Fate.
A strange, elusive force that governs the universe, weaving its threads in ways beyond comprehension.
Some believe fate is in their hands, that every step, every choice carves a new path forward—like an endless, shifting web of possibilities.
Every action, every word, even the smallest decisions shaping their ultimate destiny.
But for Martins, that was a load of bullshit.
To him, fate was nothing more than a cruel illusion—a lie designed to make people believe that effort, hard work, and choices actually mattered. But did they?
Of course not!
If it mattered, why was one child born into wealth, privilege, and opportunity while another was thrust into poverty, with nothing but struggle awaiting him?
Why did some people inherit intelligence, beauty, and talent while others were given nothing?
Did those born into suffering somehow deserve it? Did they choose their misfortune as sperm cells? As fetuses?
Or was some unseen force behind the curtain, pulling the strings, deciding who lived a golden life and who was doomed to misery?
Tell that to the student who burns the midnight oil studying, only to be outperformed by someone who barely tries but was born with genius-level intelligence. Tell that to the athlete who trains relentlessly, only to be crushed by a prodigy who barely breaks a sweat.
Yeah. Go ahead. See what they have to say about fate.
---
So why did Martins hate fate so much?
Because his life was proof that it was a lie.
Martin had learned one truth early in life—fate didn't give a damn about fairness. Some people were born into love, security, and warmth. Others, like him, were thrown straight into the fire.
His earliest memories weren't of bedtime stories or family dinners.
They were of cigarette smoke curling through a dimly lit room, the bitter stench of alcohol, and the distant sound of his parents screaming at each other.
His mother was a ghost—thin, jittery, lost in the high that she was always chasing. His father, a war veteran drowning in his own demons, spent his days either drinking himself into oblivion or staring blankly at the walls.
But in the middle of that chaos, there was one thing that made life bearable: his little brother, Danny.
They had no one else, so they became everything to each other. When the fridge was empty, they learned to steal. When their parents fought, they hid in the closet, whispering stories to distract each other from the breaking glass. When things got bad, they promised they'd run away together one day—somewhere far, somewhere safe.
But fate had other plans.
Their father kept guns in the house. Not locked up, not hidden—just lying around, as familiar as furniture. He never bothered teaching them proper gun safety. Just barked the occasional warning: Don't be stupid with it.
Martin and Danny played with them all the time—unloaded, of course. Pretending to be heroes, spies, outlaws. It was a game. It was always a game.
Until the day it wasn't.
The gun felt the same in Martin's hands as it always had—cool metal, reassuring weight. But this time, when he pulled the trigger, it didn't click.
It roared.
Danny staggered back, eyes wide with shock. For a second, Martin thought he was playing. But then he saw the red spreading across his brother's chest, too fast, too much. Danny opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but no words came. He just crumpled to the floor, a puddle of blood growing around him.
Martin's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.
He dropped the gun, hands trembling as he crawled to Danny's side.
"You're okay. You're gonna be okay." He pressed his hands against the wound, but the blood wouldn't stop. It just kept coming, soaking through his fingers, warm and sticky.
Danny's hand twitched. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Then—nothing.
The front door slammed open. Their father stood there, swaying slightly, reeking of whiskey. His bleary gaze flicked from Martin to the gun to Danny's lifeless body.
Silence. Then a sound Martin had never heard before—a deep, guttural howl, raw with grief and rage. His father lunged at him, fists swinging.
The first hit split his lip. The second sent him crashing to the floor. He barely had time to curl up before the kicks started, each one worse than the last.
"Monster," his father spat. "You killed him. You killed my son."
Martin wanted to scream that it was an accident, that he hadn't meant to—but the words wouldn't come. Because maybe his father was right. Maybe he was a monster.
The next blow landed.
Then another.
And another.
Until—sirens.
Neighbors must have heard the gunshot. Or the screaming.
The door burst open again, and suddenly the room was filled with shouting officers. Strong hands wrenched his father away. Someone was calling his name, but the world had already begun to fade.
Then—darkness.
---
Martin woke up in a hospital bed—his head throbbed, his ribs ached. Then the memories hit him all at once, suffocating. Danny. Blood. His father's screams.
The police had arrested his parents—his mother for drug possession, his father for assault.
That was when he learned the truth.
His father had loaded the gun earlier that day, intending to end his own life in a drunken haze. But he couldn't go through with it. So he left the gun there. Loaded.
And that was how everything happened.
But none of it mattered.
Danny was still dead.
And Martin was still alive.
How was that fair?
Even after knowing it was an accident, he never forgave himself.
How could he? His brother was dead because of him. A single pull of the trigger—an innocent, childish mistake—and his whole world had collapsed in an instant. The look in his father's eyes that day never left him. The pure, unfiltered hatred. It burned into his soul, carved itself into his very existence.
Monster.
That's what his father had called him. And maybe, just maybe, he was right.
But fate wasn't done with him. No, fate had something even crueler planned.
With his parents in jail and no known relatives—or at least none willing to take him in—Martin was thrown into the system. A cycle of suffering disguised as "care."
Foster homes were supposed to be safe. A second chance for kids like him.
But for Martin, they were a slow descent into hell.
The first home was bad. The second, worse. The third? He didn't even want to remember. Each one found new ways to remind him just how worthless he was. Some foster parents just wanted the government check. Others wanted a punching bag. A few just didn't care whether he lived or died.
By the time he turned eighteen, Martin had been through so many homes that he'd lost count. But somehow, against all odds, he made it through high school. Not because he was smart—he wasn't. He had to claw his way to passing grades, studying twice as hard as everyone else just to keep up.
While others breezed through tests, he stayed up through the night, poring over textbooks that made no sense. He barely made it, but he did.
And then came college.
Of course, there was no trust fund waiting for him. No rich uncle. No safety net. So, like every other poor kid who still believed in the lie of hard work paying off, he took out student loans. He piled them up, one after another, believing that if he just kept pushing forward, if he just endured a little more, he'd find a way out.
But fate still wasn't done laughing at him.
After graduation, reality hit him like a truck.
A degree meant nothing when no one wanted to hire him.
His grades? Worthless.
His diploma? Just a piece of paper.
Employers wanted experience, connections—things Martin didn't have. And so, after years of struggling, of sleepless nights and endless studying, he found himself in the same place he started.
Broke. Alone. And stuck.
He took a shitty job. A dead-end, soul-crushing job that barely paid enough to keep a roof over his head. And not even a decent roof. A run-down motel room with a flickering light, peeling wallpaper, and a bed that smelled like regret. This wasn't what he'd worked so hard for. This wasn't the future he was promised.
He sat on the edge of the creaky bed, staring at the stained carpet beneath his feet, laughing bitterly.
"So much for action determining fate."
That was the biggest joke of all, wasn't it? People said your choices shaped your destiny. But they never talked about how other people's choices shaped yours.
Like his father's choice to leave a loaded gun lying around.
Or the damn truck driver—who thought, Hey, why not get wasted before piloting a ten-ton death machine?
The impact was instant. One second, Martin was lost in his thoughts. The next, the whole world exploded around him. The walls crumbled, the roof caved in, and then—nothing.
Just silence.
For the first time in his miserable life, Martin felt… peace. A peace so deep, so intoxicating, that he never wanted to let it go. He never thought death could feel like this. But now that he was here, he realized something.
It was addicting.
And just like that, fate finally had the last laugh.
Or so he thought.