My name's Ash Mercier.Twenty-three years old.It's the name my parents gave me. It's the name I've had since I was born. Not that it matters. Names are just labels, like the price tags on clothes you'll never wear. People don't really care about your name unless they need something from you. And even then, they barely remember it. It's just a formality—another layer of the performance we all put on every day.
I'm not anyone important. Not in the conventional sense. I'm average height—just shy of six feet. Not too tall, not too short. Just... enough. I blend into crowds. And blending in? That's an art form. People might notice me if they look hard enough, but I make sure they don't. I'm not here to be the guy everyone remembers. I'm here to be the guy everyone uses.
I've got dark hair. Nothing special. Messy in the way that says, "Yeah, I woke up late," but with a tinge of purpose behind it. My eyes? Grey. The kind of grey that doesn't make people look twice. A little dull, a little lifeless, like a cloudy sky that's been hanging around too long. The kind of eyes that make people uncomfortable, not because they're threatening, but because they read you. They know that I'm looking at them, seeing through their bullshit, and they can't quite handle it.
Ah, the subtle power of making people uncomfortable. It's a gift.
My clothes? Well, let's put it this way: I dress like I know what I'm doing, but not in a way that screams for attention. You won't catch me in a suit that screams, "Look at me!" but I'll always wear something just nice enough to make you think, "Yeah, that guy probably knows something I don't." I wear clothes that fit. No more, no less. A tailored jacket here, a decent pair of boots there. Nothing flashy, nothing too low-end either. Just enough to make people think I'm more in control than I really am.
Who needs to impress when you can just make people assume?
And my apartment? Well, it's not exactly homey. It's a place to crash. A clean, minimalist space with no personal touch. No photos. No sentimental crap. Just a bed, a table, and a few shelves—nothing that says, "This is where I live." It's a stopover. A pitstop between whatever the hell I'm trying to do with my life. If you walked in, you'd think I was just passing through. It's like a showroom. Or a holding cell.
But you know what? That's exactly how I want it. Because who needs warmth when you've got a roof over your head, right? Besides, warmth isn't something you get from people. It's just a temporary illusion to keep you from realizing how cold the world really is.
But there was a time—before all this—that I believed in the fairy tales. I was just a kid. I believed in connection, love, all the usual nonsense. I guess you could say I was a believer—just not the kind of believer who had a clue.
It's funny how the universe has a way of kicking you in the teeth when you're most vulnerable. You think you're safe, you think you're loved. Then life pulls the rug out from under you.
I was twelve when my parents died. It wasn't even a dramatic death. No cancer, no tragic accident, no grand finale. Just a car accident. One second, they were there. The next, they weren't. Like a bad punchline to a joke I didn't understand. One minute I had them. The next, I was just another orphan. Another kid the system didn't know what to do with.
And that's where the fun began.
I had family. A whole bunch of relatives. But you know how it goes. Relatives. The ones who show up at the funeral just to make sure they look like they care. They're there to offer empty condolences, a quick hug, and a "We're here for you" that sounds like it's been rehearsed. In reality? They don't give a damn. They just want to make sure you don't ruin the family name.
I ended up living with my aunt and uncle for a while. Or rather, they ended up with me. And if you've ever stayed with family out of obligation, you know what that feels like. It's like being a stray animal that wandered into the wrong house. They didn't want me there, but they couldn't exactly turn me away. That's what family does, right? They take you in—even if it's the last thing they want to do.
My aunt would smile and give me that 'I'm sorry for your loss' look. But after the first week, she stopped trying to pretend like she gave a damn. They gave me a room, a bed, a roof. But beyond that? Nothing. No warmth. No care. Nothing.
So I started learning to keep my mouth shut. Not that I needed anyone's pity. I had already learned the hard way that people's sympathy was just a form of control. They'd try to make you feel bad for them, guilt you into thanking them for doing the bare minimum.
One night, I remember sitting at the dinner table, staring at my food, pretending to be interested in whatever mundane conversation they were having. Aunt Janice was talking about her new diet, Uncle Peter was going on about his golf game. Nobody asked me about school, nobody asked how I was doing. I was a ghost in their house.
At one point, Aunt Janice cleared her throat and asked, "How are you holding up, Ash?" Her voice was all soft and syrupy, like she was reading from some instruction manual on how to be a caring relative.
I didn't say anything. I just nodded. It wasn't like I could tell her what I was really feeling. It wasn't like she'd actually care, anyway.
This was the moment I learned that people don't care unless they have a reason to. And if you're just a kid, you're not worth the trouble.
But here's the twist. I didn't care either. Not anymore. I stopped pretending. I stopped waiting for someone to notice, to care. And do you know what? It was freeing. Realizing that nobody really cared about you unless you could give them something. Realizing that love wasn't about giving—it was about taking. You give them the illusion of love, and they take the illusion you offer.
That night, I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, and I realized something: I'm not a child anymore. I'm a project. And projects don't get saved. They get left behind.
I had learned my lesson. People aren't here to help you. They're here to use you. And when you're used up, they toss you aside. But I wasn't going to let that happen. I wasn't going to be the one left behind.
So I started taking care of myself. I learned to be resourceful. I learned to read people, to figure out what they wanted before they even said it. I became the guy who could help, who could deliver, but never because I wanted to. It was because I knew what it meant to be useful. And once people need you, they're never going to forget that.
The world wasn't about kindness. It was about control. And I was going to be the one in charge.
I didn't need love. I didn't need people. And the sooner I realized that, the sooner I started to take back what was mine. I didn't need their pity. I didn't need their affection. I just needed power.
Because in the end? People are just transactions. And the only thing that mattered was making sure I was the one doing the taking.