Apathy is the absence of purpose.
My father told me that shortly before he died, like it was something worth remembering. Its meaning is simple—simple enough that a child could understand it, or an old man nod along and pretend he always had.
I understood it.
I just didn't feel it.
Waking up was the worst part of the day. Not because it hurt, or because I dreaded what came next—but because it meant returning. The same ceiling. The same breath in my chest. The same slow realization that nothing had changed while I slept.
I brushed my teeth without looking at my reflection, starting at the back, then the front. I always did it the same way. There was comfort in routines that didn't ask questions.
The shower was cold. It always was. The first time it had stung, sharp and shocking. Now it just existed, water running down my spine as I waited for the feeling to arrive.
It didn't.
White t-shirt. Black trousers. Black socks. Black shoes. I dressed like I was already attending my own funeral.
My mother was waiting downstairs.
"How's my sugarplum today?" she asked, smiling like the world had never taken anything from her.
"All good, mum."
She nodded, satisfied with the lie. "Breakfast's on the table."
I ate quickly, barely registering the taste. She watched me the way mothers do—like she was trying to memorize something that kept slipping away.
"Have a great day, hun," she said, cheerfulness clinging to every syllable.
I left before it could.
An hour later, I pulled my sword from the chest of a young man.
The rest of his group stared at me, frozen somewhere between terror and disbelief.
I exhaled.
Time to get to work.