It was just a letter.

* 

𝚃𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗, 

𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍. 

𝙰𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜.  𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.  

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚍𝚘, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝙸'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜.  𝙶𝚘𝚜𝚑... 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌. 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕.  

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚗 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.  

𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢'𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗.  

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚘𝚛 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚝.  

𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞.  

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜. 

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸 𝚊𝚖, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝟹 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕. 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛. 

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝟻'𝟺, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙼𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎. 

𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚡𝚢𝚐𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎. 

𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝟸 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚜. 

𝙼𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎.  

𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 

𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎.  𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.  

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛. 

𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕. 

𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎. 𝙽𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑. 

𝙸'𝚖 𝟷𝟿 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟸 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚖.

𝙸'𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚢.  

𝙽𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑, 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢, 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚕𝚘𝚕. 

𝙰𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝟹𝟶 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 

... 

𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢.  𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎-𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜. 

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎.  

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.  𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝.  𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕. 

𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 

𝙸'𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍. 

*

===

The man put his pen down, right beside where the nib of his pen was touching with the full-stop mark on the paper.

The room was dim. The only objects visible were the top side of the table where a note was being reviewed and the arms of the man. The rest was swallowed by shadow. 

No electricity and no water. The last stick of candle was being burnt and the last sip of water remained in the plastic bottle.

He had run out of savings, and the last bit of money in his pocket could barely afford the supplies for another day.

He stood up, took the candle from the table, and brought it with him to the broken couch a few feet behind.

The candle's flickering light revealed more of the room. 

In front of the couch was a set of cutters, a cup of Percocet pills.

Hanging from the ceiling was a 4 feet long Manila rope tied into a noose, just hanging there and swaying by the wind from the broken window.

There was a box painted in matte black that was almost the size of his palms connected.

Felo-de-se made easy.

The only sentence written at the top of the box.

Without giving too much thought, he placed the slowly melting candle on the empty couch seat beside him.

The soft light cast shadows across his face as he carefully lifted the box onto his lap and slowly opened it.

A low rustle filled the quiet room as he pulled out the object, wrapped in a delicate plastic bag. 

With gentle hands, he unwrapped it.

It was an eyepatch made of sleek black material that seemed to mold perfectly to his touch.

He traced the smooth lines with his fingers. As he examined it further, he noticed a long cable tied into a neat pile attached to one end of the patch.

Turning it over in his hand, he saw the words 'DreamMaker' etched onto its convex side. Below that, in smaller font, read 'Energy lasts for 3 weeks'. 

A user manual lay at the bottom of the box.

It only told him to place it on the center of the parietal bones on his head.

He stuck the patch onto the spot according to the manual. The object immediately sucked the

skin, and the nerves were pulled.

Just a few seconds after that, his body collapsed off the couch into the floor.