He saw only darkness—not a single light pierced his vision, as if he were trapped in an endless void of nothingness. Then, as suddenly as it had come, he opened his eyes to find blood everywhere. His little sister was there, holding his hand, motionless and lifeless.

Wracked with fear, he pulled her tight in his arms as tears streamed down his cheeks. His vision grew blurry, and the wail of police sirens echoed in his ears. Exhausted beyond measure, he could barely utter a word—he felt utterly helpless.

Thankfully, ambulances arrived moments later for the accident victims. They lifted him and his sister onto gurneys. Doctors detected a faint pulse in him and rushed him into an ambulance bound for the hospital. His sister, having been pronounced deceased, was transported separately.

He was taken straight to an operating room, still conscious but with his sight slowly fading. Only sheer determination kept him from slipping away entirely in the face of such devastation.

Doctors administered anesthesia and pain relievers before beginning surgery on his severely wounded body. For six and a half hours, they worked tirelessly to save his life.

When he finally woke up, his vision was still blurry—but a profound sense of calm washed over him. He could make out lights and the steady beep of heartbeat monitors around the room, and he scanned every detail as best he could. A nurse approached to check on him and gasped in surprise at how quickly he had regained consciousness.

"Where... am I?" he asked.

The nurse stared at him—as if he were either a medical marvel or simply far too alert so soon—and dropped her patient notes in shock before hurrying off to find the other doctors.

"Guys! He's awake already!"

Upon hearing this, the doctors rushed to where the boy was. The nurse led them to his room, and when they arrived, they were stunned by what they saw—though he had suffered severe concussions and injuries from the car crash, he was remarkably alert and functional. While he still looked unwell, weighed down by trauma and the effects of the accident, he could move his limbs freely.

Some doctors called it a miracle from above; others speculated it might be some kind of superpower. Neither was correct, however—it was simply his natural fast regenerative abilities that had allowed his tendons and minor fractures to heal in just six hours.

"This is a blessing from the gods!"

"Yeah... i doubt so."

The doctors whispered among themselves, their curiosity piqued about the boy's body. They debated whether to run experiments on him—but knew it would mean crossing lines no medical professional should. Not only would it violate hospital rules, but none of the doctors or nurses could bring themselves to do it; they feared being consumed by guilt and facing legal consequences. Yet one doctor was driven by such intense curiosity that they decided to take action, and approached to ask...

"What is your name, patient?"

The doctor's voice held an unnatural curiosity, his eyes seeming false as greed clouded his mind. The boy replied warily.

"Why should I tell you that?"

He was no fool—his strict parents had always prepared him for situations like this. The doctor spoke in a calm tone, though his demeanor felt off.

"I was just... interested in your sudden recovery. In fact, you could earn over a thousand, if you let us run some tests on your body for a short while!"

He was determined to make the boy agree at once, using manipulative tactics and trying to assert an air of authority. His ego swelled, and his greed only grew stronger. But the boy refused firmly.

"No—I would never do such a thing, and I won't let strangers meddle with my body! I've already lost my sister, and now you're asking me this?"

The doctor's manipulation was fruitless—it had no effect at all, thanks to the boy's natural wariness and readiness to question any demand made of him. The doctor spoke coldly in response.

"I see. Well... farewell, patient."

He turned and walked away, and the boy watched his retreating figure closely, his suspicion deepening with every step the doctor took. Then a warm hand rested on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

The boy flinched—unaccustomed to being touched like this—and gently moved her hand away from his shoulder before replying hesitantly.

"I'm fine..."

The nurse smiled warmly at his brief reply.

"That's great to hear."

Just then, another doctor called out to her from across the ward. She quickly called back that she'd be there in a moment, then turned to the boy and gently tapped his forehead.

"Be good, alright?"

She waved as she walked away. The boy felt a flicker of interest in her, but no real emotion—his mind was clouded by the tragic loss of his sister. He knew he would be held responsible when he returned home, and he could already picture it—his father and mother would lash out at him, perhaps even beat him. Worst of all, they might cast him aside and say he was no longer their son.

"..."

"I'm so sorry..."

"I'm so... so... sorry!"

"I'm such a bad son... I've been so much worse than that!"

"Forgive me, sister... please forgive me... I couldn't drive properly... I..."

"I'm sorry."

He teared up, his tears soaking into the hospital blanket—until the nurse returned suddenly, holding tissues in her hands. She wiped his tears gently and softly, like a caring mother comforting her crying child.

"Don't worry... I'll always be here for you."

The nurse had a gentle glow about her—fair skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes that were both striking and calming. To him, she looked like a mother figure, and being near her felt soothing... he began to settle down as he leaned into her arms.

"That's right... you may be a teenager now, but you're still acting like a little one, huh... that's sweet."

After comforting him, he drifted off to sleep. She carefully laid him back in the hospital bed to rest, then patted his head gently with a warm smile.

"Rest well."

In his dream, he saw a faint light in the distance of the endless void that engulfed him. It felt cold instead of warm, fresh instead of stale. He could sense its presence, but not touch it—floating in the deep darkness with only that small beacon to guide him.

As he followed the light, fragments of memories surfaced—moments spent laughing and playing with his sister. They'd played games like tic-tac-toe, run through fields together, and spent hours at the playground—especially on the slides, which were their favorite. She was the only reason he'd felt he had a purpose in life, unlike his parents, who treated him as if he were worthless, casting him aside like a stray cat. If they found out about his sister's death, he feared he'd barely survive it—she had always been their favorite, while he, the eldest, had given just as much to the family as his mother had.

Their home was no place for games—it felt more like a rigid workplace than a safe, comforting space. For him, it was nothing short of hell: he'd be shouted at, forced to do endless chores, and slapped across the face again and again, with no reprieve. Still, he kept himself in check and composed, he couldn't let the torment drive him to lash out, because they were his family. As the eldest son, he was expected to do everything without complaint.

If his father gave an order, he obeyed at once. If his mother needed help, he rushed to assist her. If his sister came to him for guidance, he dropped everything to teach her. In that one household, he learned to be obedient, stay level-headed, and master control over his emotions.

Because of all that—he learned when to feel happy, sad, modest, or angry in any given situation. His parents weren't exactly perfect, but they were certainly the best at teaching him how to mature quickly and be cooperative.

Then another vision surfaced—the worst times he could imagine. In them, his parents showed up in the harshest ways possible, and he became a tragic victim of every circumstance, tossed around like a small, helpless puppy on the verge of death. Yet he endured all of it just so his little sister could graduate from elementary school.

And then came another vision—the car crash. That earlier tragedy he'd survived was enough to make him break down, tears streaming as he cried uncontrollably.

Eventually, he was given hope—a silent reminder that nothing is truly left behind in this cruel world. But how could he be seen as a shameless bastard when he'd done everything he thought was right, only to find it all mistaken as wrong? Truly, this world is cruel.

"Follow me."

A small, quiet voice called out to him. Before him stood what seemed a divine being—like a nephilim in comparison to his own broken state.

She was a woman: kind-hearted, elegant, and striking to behold. He followed her, all too aware of the tangled thoughts and emotions weighing on him. Suddenly, she paused, and he stumbled to a halt.

"Why did you stop?" he asked.

The nephilim turned slowly, her face hidden from view. For if even one glimpse of her countenance touched his eyes, it could either trap him in an eternity of unchanging memories—or worse, twist him into a psychopath whose mind bent memories to its own will. Her voice, when she spoke, was gentle as a whisper.

"I shall grant you two wishes—but in exchange, your memories will be wiped clean. You may take all the time you need to decide, even until the end of your days. I will wait for your choice."

He paused to consider, then replied.

"I'll think about it."

The nephilim smiled warmly. "Understandable. Call for me in your sleep whenever you are ready."

With that, she vanished into the shadows like smoke into an abyss.

He jolted awake in his hospital bed, his eyes darting to the calendar on the wall—two months had passed. How could so much time slip away in what felt like just one dream? Without hesitation, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, finding himself fully recovered. As he made his way out of the room, he realized something odd: he hadn't seen a single nurse who should have been tending to him. Still, he pushed the thought aside—there were far more pressing matters to attend to than worrying about one missing person he only just met in just minutes.

Even though it was the middle of the night, he walked over a kilometer to reach his house. What met his eyes was emptiness and stillness—no clatter of dishes, no steady tap of his father's keyboard against the silence. The quiet was so heavy it felt loud and grating, as if the place had been abandoned weeks ago, while he'd still been in the hospital.

"What happened here?..."

He wandered through the rooms. A full moon hung bright on the horizon, casting pale light through every window—all of which stood suspiciously wide open. Cabinets had been left ajar too, as if someone had ransacked the house. Fear trembled in his legs, but he kept moving, making his way upstairs where shadows seemed to hold more danger than the dark below. Thinking ahead, he'd slipped a kitchen knife into his pocket before climbing the stairs, ready in case of a sudden attack.

Staying alert and aware at every step, he made his way through the house, opening doors to each room until he finally stepped into his own. A wave of nostalgia washed over him suddenly—he found himself missing his family, even though they were bastards.

Without warning, a cloaked figure lunged at him with a sharp needle. Luckily, he reacted quickly, slamming the attacker to the floor and kicking them repeatedly, not stopping until he heard teeth crack and a jaw snap or dislocate.

Exhausted from the struggle, he felt his anger fade enough to calm down and reconsider his choice to return to this wretched house. Still, he pressed on. In the storage room where his clothes had once been kept, he found a hidden button: pressing it revealed an entrance to the basement, the sound of shifting bricks loud and grating to his ears.

He stepped inside without looking back, walking deeper into the darkness until he pulled out his fully charged phone and switched on the flashlight. The basement was dusty and grimy—forgotten for over a decade, ever since he was a small child.

"This place looks so abandoned..."

His voice echoed through the basement. In the first section stood the sewage pipes—his father had once fixed them whenever there was a blockage in the sinks or toilets. But since drainage problems had been rare, and the house long forgotten, the pipes hadn't been touched in years.

The second section was cluttered with broken chairs and tables, left to rot among patches of moss where they'd been set aside for recycling.

To the right of this area lay the third part of the basement: mannequin dolls, so terrifying and lifelike that his skin crawled. Instinctively, he pulled the kitchen knife from his pocket and stabbed one of them—and blood seeped out.

"...What the hell."

Horrified, he scrambled back up the stairs without hesitation, slamming the basement door shut and piling whatever he could find against it. His room was soon a chaotic mess, but he didn't stop to clean up—he stormed out of the house and didn't look back.

"That was... terrifying."

Standing across the road, he watched as a truck veered off and crashed into the roadside embankment. Pieces of debris flew through the air, nearly hitting him—but luckily, they fell just far enough away to leave him unharmed. Almost instantly, police sirens blared in the distance, and officers were on the scene within moments. He paid little mind to the commotion, though, he had more pressing matters to attend to, so he simply stepped aside and let others handle the incident.

◆　◇　◆　◇　◆　◇　◆ 　◇　◆　◇　◆

He ended up sleeping at the crossroads, shivering in the cold. With no blanket or cover for his legs, he still curled up and closed his eyes.

Then the dream came—the nephilim appeared once more, poised and ready. They reminded him he could ask any questions he wanted, or make two wishes to save for later. He chose to start with questions.

"Hey, being... When I die, will I come back here?"

The nephilim looked at him with sincerity.

"Yes—no matter how you die, you will return to this place. Do you have more questions?"

He nodded and asked another.

"Okay then... What if I want to use just one wish instead of both? Is that allowed?"

"...Yes, that is possible. Anything else?"

A curious look crossed his face as he asked his final question.

"One more thing—if I die and wish to go to a fantasy world... would that work?"

The nephilim offered a soft smirk.

"Yes."

He also gave a soft but wide smirk—he knew exactly what he planned to do with the wishes after he died.

"Alright then."

He woke up and looked at his phone; three days had passed. He wondered if entering the dream meant he'd skipped time in the real world. What would happen to his real body while he was dreaming? He wanted to ask these questions, but the moment had already passed, leaving him disappointed as his smirk faded. Eventually, he got up feeling fully energized and limber, ready to head out for another long walk. But before he could reach the city, a man stepped right in front of him, his voice striking a familiar chord in his memory.

"Yo! Haven't seen you since freshman year of high school!"

He spun around, his face shocked.

"Javier?"

Javier let out a chuckle, placing one hand on his hip and scratching the back of his head.

"Yeah, it's been way too long! When I failed out of high school, I could never compare myself to you. You were always the smartest of our bunch, and you still are—sharp as a tack!"

He paid no mind to the compliment whatsoever. Instead, he cut straight to asking a few questions.

"How are you still alive? You should've been dead a long time ago."

Javier's charming smile faded the moment the question left his lips, replaced by a wide, sinister grin. His voice took on a cunning edge as he spoke.

"Oh... well, about that—I wasn't technically fully dead! Because I—"

"Enough with the damned jokes! Since freshman year, everyone said you died in an accident!"

"..."

Javier pressed a hand to his face, laughing as he glanced up at the sky, then back at him.

"So you really want to uncover the secrets of someone like me, huh? Do you miss me that much? Want a pat on the head from your old classmate?"

"You are dead! I saw everything—the news showed photos of your body covered in blood, dozens of them to prove the tragedy! I have proof right here... let me—"

As he reached into his pockets, his heart sank—his phone was gone. He spun around sharply.

"Dammit!"

Javier chuckled with a psychopath's grin, seeming almost impressed. He held up the missing phone, then dropped it to the floor and stomped down hard, shattering the screen to pieces.

"You're too smart for this world."

He flinched as he watched his phone crumple like an empty chip bag under heavy boots.

"What do you want?"

"Well—to get straight to the point—I came here to end your life."

Without warning, Javier lunged forward, a dagger clutched in each hand. He barely dodged the attack and reached for his own knife—only to find it missing too. Javier seized the moment while he was distracted, but he managed to dash sideways at the last second, slamming hard into a wall.

"Hmph... I've never seen you fight this well. Back in high school, you were bullied nonstop by people you hated—people you'd never call friends. I wasn't one of them, of course... but I was pulling the strings the whole time. That's how I made you suffer."

With one final, swift strike, Javier slit his throat, cutting deep through his esophagus. Blood poured out as he tried desperately to stem the flow with his hands—but it was useless. He felt himself drowning in his own blood as Javier waved from a distance.

"See you again, Maximus."