A frail-bodied young man, with unkempt and grimy dark brown hair and bleak, lifeless round eyes of dull brown, pushed open the door to his apartment. A stale, noxious odour greeted him like an unwelcome host, and the moment he crossed the threshold, the sheer despair of the room consumed him.
The apartment was a dishevelled wasteland, filth and garbage strewn like fallen leaves across every inch of the floor, save for a single pocket of space—where a small, worn mattress lay crammed against the far corner of the room. It was the only sanctuary in an otherwise desecrated hovel.
The couch leaned crookedly against the left wall, completely derelict—its left arm snapped clean off, its inner foam haemorrhaging through ragged tears in the upholstery like the entrails of a wounded beast. The sponges, discoloured and stiff with age, hung out like the weary tongue of a dying dog.
Accompanying this miserable furniture ensemble were a rust-flecked mini-fridge and a wardrobe that, while plain and mundane, somehow appeared as the least offensive item in the room. The walls, once perhaps coated in a brighter shade, now shed their peeling paint in flaky surrender. The air hung thick with the mustiness of long-standing neglect.
The very existence of the room was an ode to squalor—a mockery of domestic living. So vile was its condition that even the lowest beggar in the most destitute corner of the slums would have scoffed at its wretchedness.
Milo, utterly unfazed, trudged through the carnage without so much as a flicker of acknowledgement. With sluggish, automated motions, he stumbled to his mattress. The dishevelled threads of his office attire clung to his emaciated frame, damp with sweat and fatigue.
"Ahh the sweet scent of mold and broken dreams. Home sweet home"
Yet, as he collapsed onto the flimsy bed, the exhausted mask etched into his pallid face gave way to a fleeting glimmer of peace.
'Too tired to care,' he thought, curling into himself with all the inertia of a lifeless puppet.
He didn't even bother to remove his clothes. The sweat-drenched shirt clung to his ribs, the cuffs of his slacks stained and frayed. And yet, within minutes, Milo was asleep—a man more dead than alive.
After a while
A cacophonous bang shattered the fragile quiet that had settled in the room.
Milo's eyes fluttered open, a sharp exhale escaping his cracked lips. "Who the hell in their right mind would be knocking at this hour?" he muttered with a grimace.
Lazily, as if each movement extracted a toll from his very soul, he peeled himself off the mattress. Dragging his feet through the room, he let out a tired sigh. The garbage crunched faintly beneath him. His hand gripped the doorknob, turning it with a dull click.
"Who is I—" His sentence died in his throat, replaced by the stunned widening of his eyes.
Standing on the other side of the doorway was a boy—no, a young man, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties.
His hair, a radiant auburn, shimmered under the pale light of the moon. His emerald eyes, vibrant and piercing, sparkled with an unnatural lustre. Healthy, radiant skin framed a face that might have been carved by the gods themselves. Confident, composed, and striking—he was a living monument to vitality, a cruel contrast to the decrepit shadow that was Milo.
A warmth ignited in Milo's chest, unexpected but undeniable.
"Ethan," he breathed, a genuine smile forming on his face for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
He embraced the younger man tightly, sweeping a half-filled trash bag out of the way with his foot. The moment lingered, Milo's hands resting firmly on Ethan's shoulders. His smile radiated an odd tenderness—strange, yes, but sincere.
Ethan was his brother. Not by blood, no. But in every other way that mattered.
"What are you waiting for? Come in."
Ethan stepped inside, though his advance was brief—he stopped just a few steps beyond the threshold. He observed the room, his gaze sweeping over the disarray. Milo closed the door behind him, almost skipping as he returned inside. The change in his demeanour was immediate—his gloom evaporated in the presence of his surrogate sibling.
"Yeah, Yeah, I know it could use some work. But hey at least the rats are polite"
Ethan looked at his brother with complete indifference. His cold stare caused a cold sweat to form on Milo's forehead. It was as if he was utterly disgusted by his brother's existence. To be honest, who wouldn't be?
"Yeah that makes it better"
Ethan's tone was unwavering and cold with what felt like a hint of malice.
'Ha..tough crowd'
Milo chuckled nervously. Shaking off the feeling Milo placed his hands above his head and stared at the ceiling
"You should have told me you were coming. I would've cleaned up."
"I was just passing by," Ethan replied coolly. The warmth of his appearance did not reach his voice. It was flat, vacant.
He surveyed the room, then cast his gaze upon Milo.
"Look at this place. And look at you. You're only in your late twenties... and yet—it's hard to believe you were once praised for your looks."
Milo grinned with an almost rocky look on his face
"It turns out the secret to rapid ageing is corporate slavery and weekly existential crises. Who knew?"
Once again, Milo's subpar joke fell on deaf ears. Milo grimaced; this was quite unusual. The old Ethan would normally laugh at his terrible jokes. Milo knew something was wrong but he didn't want to poke further.
Who knew what Ethan was hiding? Maybe if he poked too much, it would have made his situation worse or, worse yet, caused his brother to break. Milo didn't want to risk this.
Milo chuckled softly, the sound brittle.
"The past is the past."
Ethan scoffed. The sound was sharp and dismissive.
"Anyway, Twinky."
The nickname lingered like a ghost. It was a nickname given to Ethan in memory of his beloved childhood teddy bear.
"I told you to stop calling me that," Ethan mumbled, a bashful grin tugging at his lips.
But the moment passed. His, smile faltered.
Milo scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
"Would you like something to eat? I didn't buy any food today, but we could run across the street to the liquor store. They have snacks, drinks..."
"Sure. I could eat." Ethan agreed. This was the most sincere statement he made since they started talking
'Aha jackpot...maybe the grouch was hungry'
Milo darted to his wardrobe, rummaging through old socks and threadbare shirts in search of his hidden cash. Minutes passed. Eventually, with a quiet triumphant huff, he pulled out a modest bundle.
"Aha, the last of the kingdoms gold. Shall we journey through perilous streets of terror and feast on instant noodles of disappointment?"
He turned back toward Ethan, money in hand
A thunderous bang echoed through the apartment.
Milo didn't comprehend it at first. He looked at Ethan, confusion knitting his brows.
And then came the blood.
A scarlet river burst from the left side of his abdomen, spilling in grotesque spurts down his side. His expression morphed from confusion to pure, unfiltered shock.
'Huh? Blood?'
The thought was disjointed, absurd.
His knees buckled. He staggered forward a few steps, then collapsed, his body crashing to the floor with a wet thud.
The flickering fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, painting jagged shadows across the room. Milo lay sprawled on the cracked linoleum, his limbs trembling. The blood spread in an ever-widening halo beneath him, soaking into the crevices of the dirty floor.
Each breath he took was shallow and broken. Every heartbeat was a whisper, fading.
Ethan stood at the doorway, framed by the blinking neon glow of the liquor store across the street. The Glock in his hand hung steady, its muzzle still faintly smoking. Wisps of smoke curled upward, ephemeral and silent.
Milo's fingers fumbled at the pendant around his neck, his grip weak. It was an old locket, the clasp rusted and stiff. He managed to pry it open. Inside, the photo—aged but clear—showed two boys in worn sweaters, their arms wrapped around each other, grinning as if the world was theirs.
"We'll escape this dump, Milo. You'll see. We'll find a real place—one with huge windows and a fridge that doesn't scream like the ones in this dusty orphanage."
The memory hit him like a spear to the chest. He could see Ethan's younger self—the warmth in his laugh, the way he clung to his teddy bear, Twinky, before falling asleep. The nights he cried when Milo wasn't there.
Milo coughed. Blood bubbled up from his throat, thick and metallic.
"W...why...?" he croaked.
Ethan strode forward with purpose, each footstep deliberate and controlled. The tailored fit of his suit clung perfectly to his frame, exuding confidence. When he crouched beside Milo, he did so with the assured poise of a man entirely free from guilt.
He flicked open the locket with a single thumb, gazing at the image. His eyes narrowed, emotion flickering briefly—then vanishing.
"Look at you Milo all the luck in the world but now reduced to a disgusting pile of trash"
His voice full of malice and resentment
"Why did you even leave..." Ethan mumbled with a soft whisper
"You were always the lucky one," he whispered. "The nuns adored you. The gangs feared you. But luck..."
Snap. He shut the locket.
"Luck runs out."
The second shot rang out.
Milo's body jerked. Pain exploded within him—and then, silence.
Darkness swallowed everything.
---
Time unravelled.
Milo floated in a void beyond existence. Sight, sound, sensation—gone. He wasn't hot or cold. He didn't breathe. He didn't think. He simply was.
Memories rose and fell in endless waves: Ethan's laughter, the flash of the gun, the weight of poverty, the taste of desperation. Grief. Rage. Regret.
It crushed him.
He could have screamed if he had a mouth.
But then he saw light shining through the hopeless darkness in which he situated
'What, Light'
A pinprick at first, faint and distant. Ihen it pulsed.
Milo barely noticed it until it began to draw him in. He reached, desperate, clawing at the void. Something answered. The darkness began to unravel.
Pain returned. Sensation followed.
The rustle of fur. The twitch of a tail. The scent of damp soil.
'Fur?' Milo's thoughts flickered.
Breathing. Unfamiliar. Too fast, too sharp. Limbs—wrong. Limbs weren't supposed to bend like that. His body was light. Foreign.
Colors bled into the void.
And suddenly, Milo was there.
The world was blinding in its vibrancy. Towering trees loomed above him, leaves glowing with ethereal hues. Light poured through the canopy in golden shafts. Giant flowers shimmered in impossible blues and purples.
He looked down.
Golden fur. Limbs, not arms. Claws instead of nails. A long tail curled behind him.
"What..." His voice came out as a chitter.
'Damn I really lost it'
Panic struck him like lightning. He spun, frantic, heart pounding.
A growl split the silence.
Milo froze.
The brush ahead rustled. A shape emerged. Muscles coiled beneath dark abyssal fur. Eyes burned like embers.
A predator.
No just some tiger.
Something worse.
Instinct surged.
'Run'