In the outskirts, in a forgotten alley where light dared not linger, a boy slept atop a rooftop layered with tar and grit. His hoodie was threadbare. His breath shallow. The fractured dreams of hunted prey clung to him.
Some time later, the sharp clink of glass shattered the stillness.
He jerked awake.
The crunch of boots over broken shards followed, urgent and brutal. Steel-toed, methodical… mercenary. A whole squad of them. The boy's breath caught in his throat. Panic prickled his spine.
Thud-thud-thud—boots thundered up the stairwell.
His heart raced. He knew that sound. He'd heard it in nightmares, behind every locked door he'd ever cowered behind. The Foundation. Their dogs were here.
They were always coming.
He bolted upright, sweat beading cold on his forehead. Glass, his makeshift alarm, had bought him a few seconds, but not enough.
He scrambled, barefoot and breathless, across the rooftop, his thoughts a mess.
Think. Think fast. They're here.
Below, a battering ram cracked the door with a splintering BOOM.
C'mon, think!
[SYSTEM ALERT] Hostile presence detected.
The words flared across his vision, molten yellow, ice-cold.
The boy—Kael—threw himself into motion. He shoved a rusted platform down the stairwell, jamming it tight and buying precious seconds.
They'll breach in anyway.
But he had to try. Because there was no Plan B.
He was just a runaway. A half-dead whisper of a human with a mask stitched to his face and scars that never stopped itching. The Foundation didn't miss. If they had him now, he was gone.
Kael stumbled to the fire escape, slipping down the rails like falling thunder. Cold metal tore at his palms, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
Below, he saw the soldiers burst into the small space with precision and smoke.
"I thought I saw movement," one muttered.
"Shadows. Or bait. Lock down the sector. Get a drone up," snapped the team leader.
Kael crouched behind a dumpster two blocks away, clutching his ribs as he gasped for breath.
Lock down the sector…
Hold up...!
Because of me? Am I the situation?
The bitter thought clung to him. Someone must've seen him. Some nosy civilian. A camera. A whisper. A moment of carelessness.
He cursed under his breath and kept moving.
This city wasn't safe. Not anymore.
Later that night, the storm came. The kind that soaked you through before the first lightning strike, sweeping away at tracks, blood, and sins alike. Kael found shelter in the skeleton of a burned-out building, its brick walls smeared with graffiti like forgotten screams.
He scraped together kindling: plastic, scraps of wood, a twisted chair leg. His hands shook as he coaxed a tiny flame to life.
He huddled close.
The fire's warmth clawed its way into his bones, not comforting to say the least. He had to tolerate it for there was nothing he could do.
Rain drummed against the broken windows. The air reeked of mold and gasoline.
Kael sat in the flickering dark, his hood pulled tight, a surgical mask clinging to his jaw. With cautious fingers, he touched the edge of it then hesitated.
He pulled it down, just a little.
Underneath, was raw flesh. Torn skin. A cheek carved open to the bone.
He stared at the ruin with dead eyes.
Not my fault. Non of this... is my fault. I did not choose this.
And yet.
He didn't even flinch when the nosebleed started; thick, hot trails running down over his lips, staining his shirt and pooling on the concrete like some grotesque offering. It didn't surprise him. It was like a tap had opened inside his skull. He didn't bother to wipe it. What was the point?
This was the cost of defiance. The System didn't need to strike with thunder or flame. It simply unraveled you, piece by piece.
His lips parted as he muttered, dazed, "Guess I broke another rule…"
He didn't even remember which. Maybe it was refusing the last mission. Maybe it was just thinking about quitting. Maybe... it didn't matter.
I was never meant to live long anyway.
That thought echoed, not with bitterness, but with the dull finality of someone who'd repeated it too many times to cry over it.
Every time I trust, they die. Every time I try, I lose. Why bother anymore?
He blinked slowly, his vision blurring at the edges.
Unlucky. Always unlucky.
From the day I was born, it was like the world had whispered: not him. Everyone else got chances. Gifts. Powers. I got scraps. And even those were cursed.
He laughed, dry and empty.
Every friend I've had? Dead. Every team I joined? Wiped out. Every single person I cared about? Buried.
I've lived this life before, so what's the point?
Their faces floated behind his eyes. Faces he'd sworn he'd protect. Names he couldn't say out loud anymore because they hurt too much to speak.
He pressed a palm to his temple, like he could hold the memories in place without them splitting him open. "I should've died with them."
But I hadn't.
TheSystem, oh the system, had made sure of that.
And why? Just to make me watch?
He wasn't special. Wasn't chosen. Wasn't strong. The System picked him like a dog picked a toy. Not because it was useful, but because it squealed the loudest when broken.
I've never passed a mission alone. I never got the cool perks. No fireballs. No lightning. Just bleeding. Running. Watching others do the hard part until they died and I lived.
And still, it wouldn't let him die.
He whispered, his voice hoarse, "Go on then. Kill me already. I dare you. Come on, get on with it, you p*ssy."
The System didn't answer. Not yet.
The cruel, calculating machine that turned every mission into a test and every kill into currency. Only the strongest reached 100 Points. And only then could they choose:
Freedom. Power. Or resurrection.
A second chance. A better weapon. Or the return of someone lost.
A droning buzz clawed at his thoughts. He wanted silence. He wanted oblivion. But all he got was the sound of wind slithering through shattered windows and a distant siren from a part of the city that still pretended to be alive.
He felt something warm spill from the corner of his eye. Not a tear, blood. Again. His body was giving up faster than his mind.
I won't play your game. I won't kill for you. I won't fight.
They said endure. Keep pushing. And for what? To kill and climb and crawl through blood for a 'chance' at being free?
A bitter laugh tore from his throat. "Free… There's no such thing."
It's all a trick. A sick game. And I'm the idiot who kept rolling the dice thinking maybe, this time, this time for sure, I wouldn't lose everything.
He sagged lower, his breath hitching.
Just let me die. . .
Then—
A chime.
Soundless. But absolute.
Like an invisible bell tolling in his head.
[ SYSTEM ACTIVATED ]
His head jerked up. A sharp spike of static shot through his skull as glowing yellow letters flickered into existence before his eyes. It was unmistakably not of this world.
He blinked once. Twice.
Still there.
Like ghosts that refused to leave, the letters hovered, suspended in his vision. Only this time, they weren't hallucinations. They hadn't faded like the faces of everyone he'd ever failed to save.
His breath hitched. The air seemed to warp around him, humming low in his ears. He raised a cracked, bleeding finger, half-expecting the illusion to shatter.
The menu obeyed.
A crisp chime echoed in his head.
> [ MENU ]
– Profile
– Inventory
– Shop
– Quests
– Skills
He stared at the options, his heart pounding. The world had tilted on its axis. And yet, some part of him cold, buried deep, understood.
With a trembling hand, he tapped Profile.
The screen shifted instantly:
> [ PROFILE ]
Name: Kael Morren
Race: Human (???)
Tier: 1 (Lowest)
Level: 1
HP: 100/ 100
MP: 9 / 40
Strength: 6
Agility: 4
Endurance: 5
Willpower: 2
Perks:
– [Reaper's Bloom] 🌸
He squinted at the perk, curiosity burning through the fog of pain. A pulse of intent, and the name expanded with a faint glow:
> [Reaper's Bloom] — Passive.
Upon receiving a fatal blow, you will revive once with 15% of your total HP.
(Cooldown: 30 days)
His lips parted slightly.
"...What the hell is this?" he whispered to no one.
No answer. Just the gentle pulse of golden letters, patiently waiting.
That was it.
His grand "gift."
His "miracle."
His ticket back from the dead… once.
A weak, bitter noise crawled up his throat. Something between a chuckle and a gag. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"
No spells. No strength. No tools. No allies. Just a resurrection timer. Like the System already expected him to fail.
He scrolled. Hoping. Praying for something else. Anything else.
Nothing.
0 Points. Bottom of the barrel. Unranked. Disposable.
He clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms, the blood hissing where it touched the cold air.
Well… you've always been the bottom. Don't act surprised now.
The screen vanished on its own. His body slumped. The fire beside him, more ember than flame now, sputtered in the wet wind.
He leaned toward it, desperate for heat, but even that betrayed him. His reflection flickered in the pooling water near his feet: one eye swollen shut, one cheek ripped open, leaving bone exposed like a grinning skull.
"I look like the end of some bad joke," he mumbled.
I'm not a survivor. I'm just the guy who's left after all the survivors die.
His fingers brushed the exposed bone. It didn't hurt anymore.
Maybe I'm already dead, and this is hell. My hell. My very own special version.
It sure does feel like it with every breathe I take.
The System wanted him to fight. To go out tomorrow; break bones, crush spirits. Kill. Complete the next mission. Earn points. Climb the ranks. Survive.
But he couldn't.
He wouldn't.
He refused.
And that's okay with me...
Because every time I play the game… someone else loses.
If survival meant killing, total death and despair, turning into the thing that took everyone from him… then he didn't want it.
And still—
The fire crackled.
The blood dripped.
The System waited.