Snowflakes drifted across the night sky, heralding biting cold, and many a star littered the inky heavens, twinkling in their immortal glory. Yet in the metropolitan areas of large cities, not a single soul cared to look up, choosing to stare at their phones or chat with their friends. It was a Friday after all, the beginning of a weekend. Young people would sneak into bars while others would gorge themselves on street food or some would just choose to enjoy the feeling of having a couple of holidays ahead of them.

Yet on an abandoned bench in a quiet and dilapidated street, lit only by a single light, sat a man holding a bottle of scotch that looked quite expensive. Unlike the relatively clean bottle, his appearance was what many would describe as unsightly. He sported an unkempt beard and his dirty, uncut hair flowed down to his shoulders. A patched and torn coat covered his shoulders and kept out the cold as best it could, yet the man's shivering figure said otherwise. He didn't seem to have bathed in a long time, for his face and overgrown nails were caked with dirt, but his dull, dreary eyes that peaked out of the curtain of hair that hung down his forehead betrayed the ambition that once drove him.

He was Athos, 27 years of age, a former Mixed Martial Arts World Champion, and currently a homeless nobody. He was young. Young enough to turn his life around by starting a new career but he didn't seem to be doing that. He rubbed the bottle of scotch in his hands, staring at it with both longing and disappointment. He wasn't disappointed with the drink, no. He was disappointed with himself. Disappointed that he had let himself fall this far, all because he couldn't let go of his addiction and his evergrowing disdain for the world. What started as a way to escape from reality had become something much, much worse.

He was always somewhat of an odd kid and had quite an eventful childhood. At the age of 7, his mother died early and his father passed away while serving in the army. Due to his young age, he didn't particularly understand why the adults around him gave him looks of sympathy, pity, or sometimes even schadenfreude. It was only when he grew older, that he truly felt the void that his parent's absence had left him with.

He grew up with his aunt and uncle, and while they were neither abusive nor controlling, they weren't the best either. Perhaps they just didn't like having to feed him and take care of his living expenses, but that lead to him being neglected. He grew up spiteful, developing somewhat of an inferiority complex and the need to prove himself.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

He prided himself on his eidetic memory and physical fitness, but while that raised a few eyebrows, it never went further than that. Moreover, it earned him no points with his aunt and uncle for having a good memory didn't equate to him churning out scientific breakthrough's as though they were nothing. He was in high school for only three years for although he excelled in his studies, he found fighting and reading books far more fulfilling. Mind you, It wasn't that he liked to study, but that he didn't like to lose.

Fighting, on the other hand, was what truly sparked the flames of ambition within him. There was just something about it that made his blood boil. The feeling of being in the ring was exhilarating and the money he got was an added bonus. He hated feeling weak, He hated feeling powerless, and most of all, he hated losing. But one thing that he did not pay attention to was his mental health. A lifetime of neglect and the absence of his parents didn't mould him into the most mentally sane person. He had flown into a rage after being easily knocked down in one of his early spars, trying to pummel his opponent even after the referee had stopped the match. He sought therapy after that incident, and although he did get better, he knew that some of his mental issues would hound him for a very long time. He very soon jumped back into fighting, climbing his way to the top, and getting crowned the World Champion at the age of 25. He felt elated, the void in his heart receding a little, but in his very next fight, he suffered a knee injury that crippled his career. It was poetic, the rising star becoming a meteor that came crashing back down.

He fell into deep depression, ignoring the pleas of the people closest to him, turning to alcohol to drown his pain. He refused to believe he couldn't fight anymore but his aching knee and constant limp were a perpetual reminder. A reminder of his humanity. A reminder of how weak he truly was. No matter how many times the people around you toot your horn, calling you invincible, all it took was an injury to tell you otherwise.

The next two years were something he barely remembered for he was rarely sober. He threw caution to the wind, spending money as though it were water. It ran out rather quickly, eventually landing him where he was now, on a dirty bench hugging a bottle and a musty wooden stick. With a melancholic sigh of a man broken, he uncorked the bottle and took in the strong scent of alcohol that made him feel disgusted and on cloud nine at the same time. As he drank away, he gazed at the starry sky that gazed down back at him in all its glory. Why was he doomed to such a mundane life? Why did he have to be so weak? His vision started to blur and he sighed once again. He was such a coward, wasn't he? Oh, how he wished it was different.

As the stars twinkled in their heavenly homes, he let himself fall into a drunken slumber, oblivious to the fact that his wish, may have just come true.