To say Robert was having a bad day was the misstatement of the century.

He sighed as he stared at the blank canvas on his computer screen. His web novel was popular and his brain was feverish with ideas, plot twists, secret reveals, easter eggs, genial relatable villains, and parallel plot lines to last him a couple of hundred chapters.

And yet, the canvas remained blank. All he had to do was to start typing and things would unravel by themselves, the story would practically write itself like the ghost of William Shakespeare himself was whispering in Robert's ear. All of this would happen regardless of either necromancy or the presence of the dead bard's ghost.

If he only could do that first step and write the first sentence. No, the first word.

He didn't.

A crushing sense of defeat, an irrational fear that threatened to rip his heart to ribbons stopped him. He knew his story had stellar reviews. He could see the comment queue on his author's dashboard, all full of love and support. He was thankful for his audience. He felt they deserved the next chapter.

And yet every time he tried to move his fingers closer to the keyboard, his mind crashed like a house of cards out in the open in a category six tropical cyclone.

He gulped, his saliva warm and gooey. His hands were clammy and cold and his whole body shook.

Why? He asked himself. Why can't I do the thing I love and provide it to my readers from the bottom of my heart?

The powerlessness, the feeling of impotence, and everything else only compounded to spike his anxiety to stratospheric heights.

Robert pressed the alt-tab and everything was fine. His adrenaline levels lowered, and his anxiety started to fade. He watched some Capybara GIFs. He laughed. He was normal again. So long he wasn't attempting to write, everything was fine.

Except it wasn't. Because Robert loved to write. He loved to share his stories and now he couldn't. The voices in his head were his characters, pleading to have their stories told. They were alive in there. All of them together in a cacophony of voices.

Without the creator, the creature didn't exist. Without Dr. Frankenstein, there was no intellectual monster. The book one, he meant. Most adaptations on the big screen went for the cheap thrills of the unknown.

Robert felt calm. Then he pressed the alt-tab back to his text editor and the cycle started one more time. How many times did he do that? Robert had no answer for that.

His story had drawn the attention of several editors. He was this close to sealing the deal, getting a nice check as an advance, become a published author. Why, then? Was he allergic to money?

No. Robert liked money like every other living human on this planet. Except some monk in a distant mountain, living off of cosmic energy. Robert was no monkey.

Robert was just a guy with some crushing anxiety issues that he couldn't understand. His fears were real, valid, and also seemed unsurmountable and invincible.

Then his phone rang and his day became even more awful.

At least he moved away from the computer. Unless he attempted to write, his anxiety monster would hide in the deep recesses of his mind. He answered, listened, and despaired.

*

*

Robert stood at the side of the road, wishing the pitter-patter of the rain would drown his sorrows. Yet he found no relief. He wasn't drenched because a helpful EMT in a raincoat was holding an umbrella above him. He thanked her for the seventh time.

Before him, the crushed metal hulk of a civilian vehicle. A car, like any other on the street except it belonged to Robert's parents. And Robert's parents, at least their mortal remains, were still inside.

A police sergeant approached. "I am sorry about your loss, Mr. Baker."

Robert nodded. He wished to say "thank you" but no words came. He just sobbed. When he found a shard of wits, he asked, "How?"

"A drunk driver," the sergeant pointed to another crashed car a hundred feet down the road. "Going over 140, judging by the distance his car moved after he sideswiped your parents' vehicle."

"Is he?"

"Gone, as well," the sergeant clapped his shoulder. "I'm sorry we couldn't arrest the bastard and bring him to trial."

Robert didn't wish for vengeance or justice. He wished to erase this day. He wished he was back home, their parents cooking pasta, the readers enjoying his latest chapter.

Life or perhaps fate had other designs, he rummaged.

"If you need someone to talk to, we have a psychologist on our team. You and her can go into that ambulance and you can vent as much as you want," the female officer offered.

"The ambulance is sound-proof and there's a sturdy rubber block for you to punch," the sergeant added. "But please, don't lock it all up inside yourself. I've seen what happens to people who don't vent."

"Thank you, but no, thank you," Robert mumbled. "I want to go home."

"Sure. We will contact you if we need anything. We already ran the car license and your parents' registration, all clear. Both vehicles were insured and we already alerted the company. This is a clear-cut case."

"I will ask a patrol cruiser to take you home, Mr. Baker," the female officer offered. "This way, please."

Robert let her lead him by the arm to a cruiser. He sat on the passenger seat, not the back. The female officer drove him home.

Robert crashed on his bed and finally, the tears came. He cried himself to sleep.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

*

*

Robert woke to a dry throat and a buzzing headache. He felt hungover but he hadn't drunk a single drop of alcohol ever since his phone rang on that fateful day a week ago. He didn't drink much water or eat anything either.

But now his phone was buzzing incessantly. He hadn't the will to answer. He could let it vibrate until it ran out of juice. Just like him. He went back to sleep.

*

*

Robert woke to a dry throat and a buzzing headache. It was the same day. Instead of his phone, the doorbell kept ringing incessantly. He picked up the phone and swiped to wake the screen but it was dead. The damn thing had buzzed until it went dead, after all.

"Coming," he droned as he slithered out of bed.

Checking the ring camera on the wall monitor, he saw three men in black suits. Great, now the men in black are coming after me. But on a second glance, he recognized the man in the middle as his father's lawyer. He pressed the comm button.

"What do you want?"

"Mr. Baker. We are here to discuss your parents' will reading. There's a problem."

*

*

At the Arch's Trading Association, someone was having a wonderful day. A trader was waiting for his performance review but he knew it would be all stellar. After all, he held the record highest profit margin on a single item in the entire world in his pocket. His only concern was whether his goals would be moved further up but it would only mean access to better opportunities. He was sure of it.

The man lit a cigarette and waited. Minutes later he was called into the meeting room. He tried to hide his shock when he saw the VP of acquisitions in the room along with his boss and his boss's boss.

"Have a seat," the VP gestured to the fourth chair in the room. He grinned as he delivered his next lines, "Let me start with what you want to hear. You are getting the maximum bonus for this year."

The trader froze for a moment. For them to open with that, there must be a but hidden somewhere. But he tried to hide his feelings. So he sat and beamed his business smile. "Thank you, sir."

The VP nodded. "Not only did you get an outstanding price with that farming prime, but you also turned over a hard-to-sell inventory item." He made finger guns, "two rabbits with one shot. That's the kind of hunter I want on my team."

Horns blared in the man's head. Incoming promotion, they clamored.

"We watched the video of your trade. What a riot!" The VP said.

"You played that kid like a fiddle." The boss' boss added.

"Our team strives to get the most profit out of every transaction," the boss said to his boss and the VP.

The VP laughed. Then the boss' boss laughed. The boss laughed. The trader laughed seconds after this boss.

"However," the VP started.

Here came the "but" the trader was waiting for. He nodded, signaling he was listening.

"We need to know it was not a fluke."

The trader failed to stop his double-take. What was he, a locksmith content creator? He remained silent.

"We have another Prime we want you to sell. It's very similar to that..."

"One percent lifesteal," the trader's boss added.

"Yes, the one percent lifesteal prime you traded for the farming one," the VP nodded at the trader's boss in acknowledgment. "Here, unveil it."

The boss' boss brought a box and opened it. A purple ball came out of it. "What is your power," he asked the Prime.

"A hundred parts ye may live, ninety-nine ye shall spend in a liminal space!" The Prime answered.

The trader raised an eyebrow. That Prime was utter garbage. Then his face went pale as he realized what they wanted.

They wanted him to repeat the feat of one percent lifesteal with that Prime.

"Tell me, Vestige. What are your affinities?" The trader asked straight at the Prime, not waiting for permission.

"Space! Life! And Void!"

He sighed in relief. At least the affinities were not bad. Not bad at all. It would be a bitch to harvest wisps of these affinities but it wasn't his problem. He could work with that. Yes, he was already imagining the sales pitch in his mind.

"So, what do you say?" The VP asked, with a predatory grin this time. "Are you the man for this task?"

The trader had no choice. It was do or die. If he said no, his career ascension was all but forfeited. He stood up. "I'll have that thing sold or traded within the month!" He boasted.

The VP nodded. The boss' boss nodded. And his boss nodded. Then the trader nodded.

Now all he needed was to find a sucker to dump the "1% IRL" Prime Vestige on.

*

*

"'I'm sorry, Robert. But the insurance company found some evidence, and now they are demanding a DNA test." The lawyer said.

Robert sighed. "Let's just get it done." He then stretched his arm for the Nurse to collect a blood sample, under the watchful eyes of the insurance company's lawyer.

*

*

Two days later, Robert's lawyer rang his doorbell again. He dragged himself out of bed and answered the door. The lawyer seemed concerned.

"Eww," the Lawyer retched. "Take a bath, Mr. Baker. This is legal advice."

"What happened?" Robert asked, ignoring the remark about his hygiene.

"The DNA results came," was his reply. "And... you are not your parent's biological son."

"WHAT?" Robert shouted. He had been born and raised in this very apartment. He knew the Bakers as his parents his whole life. Hell, he had pictures of the three of them together since he was a...

Toddler.

Now that he thought about it, Robert never saw any baby pictures.

"Fuck."

The lawyer nodded. "You have some options. The will was clear. They left everything to you."

Robert nodded along. Then the lawyer's phone buzzed.

"Take it," Robert said. He didn't care either way. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

"I'll answer it in the kitchen," the lawyer excused himself.

Robert heard shouting coming from the kitchen but tuned them out. He didn't care. Ten minutes later, the lawyer came back.

"Mr. Baker, I'm afraid things aren't so simple."

Robert rolled his eyes. Then he gestured for him to continue.

"The insurance company filed a lawsuit claiming your parents committed paternity and insurance fraud."

"He's suing my dead parents?"

"They aren't your biological parents, and no. They are suing your parents' estate."

"Fuck, man. What does this mean?"

The lawyer sighed. "They want your birth certificate voided. If they win, you will no longer be Robert Baker, and all your parent's assets will be frozen and seized."

"What options do I have? What should I do?" Robert pleaded, unsure if he even wanted to fight or keep on living.

The lawyer pondered for a minute, then answered. "Off the records? What I would do in your position?"

"Yeah."

"This is not legal advice. Hell, you won't even have any money to keep us in retainer anymore."

"Shoot, man."

"Grab what you can and run. Leave your identity behind. Start life anew. The insurance sharks are coming for you and they will want blood. Everything you see here will be theirs next Thursday."

"It's Wednesday!" Robert protested. "The legal system doesn't move this fast!"

"With the right incentives, it does," the Lawyer replied with defeat in his voice. "It was a pleasure working with you, Robert. Bye."

"Wa—"

Before Robert could finish, the lawyer had already vanished. A siren wailed in the distance. Startled, Robert jumped and decided to follow the lawyer's advice. He saw several videos about how vicious the legal system could be. The adrenaline made him forget his worries, his depression faded to the back burner. He was in flight or flight mode.

He ran into his parents' bedroom, a place he avoided since the accident. He opened his father's closet door and rummaged through it. They were coming, Robert could feel it in his soul. He had to get what he wanted and run away. Start a new life far, far away. More importantly, he wanted to save something for his parents. At least a memento from each.

What he found was not what he expected. Instead of clothes, money, a gold watch, or something with sentimental value, he found a gift-wrapped package. The card attached to the ribbon read, in his mother's calligraphy, "Happy Birthday, Bobby."

Robert vomited. His hands moved on their own as he pulled the ribbon open and ripped the paper to lift the box. Inside it, he found a golden face that seemed wrapped around a ball. A Prime Vestige.

A very, very, very expensive Prime Vestige. All of them were.

Dejected, Robert knelt on his own ejection. He touched the sphere. "Tell me, vestige. What is your power?"

The face answered,

"Inspire ye I shall,

"Pen and paper all

"Meditation waterfall".

A haiku. A poet-vestige. Robert wept. It was... perfect.

But it couldn't be his. Robert was sure a paper trail linked that vestige to his parents. if he took it and became an Arch-Human, the insurance company would force him into some kind of servitude for stealing the vestige from his parents.

His only choice was to take the Prime and sell it anonymously. Or trade it for another one.

Robert closed the box, shoved it under his arm, and ran out into the night.