everything felt tangled, like a knot he couldn't undo. His body ached, his heart was heavy, and the world seemed so damn unforgiving.
He tossed and turned, but sleep eluded him. Time seemed to stretch on endlessly, and the night dragged, a quiet companion to his restless mind. The darkness felt like a reflection of his soul—empty, cold, and full of questions with no answers.