After losing my brother, days passed in a blur. I searched for him, desperately clinging to the hope that I could find him again. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise, there was no trace of him.
He was gone.
And with him, something inside me shattered beyond repair.
This hell—this existence—had already pushed me beyond my limits. And one night, I reached my breaking point.
I tried to end it.
But she stopped me.
My demon.
Her grip was firm, unyielding, wrapping around my arm just as I was about to follow through. She wouldn't let me go.
No matter what happened, no matter how much I broke, she was the only thing I had left. The last remaining piece of me. Everything else had been consumed—emptied out into a void of corruption and hatred, devouring my soul from the inside.
That hatred fed on my magic, fueled by my own determination. But because I refused to let it escape, it turned against me instead. It attacked from within, ravaging my body, twisting me into something else.
My organs deteriorated. My hair darkened. My pupils followed, losing their former color, sinking into the abyss. My personality—my soul—grew cold, neutral, empty.
I wasn't someone anymore.
I was a shell. A character controlled by something unseen, hollow and distant from everything around me.
But through it all, she remained.
She was my absolute. The only force that tethered me to anything. She made me feel as if the universe was still with me, as if I still had a place in it. She gave me skills, abilities—power I never should have had. And, in my dreams, she took me away from my personal hell, pulling my soul beyond the confines of my reality.
Were they just dreams? Or was she truly transporting me, letting me be another version of myself in another world? I don't know.
I saw glimpses of the future. I witnessed things that shouldn't have been possible. And yet, when I changed things—when I forced shifts that weren't meant to happen—I surprised even myself.
At some point, my dreams stopped being just dreams. Some nights, I saw the future. Other nights, I traveled—to different versions of myself, watching what they experienced in real time.
Or maybe…
Maybe that was just my hope. A desperate delusion. A way to escape, even if only in my mind.
I still doubt everything. I don't trust my own thoughts. I don't know what's real.
But I am determined.
And I have to keep moving forward.
Because she won't let me stop.
No matter what happens, she still carries something pure—fragments of what I used to be. And because of that, I can pretend.
I can mimic emotions. I can fake feelings. I can manipulate without losing myself completely.
But in truth?
I don't feel anything.
My body, my soul—they are both consumed by hatred. It corrodes me, like acid burning through flesh, dissolving anything that was once me.
And yet, despite everything…
I am still me.
No matter what.