The ballroom glittered irritatingly.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their refracted light scattering across the room like glass shards.
The air carried mingling scents of expensive perfume, champagne, and the faint undertone of desperation.
Laughter rang out—sharp, artificial, and too loud—as colleagues clinked glasses and exchanged hollow pleasantries.
The annual company party was in full swing, a spectacle of forced camaraderie and thinly veiled competition.
Ian Night stood at the edge of the room, a glass of lukewarm champagne clutched in his hand. He felt out of place, like a shadow that had wandered into a world of light.
His ill-fitting suit, a relic from his college days, hung awkwardly on his frame, and his tie felt like a noose around his neck.
He had debated not coming at all, but the fear of being labeled a recluse—or worse, a coward—had driven him here.
Now, he regretted it.
The room was alive with energy, but none of it was directed at him.
He was invisible, like a ghost haunting the periphery of his own life. His coworkers moved in clusters, their conversations a mix of inside jokes and office gossip. Occasionally, someone would glance his way, their eyes lingering just long enough to make him feel like a specimen under a microscope.
He knew what they were thinking. He could almost hear their whispers.
"Isn't that the guy from the video?"
"Yeah, the one whose fiancée cheated on him at the last party."
"Poor guy. I'd never show my face again if that happened to me."
Ian took a sip of his champagne, the bubbles stinging his throat. He hated this. He hated the way they looked at him, the way they talked about him. But most of all, he hated himself for being here, for enduring this humiliation day after day.
He should have stayed home. He should have quit this job months ago. But he hadn't, and now he was trapped in this glittering hell.
The memory of the video played on a loop in his mind, unbidden and relentless. It had happened six months ago, at the last company party. He had been so happy then, so naïve.
The office at the time, had only recently known that Emily had become more than a girlfriend or coworker to him, they were engaged.
And they were sure to make a mockery of it, whisper true motivations behind her accepting his proposal.
Ian although having a high position in the company had still been branded the loser for a long time, he never truly understood why the people around him saw it fit to walk all over him, but they did, and more often than not he let them.
His excuse was quite the reliable delusion: None of it mattered.
Who cares what they think of him? He just needed to put his head down and work. At the end of the da, he was quite well off.
He had told himself that many times over, but never enough to make even him believe it.
When Emily began working at the company and he had introduced her as his girlfriend, people were quick to theorize how she was only with him for his money and position.
"why won't she date him? look how easily he got her a job here." They said.
Were they right? Ian would tell you no, at least he hoped they weren't, even though there were times when the possibility did cross his mind.
But six months ago, none of that mattered—she had said yes.
For a moment, he had been the happiest man in the world.
But during one particular party, as the night wore on and the alcohol flowed, something had shifted. He had seen her talking to Mark, his co director and supposed friend.
Emily and mark had always been close, after all, he was her supervisor. But that night, perhaps because of the continuous intake of alcohol, they felt too close, way closer than they should have been.
They had been laughing, their heads close together, and Ian had felt a pang of unease. He had tried to shake it off, telling himself he was being paranoid. But then, as the clock ticked into the midnight, it had happened.
Emily had kissed Mark. Right there, in front of everyone.
The room had erupted in cheers and laughter, the sound echoing in Ian's ears like a death knell.
It was like they were happy? excited almost that he had been betrayed, that their speculations were truth. Or perhaps it had always been so painfully and glaringly clear what was goin on, that no one was shocked.
He had stood there, frozen, as Emily pulled away from Mark and turned to him with a smirk.
That wasn't just the alcohol, this did not happen in a spark of drunken stupidity, something had always been there, and all the drinks did was expose it.
Someone had filmed it. Of course they had.
The video had gone viral within hours, spreading through the office like wildfire. By the next morning, it had been everywhere—social media and even the company's internal network. Ian had become a laughingstock for even those in far lower position than him, a cautionary tale.
And Emily? She had walked away unscathed, her reputation intact. If anything, she had become more popular, the office's resident femme fatale.
She no longer had use for Ian, she had mark now. He was wealthier, had a better position in the company…the perfect upgrade.
Now, six months later, the video still haunted him.
It was in the way his coworkers looked at him, the way they whispered behind his back. It was in the way Emily avoided him, her eyes cold and distant whenever they crossed paths. It was in the way he felt like a ghost, a shell of the man he used to be.
At the party, the humiliation was relentless.
A group of coworkers nearby burst into laughter, and Ian flinched, convinced they were laughing at him. He caught snippets of their conversation—something about a "pathetic loser"—and his stomach churned.
He wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor and never be seen again.
But he couldn't. He was trapped.
The noise became too much. The laughter, the chatter, the music—it all blended into a wave that threatened to drown him. He needed to escape, if only for a moment. Setting his glass down on a nearby table, he slipped through the crowd and out onto the balcony.
The cold night air hit him like a slap, sharp and bracing. He leaned against the railing, his hands gripping the cold metal as he stared out at the city below.
He wanted to pull out the pack of cigarettes in his suite and take the drag he so desperately needed, but he swore he wouldn't, he would go through this agonizing event with no respite.
And if he could not, then…
The city lights twinkled like stars, distant and unreachable. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to step off the edge, to let go and fall into the void.
Would it be peaceful? Or would it hurt?
He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He wasn't that far gone. Not yet.
But the weight of his despair was crushing. He thought about Emily, about the life they had planned together. He thought about the way she had looked at him that night, her eyes filled with contempt. He thought about the way she had walked away, leaving him broken and alone.
And then, as if summoned by his thoughts, she appeared.
"Ian."
Her voice was soft, almost gentle, but it sent a shiver down his spine. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the light from the ballroom. She stepped onto the balcony, closing the door behind her, and the noise from the party faded into silence.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ian's heart raced, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest.
Was she here to apologize? To explain? To beg for forgiveness?
Would it matter?
But then she spoke, and his hope shattered.
"You shouldn't have come tonight," she said, her voice cold and dismissive. "Everyone's talking about that day. It's embarrassing."
Ian's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to say something, to defend himself, but the words wouldn't come. He just stood there, frozen, as Emily stepped closer.
"You know," she continued, her tone dripping with venom, "it would be better if you just jumped. At least then people would stop feeling sorry for you."
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He staggered back, his hands gripping the railing as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Emily watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable, and then she turned and walked away, leaving him alone on the balcony.
The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely felt it. His mind carried many emotions—anger, despair, betrayal. He thought about everything he had lost, everything he had endured. And then, as he stared out at the city below, a strange calm settled over him.
He had reached his breaking point.
And the most dangerous of men, was a broken one.
An hour and many drinks later, when Ian finally reentered the ballroom, the atmosphere had shifted.
The laughter and chatter had been replaced by a tense, uneasy silence. People were glancing around nervously, their faces pale and drawn. The air smelled strange—sharp and acrid, like rotten eggs.
Gas.
Ian's lips curled into a faint smile as he drunkenly staggered into the center of the room. The panic was clear, but he felt nothing but calm. He had made his decision.
"Everyone," he slurred, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "I have something to say."
The room turned to him, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. He took a deep breath, savoring the moment.
"You've all made my life a living hell," he began, his voice cold and steady. "You've laughed at me, mocked me, humiliated me. And for what? Because it made you feel better about your own pathetic lives? Well, guess what. I'm done."
He was drunk but he stood straight and his voice clear for his next words.
"You think yourselves terrible people? Bullies? But there's always a man worse, more desperate…more evil. A devil of your own design."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, holding it up for everyone to see. The room erupted in gasps and shouts, but he ignored them.
"Say," he said, his tone almost conversational, "I've been really craving a smoke."
The lighter flickered to life, its tiny flame dancing in the darkness.
For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—the panicked faces of his coworkers, the smell of gas, the weight of his own despair. And then, with a calm that bordered on serenity, Ian touched the flame to the cigarette.
The explosion was instantaneous.
A deafening roar filled the room as the gas ignited, the force of the blast throwing people to the ground. Flames erupted everywhere, consuming everything in their path. The heat was unbearable, the air thick with smoke and screams.
Ian stood at the center of it all, his face illuminated by the fire. He didn't move, didn't flinch. He just watched as the world burned around him.
The building was consumed by flames, the once-glamorous ballroom now a charred ruin. The screams of the dying echoed in the night, a symphony of agony and despair.
And then, as the fire raged on, something strange happened.
A message appeared, floating in the air like a ghostly apparition:
[Host is dead]
[Transmigration in progress]
Ian's body collapsed to the ground, lifeless and broken. But as the flames closed in, a new light began to glow—a light that promised something beyond death, beyond despair.