Muffled cries filled the air as a young boy was mercilessly beaten by his peers.
Nyx, only thirteen years old, curled into a ball as fists and feet rained down on him. His small and frail body offered no defense against the relentless assault. He tried to fight back—he always did—but strength alone had never been his ally. His arms flailed weakly, landing no blows, only inviting more pain.
His only crime? Existing.
The world seemed to hate him for simply breathing.
The beating only stopped when someone's voice called out from down the corridor. The attackers scattered like rats, snickering as they left him crumpled on the ground.
Bruised, bleeding, and barely able to move, Nyx slowly pushed himself up with shaking arms. His ribs ached with each breath. Blood dripped from his nose, and one eye was already swelling shut.
But he got up. He always did.
He began the long walk home, his head bowed low. Not out of shame, but because he'd been trained to—by fists, by ridicule, by silence. Looking down was safer. Looking up invited attention, and attention meant pain.
He stood at about 5'3", with long, pitch-black hair that clung to his face in tangled strands. His clothes were torn and caked with dried mud. His skin was pale, stretched thin over a frame so fragile that he looked like he might break at any moment.
As he limped through the streets, his mind wandered. Maybe he could just lie down and stay there—on the sidewalk, in the gutter, wherever the world would leave him. But reality never gave him that choice. Reality dragged him forward, day by day, wound by wound.
By the time he reached the rusted gate of his house, darkness had fallen. The porch light was off. It always was.
He stepped inside quietly, trying not to make a sound. Maybe, just maybe, he could make it to his room without—
A shadow loomed from the living room.
"You're dripping blood on the damn floor again," his father snarled. "Clean it up!"
The slap came before Nyx could even brace for it. The world spun sideways as he hit the ground with a dull thud.
His father's breath reeked of alcohol—like it always did.
A bitter man with sunken eyes and stained teeth, his father had long since lost whatever humanity he might have once had. Once a factory worker, fired for showing up drunk and starting fights, he now spent every day sinking deeper into the bottle. All that remained of the man was anger—rage at the world, at his wife, and most of all, at the boy who reminded him that life had once held potential.
To him, Nyx was nothing more than a stain. A mistake. Something to be erased.
"Go on," he growled. "Clean that filth your worthless body produces"
Nyx didn't respond. He didn't have the strength.
From the couch, his mother glanced over. Her expression didn't change. She was like a porcelain doll—flawless on the outside, but hollow inside. Her silence was louder than his father's screams.
She sat with her legs crossed, scrolling through her phone, a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her hair was neat, her nails polished, her lips glossed with care—but none of it was for Nyx.
To her, he was a curse. A burden she never wanted. An inconvenience she chose to ignore.
She wasn't physically violent like his father, but her indifference cut just as deep.
She never stopped the beatings. Never bandaged a wound. Never said his name.
Nyx had learned not to expect kindness. Not at home, not at school, not anywhere. He lived in a world that had decided—without hesitation—that he didn't belong.
They only bought food for themselves. Dinners were eaten in front of the television while he sat on the kitchen floor, waiting to see if they would leave him a crust of bread or a scrap of meat. On most days, he had nothing but school cafeteria slop to survive on—assuming his tormentors didn't steal even that.
He had learned to live with his gaze fixed on the ground.
He did it so often that he had forgotten what his parents' faces truly looked like.
Time blurred in his memory. Days bled into nights, filled with pain and silence. His body bore the scars of neglect, and his heart—though still beating—felt long dead.
He felt alone. Unwanted. Furious at the very fact that he was alive.
The beatings and insults became routine. They were no longer surprises. They were just… life. Something to endure. Something to survive.
But even he had a breaking point.
And one night, after yet another dinner of nothing, after yet another bruise that bloomed across his chest, Nyx decided he was done.
Without a word, he packed what little he had—a torn backpack, a spare shirt, an old pair of shoes—and slipped out into the night.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
No one asked where he went.
He wandered the streets for days. Cold, hungry, shivering under neon lights and flickering lamps. He begged for food outside restaurants, was shoved aside, ignored, or cursed at by passing strangers. He picked through trash bins, eating what even rats wouldn't touch.
To the world, he was less than human. He was filth. A nuisance. Just another unwanted child.
Then came the storm.
It descended without warning—rain crashing like bullets, wind howling through the alleys like a pack of starving wolves. The night was colder than any before, freezing the air in his lungs and making every breath feel like ice.
He ran, searching for shelter—a box, a doorway, anything.
But there was no place for him.
He collapsed beneath a rusted metal overhang, water pouring down just inches away. His clothes clung to him like ice. His fingers were numb. His lips blue.
He curled into himself, hugging his knees to his chest, trying to hold in the last bit of warmth he had left.
And in that final moment—before the cold stole his last breath—he cursed this world.
He cursed the people in it.
He cursed his parents.
He cursed the fact that he was born.
He cursed the gods, fate, and every breath he had ever taken.
"I hope I never wake up," he whispered through chattering teeth. "Let it all end."
And then…
Darkness.
But fate was not done with him.
Because when he opened his eyes again—
He was no longer a starving, broken boy.
He was an infant.
In a world he did not recognize.