The weight of despair pressed down on Cyrus like an invisible, suffocating blanket. He stared blankly at the flickering screen before him, his mind a swirling vortex of dark thoughts. "What can I do now?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible in the silence of his room. "Life is playing a fucking game with me. I might as well stay here and simply forget about everything."

For a brief moment, a flicker of responsibility tried to pierce through the fog of his depression. "Hey, but what about all the rest?" he questioned halfheartedly. Almost immediately, the fleeting sense of duty was crushed under the weight of his apathy. "Ah, fuck it," he growled, "it can wait."

With that final declaration of surrender, Cyrus entered a downward spiral of nothingness. His days became an endless blur, spent entirely in front of his gaming console. Hour after hour, he mindlessly beat a bunch of unknown opponents online, seeking some semblance of accomplishment in the virtual world to compensate for his real-life failures.

A suffocating routine settled in, as oppressive and unyielding as a prison sentence. When he wasn't sleeping fitfully, plagued by nightmares of his past mistakes, he was awake and cursing at himself. The self-loathing became a constant companion, whispering cruel truths in his ear with every breath. But rather than face these demons, Cyrus retreated further into his digital escape, spending his days playing with a fervor that bordered on obsession.

Time ticked by slowly but certainly. Cyrus might have decided to stop living his life, but the world didn't wait for him. It kept spinning, and at an even faster rate. Deeply entrenched in his game, oblivious to the passage of hours and days, he occasionally glanced at his phone. Notifications of missed calls from his parents flashed on the screen, but he was simply not in the mood to talk. The thought of facing their disappointment, their concern, or worse, their pity, was more than he could bear.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into a shapeless mass of time that Cyrus no longer bothered to measure. His appearance deteriorated, stubble growing into an unkempt beard, his clothes wrinkled and stained from constant wear. The outside world became a distant memory, as unreal as the virtual landscapes he now inhabited.

It was during one of these marathon gaming sessions that an annoying sound began to disrobe his ears. Cyrus frowned, his concentration broken. The persistent ringing pulled him reluctantly from the comforting embrace of his virtual world. With a groan of frustration, he paused the game and dragged himself to the kitchen, his muscles protesting after hours of inactivity.

Gripping the ringing object, he stared at the caller ID for a moment, debating whether to answer. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he picked up the call.

"Where have you been?" The voice on the other end was familiar, tinged with exasperation. "Cyrus, I have tried to join you several times now. I even tried going jogging but couldn't meet you once."

Cyrus leaned against the kitchen counter, his free hand massaging his temple. The sudden intrusion of reality made his head throb. "I am in detox here," he replied, his voice dry and hoarse like a drunkard after a wild night. "What's the deal interrupting me this time? I was right in the middle of a boss fight."

"This isn't a game, man. This is real life, and you've got even more serious issues."

A bitter laugh escaped Cyrus's lips. "What's worse than losing it all?" he replied, feeling bored. Life simply had no meaning anymore. A suffocating feeling of insignificance weighing down on his chest. The world simply didn't care about how he felt, so why should he care about the world?

Dan's voice softened slightly, understanding the depth of his friend's despair. "I couldn't do anything; you have to come collect your stuff today. I can't keep it here anymore."

Cyrus's mind struggled to process this new information. "Ah, the old stuff," he muttered, more to himself than to Dan. "Guess I'll drag myself over there." His grip on the phone loosened, and it began to slide from his hand.

Before he could disconnect, Dan's urgent voice cut through. "Be fast. There's something I can't tell you on the phone."

The call ended, leaving Cyrus standing in the silent kitchen. With a deep sigh, he shuffled to the bathroom.

Leaning over the sink, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back at him was a stranger – hollow-eyed, pale, with dark circles etched beneath bloodshot eyes. Lazily, he leaned forward, slamming water on his face. This invigorating substance, the very reason for life on this planet, trickled down his skin. It washed away his dizziness but, unfortunately for him, not his reality.

His eyes stayed glued on the water swirling down the drain. In a moment of whimsical desperation, he addressed the liquid. "Shouldn't you be able to wipe everything away like a reset button or something?" The question hung in the air.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck him. "Look at what you've become, Cyrus," he muttered to his reflection. "Talking to water? Either I have lost my sanity, or this is just another day in the life of a failure."

He laughed out bitterly. With a shake of his head, he kicked on his shoes, dressed in whatever clothes were nearest, and prepared to escape the little world of his house for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

The outside world assaulted his senses as he stepped out of his apartment building. The sunlight seemed too bright, the sounds of the city too loud. Cyrus squinted and hunched his shoulders, feeling exposed and vulnerable as he made his way to meet Dan.

Dan waited near the transport capsule, his eyes consistently darting back and forth. His foot tapped rapidly up and down, betraying his nervousness. He glanced at his watch repeatedly, holding a box of objects in his hands – a collection of Cyrus's old belongings.

As Cyrus approached, a wry smile twisted his lips. "Probably the only dude worth knowing in this damn place," he thought to himself. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "No! With Lork too." The memory of his other friend brought a momentary warmth to his chest. "He'd probably delete me if he heard I called him second best," Cyrus mused

"Thanks, buddy," Cyrus said as he reached Dan, his voice still rough from disuse. "You've avoided me the pain and agony of facing their hideous avatars." He laughed, the sound hollow and forced, as he picked up his box of belongings. Everything seemed okay on the surface, but there was an undercurrent of tension that Cyrus couldn't quite shake.

Dan tapped him on the shoulder, his expression serious. "You must stay strong," he said, his tone grave.

Cyrus, still not fully engaged with reality, brushed off the warning. "Come on, spill the tea already," he replied, not hinting at the seriousness of Dan's tone. "I won't get burned." He was convinced that nothing could shake him anymore. After all, could he go any lower?

Dan took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Cyrus's face. "There was an incident in the mines," he began slowly. "The karmic monster stormed, and many people were lost."

The words hit Cyrus like a physical blow. He froze, not from the deep stare of Dan but from a frightening realization that was slowly dawning on him. It would have been nothing if it was a normal attack – such incidents happened quite often. But the Bureau always had people stationed there for such cases. What really scared him was the memory of the missed call from his parents. His heart accelerated, pounding against his ribcage.

"It can't be," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Dan, seeing the color drain from his friend's face, reached out. "Calm down," he said, trying to steady Cyrus.

But Cyrus was beyond hearing. He simply shoved Dan away, the box of belongings forgotten as it clattered to the ground. Without a word, he ran, rushing back home with every ounce of strength he could muster. With every step forward, he got closer to what he dreaded the most. It was like slowly walking into a monster's jaws, hoping against hope not to be devoured.

The journey back to his apartment passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Cyrus found himself standing before his door, out of breath and trembling. But as he reached for the handle, he realized something was wrong. He couldn't open the door. "What the hell is going on here?" he growled, smashing his fist against the unyielding surface. But it didn't budge. The door stood tall, like an unbreakable spell.

As panic began to set in, Cyrus tilted his head to the side. Only then did he notice a pile of his belongings standing outside the apartment. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Before he could process this new development, a sharp voice slashed through the air from behind him. "I couldn't do anything. Leave."

Cyrus whirled around to face the source of the voice. "Mr. Han, please," he pleaded, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "My parents, they called me. There was an incident. I want to know if they're fine." He stumbled forward, almost tripping in his haste to reach the building manager.

Mr. Han's face was a mask of resignation. "I'm sorry, Cyrus. It's not in my control anymore." Without another word, the figure turned and vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Cyrus stood rooted to the spot, his mind reeling. Tears welled up in his eyes, trickling down his face. In a sudden burst of frustration , he smashed his fist into the wall. A frightening ripple cascaded through the structure in a mesmerizing display of energy dispersion.

His free hand almost instantly darted to his bleeding knuckles, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. The wall was intact, but his fingers were broken – a testament to both his wild strength and the sturdiness of the buildings in Arkania. In a world full of karmic monsters, it was a given that they had the most secure infrastructure.

As Cyrus nursed his injured hand, a familiar white object suddenly flashed in the void before him. His heart leapt into his throat as he recognized the beginning of a holographic call. The image began reconstructing itself in the air, pixel by pixel. Leaning against the wall in the corridor, Cyrus hastily pushed away his scattered belongings, clearing space before the image became fully visible.

The familiar faces of his parents materialized before him, and Cyrus felt a wave of relief wash over him. They were alive. They were okay.

"What's wrong, son? Why are you seated in the corridors?" his father asked almost instantly, concern evident in his voice.

Cyrus struggled to keep his voice steady, not wanting to worry them further. "Everything is perfect right now," he lied, forcing a smile. "I was just scared when I heard about the incident in the mine."

His father's expression softened, a mixture of love and sadness in his eyes. "You're grown up now, son. You are bound to face certain difficulties. Things never last forever; you should stay strong, my son." His father's voice suddenly fell, heavy with an emotion Cyrus couldn't quite identify.

Cyrus felt his heart break. The facade of normalcy he had tried to maintain crumbled, and he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The holographic image of his parents flickered before him, a bitter reminder of the distance between them and the harsh realities of the world they lived in.