In the dim, suffocating confines of a one-bedroom apartment, the frail figure of a boy slumped in a chair was barely discernible against the flickering light of a computer screen. He was 18, but his body told a different story.
His thin frame was riddled with scars, purple bruises painting his arms and legs like a grotesque artwork. Bandages, some fresh and others yellowed from neglect, were wrapped haphazardly around his hands and ribs.
His face was a canvas of exhaustion: hollow cheeks, sunken eyes framed by dark circles, and a perpetually downward-turned mouth that seemed incapable of forming a genuine smile.
The boy, Eren, sat cross-legged on a battered gaming chair that had seen better days, the faux leather peeling off in patches to reveal the foam beneath. His fingers moved mechanically over the controller, his focus locked on the vibrant battlefield of the game on the screen.
A thin sheen of sweat coated his pale skin, and the faint hum of the game's background music filled the otherwise silent room.
Eren's apartment was a testament to the state of his life. The one-bedroom space was less a home and more a neglected storage unit for discarded dreams. The kitchen, visible from where he sat, was a disaster zone.
Plates crusted with remnants of long-forgotten meals teetered precariously in the sink. The countertops were buried under a chaotic mix of instant noodle wrappers, empty soda cans, and forgotten spice bottles.
A foul stench wafted from an overflowing trash bin that had long since been abandoned in its duty.
The living room fared no better. It was a graveyard of plastic takeout containers and crumpled snack bags. The coffee table, pushed up against the wall, was buried under stacks of manga volumes, gaming magazines, and unopened mail.
A lone ceiling bulb flickered intermittently, casting the room in an erratic dance of shadows. The curtains were drawn tightly, shutting out the outside world, leaving the apartment trapped in an eternal twilight.
Eren shifted slightly, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. The sound of his own labored breathing filled the silence. He glanced briefly at his arms, the bruises and cuts stark against his pallid skin.
"I look like a corpse," he thought bitterly, his reflection faintly visible on the dark screen during a loading pause.
"Maybe that's what I am. Just waiting for someone to throw me in the ground and forget I existed."
He shook his head, trying to focus on the game. The virtual battlefield was the only place where he felt even a shred of control. Here, he could fight back. Here, he could win.
The frustration, the anger, the helplessness—all of it was channeled into his avatar. Every button press was a silent scream, every victory a fleeting balm for his battered soul.
But reality always found a way to intrude.
His stomach growled, a low, painful reminder that he hadn't eaten since yesterday—maybe even the day before. He ignored it.
Eating required effort, and he had none to spare. His gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where a half-eaten sandwich lay forgotten on a plate, now host to a colony of ants.
The controller slipped slightly from his grip, his fingers trembling. He clenched his hands into fists, feeling the sting of fresh cuts reopening.
"I can't even hold a damn controller properly," he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible. His voice cracked, dry from hours of disuse.
The world outside was just as unforgiving as the one within these walls. College was a battleground of its own, one where he was the weakest soldier, constantly outmaneuvered and outnumbered. The bullies—taller, stronger, crueler—had claimed him as their favorite prey. He could still hear their mocking laughter, still feel the sting of their punches and kicks.
"They'll find me again tomorrow," he thought, his chest tightening with dread. "Maybe they'll break another rib this time. Maybe they'll..."
He forced the thought away, focusing on the game.
The controller in his hand was his weapon, the game his escape. Here, he could fight faceless enemies, destroy them with precision and skill. Here, he wasn't Eren, the punching bag, the failure, the waste of space. He was a hero. He was powerful.
But the illusion never lasted.
The flickering bulb above him cast an uneven glow over the room, highlighting the stacks of manga and books piled haphazardly against the walls.
Stories of heroes, of redemption, of rising against impossible odds—they filled the shelves and the floor. They were his lifeline, his only companions in a world that had long since turned its back on him.
Eren glanced at one of the manga volumes lying open on the floor, its pages creased and worn. The protagonist stood tall, a defiant smile on their face as they faced down an army.
"If only life were that simple," he mused, his lips twitching into a ghost of a smile before falling back into their usual frown.
The apartment seemed to close in around him, the walls heavy with the weight of despair. The faint sound of rain began to patter against the window, a rhythmic tapping that only added to the oppressive atmosphere.
Eren leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling.
"How did it come to this?" he wondered. "How did I become this... thing? Beaten, broken, afraid of my own shadow."
He closed his eyes, the controller slipping from his hands and landing on the floor with a soft thud. The game continued without him, his character standing idle on the screen.
The rain intensified, the sound filling the silence of the room. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Eren opened his eyes, staring at the screen once more. His character had been defeated, the words "Game Over" flashing in bold letters.
"Figures," he muttered. "Even in a game, I can't win."
He didn't bother restarting. Instead, he curled up in the chair, wrapping his arms around his knees. The darkness of the room seemed to press in closer, the weight of his existence growing heavier with each passing second.
As the rain poured outside and the light flickered weakly above him, Eren sat there, lost in his own despair, waiting for something—anything—to change.
But nothing ever did.