The laptop dimly lit the dark room on the desk.
A woman's voice echoed off the stained walls, loud and lonely at the same time.
"Aaahhh…"
"Harder…"
"Aaahh…"
Soft moaning, broken phrases, intimate talks stitched together without rhythm leaked into the room by the cheap laptop speakers.
The chair groaned as the man leaned back. His chest rose once, then settled, as if whatever tension had been clinging to him finally lost interest.
The monitor washed his face in a sick, pale light. It caught the dark half-moons under his eyes, the faint sweat on his temple, the look of someone who hadn't slept well in years.
He gathered a clump of used tissues from the desk and flicked his wrist toward the trash bin without even aiming.
He missed.
The bundle hit the floor with a damp and rolled to a stop beside a leaning tower of pizza boxes. Grease stains soaked through the cardboard like old bruises.
He watched the tissues land the way someone watches a boring game—no surprise, no disappointment, just mild acknowledgment.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Coming… I'm coming…" the woman on the laptop gasped, right on cue.
Another moan followed, louder, exaggerated, paired with a breathless whisper meant to sound dangerous and intimate.
He leaned forward and closed the tab with more irritation than relief.
Silence slammed down hard again.
His hand stayed on the trackpad, fingers hovering. For a moment, it looked like he might shut the laptop completely. Instead, he clicked another tab and to his email.
Unread messages lined up neatly, waiting.
He opened one.
Good day, Mr. Hitcher. We regretfully inform you—
He closed it and opened another.
Same words. Different sender. Same polite rejection.
Another click. Another rejection.
Every email said the same thing, just dressed differently, like people taking turns telling him he wasn't good enough. He leaned back again and dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching on rough, uneven stubble.
His eyes drifted to the tissues on the floor. Then to the pile of overdue bills at the edge of the desk. Then to the picture frame tucked awkwardly between old magazines and a cracked mug.
He picked it up.
In the photo, three young men in army uniforms grinned at the camera, arms slung over each other's shoulders, posing like idiots while holding a cardboard sign that read:
Tom, Dick and Harry are here.
A weak smile tugged at his mouth.
"Everyone's a hero in their own story, you said, Harry," he murmured.
"That heroism doesn't need measuring, just appreciation, you said, Tom."
He swallowed.
"To be honest, for once…I never wanted to be a hero," he said quietly. "I just didn't want to be the one left behind."
His eyes lingered on the faces, full of longing and emptiness.
The doorbell rang.
He flinched, then carefully set the frame back down. Grabbing his cane from beside the bed, he pushed himself up and limped toward the door.
"Wait a second," he called out. "I'm coming."
When he opened it, a young man stood there holding a pizza box, small-framed, maybe about 165 centimeters, smiling like nothing in the world was wrong.
"Mr. Richard," he said brightly. "Here's your order. Hawaiian style." He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I added extra pepperoni and cheese. Don't tell my boss, okay?"
He almost stumbled but caught himself on the doorframe.
Richard laughed, a rough sound that surprised even him. "Thanks, Brant. Don't worry, I won't snitch on you to Mr. Holand. Come in if you want—I need to find the cash."
Brant didn't hesitate. He stepped inside, following the huge, limping man in front of him. He'd been here plenty of times before. Still, he accidentally kicked an empty beer bottle. It rolled, bumped into another, then another, setting off a small cascade.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Richard."
"It's okay," Richard said, setting the pizza on the desk.
Brant glanced at the pile of pizza boxes stacked like a monument to poor decisions. "Mr. Richard… I think you need to stop eating pizza and eat more vegetables."
Richard snorted as he rummaged through a messy closet. "If I stop eating pizza, you'll lose a valuable customer. And if Mr. Holand hears you saying that, he might fire you on the spot."
Brant looked at him—185 centimeters tall, easily over 130 kilos, leaning heavily on a cane. "Maybe. But this is unhealthy. You're kind of killing yourself slowly."
Richard found a glass jar buried under clothes and smiled. "Then tell me how to die instantly."
Brant froze. "I… uh… someone said overdosing on sleeping pills is painless. You just fall asleep."
"Can you get me a bottle or two?" Richard asked casually.
Brant shook his head hard. "No. I can't. And I won't."
Richard chuckled and handed him the jar, heavy with coins. "You're a good kid, Brant. Keep the change."
"That's too much," Brant protested.
"Then bring me another box next time," Richard said. "That would be an advance payment."
Brant hesitated, then nodded. "Tomorrow. Extra pepperoni and pineapple, like usual." He headed out, then paused. "Next weekend, if I have time, I'll help you clean."
Richard nodded. "Sure."
After the door closed, he muttered, "There's no next time, kid."
He picked up his cane and glanced at the photo again. His smile was thin and tired. "Tom, Harry… if I die without honor, please don't beat me up when we meet."
He stepped outside. The winter night bit into him immediately. He instinctively hugged himself.
"Damn, it's cold."
He went back in, grabbed his coat, then headed out again.
The street was busy—people rushing past, cars honking nonstop. Someone bumped into him.
"Watch it, you limp," the man snapped.
"Okay, cunt," Richard replied flatly.
The man turned back, but his companion pulled him away.
"Coward," Richard muttered.
He walked aimlessly to the less busy avenue until he spotted a container truck speeding down a less busy street.
A bold, stupid idea bloomed.
He ran toward it, arms stretched wide, eyes closing as the headlights swallowed him whole.
Nothing happened.
The truck swerved expertly and screeched to a stop past him.
"Seriously?" Richard shouted. "How do you miss a big guy like me?"
The driver leaned out, furious. "You idiot! If you want to die, do it alone. Jump off a bridge or something. Don't drag people who want to live."
Richard blinked. "There's a bridge a few blocks away."
"…What?"
"Thanks for the advice, man."
The driver stared, shook his head. "Crazy bastard," he muttered, and drove off.
Richard stood there for a moment, alone in the cold, then started walking toward the bridge.
Slowly, and limping. Like he had all the time in the world.
The bridge rose ahead of him, towering steel beams connected to each other almost like massive steel ribs.
The river below was barely visible—just a black smear swallowing reflections.
Richard slowed as he reached the bridge deck, trying to find a good spot.
Behind one of the bridge posts, he noticed a darker patch where the light didn't quite reach.
He muttered to himself, "That's good enough."
He planted his cane, grabbed the cold metal railing, and started climbing to the other side. His body protested immediately. Every movement was awkward. His size worked against him—belly scraping, bad leg trembling, arms shaking.
"Christ," he muttered through clenched teeth.
He slipped once, caught himself, breathed hard. His heart thudded loudly in his ears, annoyed, like it still believed it had a future. Inch by inch, grunting and swearing under his breath, he hauled himself over.
When he finally stood on the narrow edge of the bridge, the city felt far away. Wind pressed against his coat, tugging at him impatiently. Below, the water waited patiently.
Richard stepped closer. One more step and—
A sudden flash of light hit his face.
"Hey! Sir—sir, are you okay?"
He flinched and raised his hand on instinct, palm shielding his eyes. The light stayed on him, steady and intrusive.
A phone flashed towards him.
A young woman stood a few meters away, holding it up with a tripod, camera pointing at him as she was looking at the screen of her phone while she talked. Barely glancing at Richard.
She was livestreaming.
"Oh my god, guys," she said softly into the camera, voice gentle, concerned. "I think he's going to jump."
Her tone was warm, practiced. Comforting.
Her eyes dropped to the screen. They widened—not with concern, but delight.
"Wow," she breathed, almost to herself. "We just hit twelve thousand."
Her mouth twitched upward before she caught it.
"Sir," she continued, voice gentle again, "please don't do this. You matter. Everyone matters."
Her face told a different story.
Her nose wrinkled slightly, eyes flicking over him—his size, his limp, the cane abandoned behind him. There was no fear there. No pity. Just interest. And approval.
Comments flooded in.
Don't jump!
Please stay!
This is heartbreaking.
Then—
Die, pig.
Pathetic loser.
Do it already.
Another fat clown begging for attention.
She saw them. She didn't flinch.
In fact, her lips pressed together like she was holding back a smile.
"Guys, let's be respectful," she said lightly. Comments continued to flood. Bad comments, she had no plan to delete them. "This is a serious moment."
Another comment popped up.
Jump for the views.
Her eyes gleamed.
Richard lowered his hand slowly, squinting against the light. He looked at the phone, then at her face.
"Why are you filming me," he asked, voice flat, "instead of calling the police?"
For a beat, she hesitated.
"Oh—I already did," she said quickly. Too quickly. "They're on their way."
Her eyes didn't leave the screen.
Her voice seemed sincere, but her face showed the truth. Her expression, relaxed, pleased, entertained.
Richard noticed.
He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Yeah," he said. "Sure you did."
She tilted her head, still smiling softly. "Just hang in there, okay? Help is coming."
The chat kept rolling.
Is he saying our goddess lies? lol.
This is better than TV.
Do a flip.
Her smile widened a fraction.
"See?" she said sweetly, eyes never leaving the screen. "So many people care."
She flipped her phone and let him see the comments.
Richard looked at the glowing phone. At the girl behind it.
Richard snorted.
"Do a flip. Jump for views. What the hell? They even call me a pig." He thought.
"Alright," he muttered. "That's enough of this circus."
He turned his head toward the girl. "You got your show. Congratulations."
Her eyes flicked up from the screen for the first time, startled—not worried, just annoyed.
"Sir, please," she said quickly, concern poured thick into her voice. "Stay where you are. You're not thinking clearly."
Her face betrayed her again. A flash of panic—not for him, but for the stream. For the numbers still climbing in the corner of her screen.
Richard saw her expression.
"Stop pretending," he snapped. His voice cut through the wind, rough and tired. "You don't give a damn if I live or die. All of you never care. All you want is to be entertained."
The chat exploded.
He's mad lol
Drama king—no, drama pig
Jump already or get off camera
The words kept stacking, climbing faster than he ever could. Little bursts of laughter, pig emojis, countdowns like it was a game show.
"I'm just trying to help," she said, voice soft and practiced, but the words sounded thin now, stretched too many times. Her eyes flicked back to the comments again and again, pupils darting with hungry focus. Her fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening—not fear, just excitement she was trying not to show.
Richard let out a slow breath through his nose.
"Enough of this," he said. His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. "You want me to jump?" He paused, then gave a small, tired smirk. "Well, sad to say, I'm going to disappoint you."
He turned back on her.
He was already on the other side of the railing, standing on a narrow strip of metal above the river. The ledge was slick with damp and grime, barely wide enough for both feet.
To get back, he'd have to climb again. Lift his weight. Fight his bad leg.
He reached for the railing, jaw clenched.
"Stupid," he muttered. Not to her. To himself.
As he shifted his footing, his boot slid on the wet metal.
"Shit—"
His hand shot out and caught the railing, fingers wrapping tight. For a heartbeat, he thought he had it. Then his grip slipped, skin scraping painfully against cold steel.
His cane, wedged awkwardly against the bars, rattled loose and dropped. It vanished into the darkness with a faint, mocking plink far below.
The vlogger gasped.
"Oh my god—wait—"
She stepped closer, arm stretching out—not toward him, but toward the edge, making sure he stayed perfectly in frame. The phone light flared wildly, bouncing off metal and water.
"Hang on, Mister," she said quickly, sweet again. "The rescue will be here soon."
Her eyes never left the screen.
Richard tried to pull himself up. His arms screamed. Muscles shook. His bad leg buckled, useless, dragging him down instead of helping. His fingers burned, then went numb from the cold.
For one absurd moment, a single comment drifted through his mind, clear as day.
Do a flip.
His hand slipped.
The railing tore free from his grasp, and his massive body tipped backward into nothing.
The fall was fast.
The light started to vanish.
Then the river hit him like a wall.
Freezing water swallowed him whole, slamming the breath out of his lungs. Cold speared through his coat, his skin, his bones, wrapping him tight as he started to sink.
Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. The only light left was the pale glow above the surface, distorted and shaking.
'So this is it,' he thought dimly. 'No honor. Just humiliation.
I'm not dying for anyone. I'm dying for views.
Tom and Harry would die laughing if they saw this.'
He's starting to suffocate, his consciousness started to fade.
Then he noticed something strange.
The water around him darkened—not the usual black of the river, but something thicker, spreading, almost blocking the light above.
He squinted weakly.
Wait… is someone peeing?
The thought was so stupid it almost made him laugh. Almost.
No. Too dark. Too thick.
Blood?!
Before he could think further, something massive closed around his shoulder.
A grip like iron.
He was yanked upward with terrifying ease. Water tore away from him as he broke the surface, coughing, choking. The sudden light stabbed his eyes, blinding after the dark.
He squeezed them shut.
When he opened them again, he froze.
A face filled his vision.
Massive brown eyes, round and unblinking, each as big as a cue ball. Dark green skin smeared with blood and river grime. Old scars carved deep lines across a broad face. Two huge yellowed tusks curved up from a wide mouth, glistening wetly.
An orc.
Richard screamed.
Not a brave scream. Not a heroic one.
A high, panicked, undignified scream.
"AAAAHHHH!!!"