Life is not a puzzle you solve; it’s a riddle that mocks you. Some pieces never fit, and some are lost before you even begin.

Ren stood on the cracked pavement, gripping the shattered remains of his cube. His fingers trembled, his breath uneven. The pieces felt cold in his hands, lifeless. Useless. He hovered over the rusted garbage can on the corner of the street, about to let go, about to discard the last fragment of a dream he no longer believed in. It felt like losing a friend. Like burying something that once mattered. His throat tightened.

But before he could release it, a sudden sound broke through the weight of his thoughts. A soft purr.

He turned. A cat—sleek, black, with piercing golden eyes—sat a few feet away, watching him. Its tail flicked lazily, unbothered by the world, as if mocking his hesitation.

Ren hesitated, his grip tightening around the broken cube. His heartbeat slowed. The cat blinked at him once, then stretched, arching its back like a shadow peeling away from the ground. And just like that, the moment shifted.

The past bled into his thoughts, dragging him back to that birthday. His 14th. The day everything shattered.

His mother had been taken away again. Another episode, another night of chaos, of voices rising and breaking against the walls of their home. He had woken up to the sight of paramedics leading her out the door, her vacant eyes staring past him, past everyone. As if none of them existed. As if she had never known them at all.

The house had been suffocating that morning—thick with tension, hushed whispers, the weight of disappointment and exhaustion pressing into every corner. No one had remembered. No one had wished him. And for the first time, he had cursed his own existence. Why was he born into this family? Why couldn’t he be like every other kid, with a normal mother, a normal life?

Then, his sister had found him.

She had walked into his dimly lit room, where he sat curled up on his bed, fists clenched, teeth grinding against the sob he refused to release. She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat beside him, letting the silence settle. And then, finally, she had spoken.

“Happy birthday, Ren.”

Her voice had been steady, unwavering. When he didn’t respond, she pulled something from behind her. A small box, wrapped carelessly in newspaper, the edges crumpled. She placed it in his lap. He stared at it, unmoving, until she nudged him.

“Open it.”

He did. And there it was—his first cube, brand new, its colors vibrant under the dim bedroom light. He had frowned, confused, until she smiled and spoke again.

“I know it looks complicated. Like life. At first, it’s just a mess of colors, and you think there’s no way to fix it. But as you play… you start to understand. Everything works on a formula. You just have to find it.”

He had traced his fingers over the cube, something stirring in his chest. A quiet kind of hope. A belief, however small, that maybe he could figure things out. That maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely lost.

Now, standing on that street corner, he felt the weight of those words pressing against him. His fingers curled around the broken cube.

The cat let out another soft purr, as if impatient with his indecision.

Ren exhaled. Then, slowly, he lowered his hand. He wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

but the question is...for how long?

"Look who finally decided to show up."

Ren barely had a second to breathe before the words hit him.

His uncle stood by the bar counter, arms crossed, eyes filled with the usual disappointment. His sharp, gaunt face bore the lines of a man who had long since given up on kindness. Deep wrinkles carved into his forehead, his thin lips always curled in disapproval, his cold eyes like chipped stone—lifeless, unyielding. There was nothing warm about him, nothing fatherly, nothing but the weight of expectations and contempt.

The scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke clung to the air, mixing with the sour stench of spilled beer.

"You think this is some charity?" His uncle scoffed. "You come and go whenever you please? I don’t need a useless brat slacking off in my bar."

Ren clenched his jaw. The familiar words settled over him like a second skin. He could predict the next insult, the next complaint, the same cycle repeating itself like clockwork.

"You're lucky your mother isn’t around to see this," his uncle continued, shaking his head. "She’d be ashamed."

Ren felt something twist inside him, but he swallowed it down. There was no point in arguing. There never was. Instead, he muttered a low, "I’ll get to work," and moved past his uncle without another glance. He only saw the man as his employer—nothing more. Family was supposed to mean support, warmth. His uncle had never been that.

Victor was perched near the end of the counter, arms draped over two of his usual friends, both of them grinning like they were in on some private joke. As Ren walked past, Victor tilted his head, a smirk curling his lips.

"Didn’t know they let ghosts work here," Victor mused. His friends chuckled, raising their glasses in mock salute. "What’s the matter, Ren? Long night crying over your little cube?"

Ren didn’t take the bait. He just kept walking, ignoring the heat rising up his neck.

Victor clicked his tongue. "Oh, come on. At least say something. It’s no fun if you just sit there acting like some tragic poet."

Ren reached the back of the bar, tying his apron with mechanical movements. He could hear them still laughing behind him. He could hear his uncle’s disapproving sigh. It was all background noise.

The shift dragged on, the hours blurring together. Orders, glares, drunken laughter, the occasional shattered glass. He functioned on autopilot, ignoring the weight in his chest, ignoring the way his uncle’s words still echoed in his skull.

When the night finally slowed, Ren stepped outside. The air was cold, crisp against his skin. He exhaled sharply, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with shaky fingers. He wasn’t sure when this habit had started. He only knew that, for a few seconds, the burn in his lungs was a distraction. A small escape.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The glow of his phone screen flickered against his face as he mindlessly scrolled. Then he saw it.

Gloria’s latest post.

A picture of her in the center of a crowd, laughing, golden hair catching the light. Friends draped around her, drinks in hand, faces carefree.

Ren stared at it for too long.

She looked so…alive. Like she belonged. Like the world had opened its arms to her, while he remained on the outside, forgotten.

A bitter chuckle slipped from his lips as he took another drag of his cigarette.

Of course, she was happy.

He pocketed his phone, shaking his head, ready to disappear back into the shadows. But before he could turn, his phone vibrated in his hand.

8 Missed calls: Yasmi (heart emoji)

His sister.

Ren hesitated, his fingers hovering over the screen. He knew she’d want to talk, probably ask if he was okay. But what was there to say? He let the phone screen fade to black. Another problem for another time.

Then, something else pulled at his attention.

A presence.

Someone was watching him.

He looked up.

A woman stood at the far end of the alley, half-hidden in the dim streetlight. She wasn’t familiar, yet something about her sent an uneasy shiver down his spine. Her eyes lingered on him, searching, knowing.

Then, she spoke.

"You’re running out of time."

Her voice was quiet, almost delicate, yet it carried an eerie certainty that sent a cold shiver up Ren’s spine. His breath hitched, his fingers instinctively tightening around the cigarette as the ember glowed against the darkness.

"What?" The word barely escaped his lips, his voice caught between confusion and disbelief.

The woman took a slow step forward, the dim streetlight finally casting a clearer view of her face. She was eerily composed, her dark eyes locked onto his like she could see through him, beyond him—into something he wasn’t even aware of yet.

"You don’t see it, do you?" she murmured, tilting her head slightly. Her expression remained unreadable, but there was a ghost of something—pity? Amusement? Regret? "The pieces are shifting… but not in your favor."

Ren felt something cold settle in his stomach. It wasn’t just the words. It was the way she said them, as if she wasn’t warning him but stating an undeniable truth.

Victor’s voice from earlier echoed in his head- Long night crying over your little cube?

He took a step back, suddenly needing distance. His mind scrambled for logic—maybe she was just some lunatic wandering the streets. Maybe she was drunk, high, rambling nonsense.

But then, she did something that made his breath catch.

She lifted her hand and slowly, deliberately, mimicked the twisting motion of a cube.

Ren’s blood ran cold.

His cigarette slipped from his fingers, landing soundlessly onto the pavement.

His pulse thundered in his ears, thoughts crashing into each other in chaotic disarray.

Who was she? And how the hell did she know?

Before he could demand answers, before he could even find his voice, the woman took a step back into the shadows.

And just like that—she was gone.

The alley stretched before him, empty. Silent.

Ren stood there, his body rigid, his mind spinning. The cold night air wrapped around him, but he barely felt it.

A part of him wanted to chase after her. A part of him wanted to pretend none of this just happened.

But a deeper part—one he couldn’t silence—knew that this was just the beginning.

And whatever it was, whatever she meant—he wasn’t ready for it.

The world was tilting. Or maybe it was Ren.

As he pushed back into the bar, a thick fog of alcohol, sweat, and cigarette smoke swallowed him whole. The dim lights burned his retinas, the neon glow smearing into colors too sharp, too wrong. He barely noticed the server crossing his path until he nearly slammed into him.

The tray wobbled, glasses clinking violently, reds and ambers sloshing close to the rim. The server shot him a sharp glare, a muttered curse under his breath. Ren mumbled something that wasn’t quite an apology, his mind somewhere else—somewhere darker.

The words were still there.

"You're running out of time."

That woman. Her voice. It had wedged itself inside his skull, twisting like a rusted nail. The edges of reality frayed at the seams as he moved through the bar, sound filtering in and out like waves pulling away from the shore.

“Ren.”

The voice felt like it came from underwater.

Then—Jack.

Ren barely registered him at first, but there he was, standing in front of him, brows furrowed, lips pressed in something between concern and scrutiny. Jack—the trucker, the enigma. Older, rougher, but oddly composed in a way that made everything about him feel unreadable.

“You look like you’ve seen a damn ghost.”

Ren’s throat felt dry. “Yeah? Maybe I have.”

Jack studied him, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he gestured toward the back door. “Come on. Let’s get you sorted.”

Ren wasn’t sure why he followed. Maybe because Jack was the only one here who didn’t seem to expect anything from him. Maybe because standing still felt unbearable.

The alley behind the bar was cold. The kind of cold that settled under your skin, gnawed at your bones. Jack leaned against the wall, reaching into his jacket. Ren already knew what was coming before he even spoke.

“Here.” Jack extended a small packet between two fingers. “Take the edge off.”

Ren stared at it.

Something coiled in his stomach. He wasn’t this person. He didn’t do this.

And yet.

Tonight, there was a storm in his head, a war in his veins. His thoughts felt like broken glass scraping against his skull, and he just wanted—needed—silence.

Jack’s voice was smooth, coaxing. “It’s not a big deal. Just one time. You’re wound so tight, man, you need to loosen up.”

A war waged inside him.

His fingers twitched.

And then—he did.

The world shifted.

Not all at once. It was slow, creeping, like the way ink spreads in water. A numbness spread through him, first warm, then distant. The sounds of the city stretched and distorted, like a record being warped. The alley felt longer. The streetlights too bright, then too dim.

And somewhere, deep in the static, Jack’s voice.

"Take it slow… take it slow…"

The words stretched, warped, curled into something unintelligible.

Then—shadows.

They thickened at the edges of his vision, twisting, curling like living things. And then she was there.

The woman.

Standing just beyond the glow of the streetlights, her face barely visible in the ink-black dark. But she was watching. Unmoving. Waiting.

Ren’s breath hitched. His chest felt too tight. His hands trembled.

"You're not real," he whispered.

The woman tilted her head. The movement was unnatural, disjointed—like a puppet being jerked by invisible strings. And then—she shifted.

Her form twisted, unraveled, the darkness swallowing her whole—only to spit something else out.

Victor’s face sneered at him, his eyes gleaming with mockery. The shadows around him thickened, curling into the forms of his friends, their laughter a distorted chorus of cruel echoes.

"Useless. Worthless. A joke."

The voices weren’t theirs, but they came from their mouths.

The shadows pulsed again.

And then—his uncle. His voice a low, guttural growl.

"You’re nothing but dead weight."

Then—Gloria.

Smiling, leaning into Esteban, whispering something that made him laugh, her fingers curling around his wrist. And then—her gaze flicked to Ren.

A look of sheer, unfiltered disgust.

"You aren’t even worth sitting next to me."

Ren’s stomach twisted. The alley felt longer now, stretching into some abyss, endless and consuming.

Then—his mother.

Her face was streaked with tears, her hands clawing at her scalp, her voice a fractured symphony of laughter and sobs. Her eyes—wild, distant, empty.

"Ren, Ren, help me! Ren, please!"

The shadows lunged.

The ground beneath him cracked.

He was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

"Take it slow… take it slow…"

No. No, no—

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Then—hands.

Fierce, desperate hands gripping his shoulders, yanking him back—back into the light, back into the air, back into reality.

“Ren!”

The hallucination shattered like glass.

The cold bit into his skin. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. And in front of him—Yasmi.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear-streaked, her lips parted with something between worry and fury. Her grip on him was tight, as if she was afraid he’d slip away if she let go.

“Ren, what the hell is going on with you?” she choked out, her voice trembling. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

His phone buzzed against his thigh. He barely glanced down, but the screen was glowing—missed calls.

Yasmi’s name. Again and again. She had been looking for him.

Worrying.

And here he was, slipping further away.

Her grip tightened as she pulled him up. “You’re coming with me,” she said, her voice steady, final. It was not a plea. It was a demand. A desperate tether. “I’m not letting you do this to yourself.”

Ren wanted to say something. Anything.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Only the echoes remained.

The voices.

The whispers.

And the fear that maybe, just maybe… they weren’t just in his head.