I hate this world.
I hate this life.
Every morning, I wake up in my shitty apartment, the ceiling cracked, the air thick with mold. The landlord barely fixes anything, but I still pay rent because I have nowhere else to go. The buzzing fridge hums loudly, vibrating like it's trying to break apart. I open it out of habit, already knowing what's inside.
Nothing.
Okay, not nothing, but close enough. A sad, crumpled packet of instant noodles, an almost-empty water bottle, and a carton of milk when I pull the door open. My stomach growls. Too bad. I grab the noodles and toss them onto the counter.
"Breakfast of champions." I mutter, ripping the plastic open.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the cracked screen and sigh. Another overdue bill notification.
Electricity. Rent. Debt. Same cycle, different day.
I plop down on the rickety chair and absentmindedly scroll through my notifications.
Work emails. Spam. A text from my boss reminding me to stay late—again.
I huff out a bitter laugh. "Love that for me."
By the time I graduated, my parents were already drowning in debt.
Loan sharks came knocking—no, breaking—into our house. They didn't just threaten my parents. They hit them. They hit me.
I still remember the sting of it. The bruises that never really faded. The way my mother sobbed, begging, while my father bowed so low his forehead bled.
"Just focus on school" they said.
"We'll handle everything else."
They lied.
Now I work a shitty engineering job designing machines I'll never afford. Overworked. Underpaid. Executives slap their names on my projects while I go home to this.
I shovel half-cooked noodles into my mouth, scrolling past pictures of old classmates in their fancy clothes, smiling in their big houses, their happy families, their successful careers.
"Maybe I should sell my body" I half joke bitterly.
"Might finally afford a phone that isn't four years old."
I snort, but it's not funny. My phone freezes mid-scroll. Then dies.
I blink. Tap it. Nothing.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."
I shake the damn thing like that's going to magically bring it back to life, but the cracked piece of garbage remains unresponsive.
A faint reflection stares back at me from the black screen. Me.
Tired, hollow eyes. Skin paler than it should be, dark circles smudged underneath like permanent bruises. My hair—a dull, lifeless brown—is tied in a lazy ponytail, stray strands falling into my face. My hoodie, the same one I've had for years, is worn thin at the elbows, barely shielding me from the cold.
Twenty-four years old. And I already look like I've been wrung dry by life.
"Perfect" I mutter, shoving it into my pocket. "Just perfect."
I grab my bag and head out, making my way through the dirty, neon-lit streets. The cold bites at my skin, but my jacket's too thin to actually help. Not like I can afford a better one.
I should've listened to my parents, huh? Study hard, get a degree, find a good job, and everything will work out.
Bullshit.
My girlfriend of three years dumped me in the most cliché, humiliating way possible. I walked into her job, surprise coffee in hand, only to find her with her pants halfway down, tangled up with some blonde in his office chair. She saw me, eyes wide, mouth open like she was going to come up with some grand excuse. I didn't even have the energy to yell. Didn't scream. Didn't cry. Just held up my middle finger, turned around, and walked off.
She didn't chase after me. Of course she didn't.
She's now richer and better. Living the high life while I scrape together enough for instant noodles. Meanwhile, that blonde homewrecker gets to enjoy my hard work, my ex's shiny new promotion, and probably some overpriced vacations, while I'm stuck here freezing my ass off.
Funny how the cheaters always end up winning, huh?
I hate this life. Maybe I should just walk into traffic and be done with it.
I turn the corner, seriously hoping for a truck to just come hit me and be done with it while shoving my frozen fingers deeper into my coat pockets.
Then I hear something close by.
A muffled scream.
I stop. Turning my head and looking around to find the direction of this noise.
Across the street, near a rusted alleyway, a man in a dark hoodie has his hand clamped over a kid's mouth. The boy—maybe six or seven—thrashes wildly, his tiny fists pounding against the man's arm.
The doors of a black truck slide open.
No.
People walk past. Pretending not to see. A few glance, then look away.
Are these people serious? No one is doing anything? Just looking away like this is some kind of minor inconvenience? That's a child. A terrified, struggling kid, and everyone is just pretending it's not happening?
Something burns in my chest—disgust, rage, disbelief.
I don't care how shitty my life is; I am not the kind of person who ignores this.
My feet are already moving.
"HEY! HEY, YOU FUCKING CREEP!" My voice shreds through the night.
The guy's head whips around, but I'm already running. The kid screams into the man's hand, eyes wide with panic.
No time. No plan. I just slam into them.
THWACK
The impact knocks the man back, his grip loosening just enough for me to yank the kid free. He stumbles, gasping, but I grab his wrist and run.
"FUCK!" The man lunges for me, but I'm already bolting through traffic.
Horns blare. Tires screech. A car nearly clips my leg, but I don't stop. The kid clings to my arm, panting.
"Mr—Mr, they're gonna—"
"I KNOW!" I gasp my lungs burning.
"JUST HOLD ON!"
Almost there—
Then—BANG.
A white-hot explosion of pain rips through my skull.
The world tilts. My vision shatters. I hit the pavement.
So this is it? I can't move. The street is cold, but the back of my head is warm—too warm.
Funny. I always thought getting shot would hurt like hell, some unbearable, searing agony. Turns out, if it's clean through your head, it's almost... painless. Just a dull impact, then nothing. Like someone flipped a switch.
People are screaming. Someone is shouting for 911. Footsteps rush toward me.
I should be scared.
But all I can think about is—Did the kid make it?
I hope he did. My eyelids grow heavy. The noise fades. The pain fades. Everything fades.
I really hope I get some peace this time. No more stress, no more bullshit, just... rest. Maybe I'll even see Bruno again. My dumb, lovable mutt who died when I was twelve. God, I missed that dog. I hope he's waiting for me.
[System Initializing…]
A voice. Soft. Unfamiliar.
[Analyzing Soul Data… Complete.]
[Welcome, Administrator.]
Wait… what?
[Genesis System rebooting after 76 years of inactivity.]
[Administrator Slot: Vacant.]
[New Administrator Confirmed:—]
Voices? In my head? That— that doesn't make sense. I should be dead.
Am I hallucinating? Is this my brain firing off random nonsense in my last moments? Isn't there some theory that you relive your memories for seven minutes before you go? Maybe that's what's happening. Maybe this is just one last cruel joke before the end.
[Administrator Confirmed:—Elias Vaughn.]
A sharp ringing fills my ears. My whole body tenses.
Who the hell is Elias Vaughn? That's definitely not me. The system, or whatever this is, hesitates. The text blurs, like even it's confused.
Then, the letters dissolve.
[Administrator Identity Error.]
[Correcting…]
[New Administrator Confirmed: Christian Arkwright.]
A cold shiver crawls down my spine.
Christian who?
My breath catches.
Hey, God, I think you got the wrong name. My name is Vance Ross, not this Christian-whatever.
Something feels wrong—more wrong than just being dead or hallucinating.
It hits me all at once—I'm not just waking up, I'm waking up as someone else. My body, my voice, even my breath feels wrong. Too light. Too soft. My limbs ache like I've been lying still for days, but it's not the exhaustion I know. It's different.
Panic claws at my chest. My fingers twitch—slender, pale, delicate. Not mine.
The floating screen pulses again, words forming in golden light.
[Primary Abilities Bestowed:]
Creation Magic
Spatial Manipulation
Magic?
My brain short-circuits. Excuse me?
Before I can even process that, another notification flashes.
[Warning: You are a Deviant.]
[Deviants are to be executed by royal decree.]
[Status: In Hiding.]
I freeze.
Oh, fantastic. Not only am I not dead, but I've apparently been dropped into a world where people like me get executed. Can't catch a damn break, huh?
The screen flickers again—this time, the text warps on its own. The golden glow dims, and a final message, faint and fragmented, pushes through.
[If you are reading this… you are the last.]
My pulse pounds in my ears. A soft static hums in the air.
[The world has forgotten me, but you must not forget what I left behind.]
[Survive. Learn. And when the time comes… create hope again.]
Then—so quiet it's almost lost in the noise—comes a whisper.
"Welcome back, Elias."
A pause. A hesitation.
The system flickers, like it's glitching again.
"…Welcome back, Christian."
I stare at the screen, my thoughts a chaotic mess.
What the actual fresh hell is going on?
My whole body shudders as an overwhelming flood of sensations slams into me all at once. My limbs feel alien—too smooth, too delicate, too... wrong. My chest rises and falls with breaths that aren't mine, and the way my muscles move, the subtle shift of joints—it's off in a way that makes my stomach lurch.
And then the memories hit.
Not mine.
Flashes of faces I don't recognize—then suddenly, I do. My mother's warm smile, my father's tired but kind eyes. The way they used to hold me when I was young. My childhood home, the smell of fresh bread from the kitchen, the laughter that used to echo through the halls. I remember them alive.
But then, memories that aren't mine crash into me. Streets that should be unfamiliar, yet my gut tells me otherwise. A palace—a grand throne room bathed in golden light.
The knowledge presses against my mind, demanding to be known, yet I reject it.
This isn't me. This isn't my life.
But it feels real. Too real.
My fingers curl, shaking. I lift them up, staring at hands that aren't mine. Pale, slender, perfectly smooth—untouched by years of hard work, by the small scars I once knew.
"No, no, no. This isn't right!" I murmur, my voice breathy and unfamiliar.
Even that sounds wrong. Lighter. Softer. Not Vance Ross.
Panic surges in my chest.
I need a mirror. I need to see.