A young man lay sprawled in the middle of a freezing street; that was his canvas. Painted white with fresh snow, now marred by the stark, spreading stain of his blood. Each ragged breath escaped his mouth in a plume of white smoke. He was paralyzed, helpless. Yet a strange sensation bloomed within him—a deceptive warmth that defied the biting cold.
Tiny snowflakes kisses his skin, melting instantly upon contact. His gaze drifted upward, drawn to the night sky. It mirrored his own solitude—a vast, empty expanse devoid of the comforting pinpricks of starlight. A profound sense of kinship washed over him, both he and the sky were lonely.
They say life flashes before your eyes when death's shadow looms, but instead of memories, regret gnawed at him. His life, so brief, had been squandered. He had chased fleeting pleasures, postponed dreams, and now, on the precipice of oblivion, he was haunted by the truth—that he had accomplished nothing of lasting value.
The deceptive warmth that had momentarily comforted him began to fade, replaced by an overwhelming tide of exhaustion—a siren's call to end. Sleep, the ultimate surrender, beckoned him.
In a final act of defiance, he feebly raised his arms toward the starless sky, a silent supplication in the face of his demise. A promise formed on his lips, whispered into the uncaring night: if granted another chance, another life, he would seize it with unwavering resolve.
He would conquer the moon, claim its desolate surface, so that even if he were surrounded by darkness, he would shine brightly. He would revel in his unique essence, and never again cower before the fear of being different.
He fell asleep...
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From his earliest memories, Wren had always felt like an outsider, a solitary figure adrift from the vibrant currents of childhood.
While other children frolicked in sun-drenched fields, their laughter echoing through the streets, Wren remained confined to the hushed sanctuary of his room, a prisoner of his own fragile body. A rare and debilitating condition had cast a long shadow over his life, stealing the promise of normalcy.
His body was a delicate vessel, so frail and vulnerable that even the most common childhood illness could prove fatal. Understandably, his existence was carefully curated, a life lived within the protective walls of his home, shielded from the myriad dangers that lurked beyond.
Driven by an insatiable yearning for connection—a desperate desire to experience the world beyond his walls. Wren hatched a plan.
Relying on the steady support of his cane, his constant companion, he slipped outside. He followed the distant sounds of laughter, drawn to the sight of other children playing carefree. But that day, his innocence was shattered. He was met not with acceptance, but with humanity's cruel nature. The other children recoiled at his appearance, their faces twisted with fear and disgust. His pale complexion, a mark of his sheltered life, earned him the moniker "vampire" a freak to be shunned and ridiculed. Stones rained down, each impact a harsh reminder of their rejection, leaving him bruised and broken, inside and out.
Years passed, and against all odds, Wren's condition began to improve. Though far from a full recovery, he was finally granted the freedom to venture beyond the confines of his home—a privilege he had long yearned for.
Yet, just as a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon, his condition found a new way to torment him. The years spent in isolation had left him ill-equipped to navigate the complexities of human interaction. His social skills were stunted, his ability to connect with others nonexistent.
His overwhelming shyness served as an impenetrable barrier, pushing potential companions away before they could even approach.
Despite his newfound freedom, Wren remained trapped in a familiar prison called loneliness. Even as he progressed and reached college, he remained a solitary figure. The only difference was that, by now, he had long since given up, accepting that it's an immutable part of his existence.
Wren, a recluse by circumstance, had sought solace and escape within the realms of virtual worlds. He devoured countless hours playing video games and immersing himself in the narratives of novels, using these digital landscapes as a refuge from the limitations of his physical existence.
He'd dedicate at least ten to twelve hours each day to gaming, driven by an insatiable desire to excel, to be the best at the only thing he felt he had any control over. After graduating from college, he channeled this passion into streaming, documenting his relentless pursuit of mastery, grinding day in and day out to climb the competitive ladder.
Seven years ago, the VRMMORPG game "&#@$#&" burst onto the scene. Wren, upon witnessing its launch trailer, was instantly captivated. The game's promise—that within its digital confines, you could be anything you desired—resonated deeply within him. He was utterly, irrevocably sold.
Within the immersive world of "&#@$#&," Wren shed his former self and embraced a new identity: Ghost of @&#*. He became infamous, renowned as one of the most feared blades for hire in the game. His skills were unmatched, his methods ruthless, and his reputation earned him the animosity of thousands who had fallen to his prowess.
One day, flush with the rewards of a particularly lucrative job, Wren decided to treat his parents to a meal. He bundled himself in layers of clothing, a necessary defense against the biting cold, and sent his mother a message with the restaurant's location.
Wren never arrived.