Chapter 1

Life moves forward, indifferent to those who fail to keep up.

I wake up to the same gray ceiling, the same digital clock flashing numbers that don’t matter. Another morning, another day to go through the motions. My body is sore, not from exercise or exertion, but from the weight of existing. I stretch lazily, bones popping like a machine that’s been running too long without maintenance.

The coffee machine gurgles as I lean against the counter, watching the dark liquid drip into my mug. I don’t need caffeine. It barely does anything anymore. But the process is familiar, comforting in its monotony. I take a sip. Bitter. Exactly the way I expect.

The outside world hums with life, but I’m just an observer. Cars rush past my apartment, people move with purpose, chasing something—dreams, responsibilities, obligations. I don’t chase anything. I just exist.

My laptop hums to life, the glow of the screen washing over my dimly lit room. School emails, assignment deadlines, notifications that mean nothing to me. I scan through them, barely absorbing the information. Computer Science was supposed to be something I cared about, something that made sense. Logic, patterns, order. But even that feels distant now. I type out half a response to a professor before deleting it entirely. They won’t notice if I never send it.

The silver ring on my finger catches the light as I tap against the keyboard absentmindedly. A habit. A reminder. A wound that never healed.

The city outside is the same as it was yesterday, as it will be tomorrow. Neon signs flicker against the dusk, and the scent of rain lingers in the air. My sneakers scuff against the pavement as I walk with no real destination in mind. I blend into the background, just another faceless figure in the crowd.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

A convenience store glows ahead, its fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. I step inside, the cold air hitting me as I make my way to the back. A can of coffee, a pack of gum. Something to occupy my hands. As I move toward the register, I catch a reflection of myself in the glass doors—messy black hair, tired gray eyes, a shadow of someone who used to be more.

I don’t react when I hear the voice behind me. Drunken laughter. The kind that signals trouble before it even begins.

“Yo, what’s with the dead stare?”

I ignore it. Keep walking. It’s not worth the energy.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

A hand on my shoulder. A pull. My hood yanked back.

The first punch is sloppy. Amateur. It barely fazes me. The second lands harder, rattling something loose in my head. The third? I don’t remember when I start fighting back.

It’s not technique. It’s not strategy. It’s just movement—an automatic response to pain. My body shifts, my fist connects, and for a brief moment, I feel something other than numbness.

When it’s over, I stand there, breath steady despite the ache settling into my limbs. Blood drips from my knuckles. Someone groans on the ground. The night swallows the scene as if nothing ever happened.

I exhale. The city moves on, uncaring, unchanged.

And I keep walking.

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The next morning, my body reminds me of last night’s fight. A dull ache settles in my ribs, and I wince as I push myself out of bed. I shower, letting the scalding water wash away the lingering tension, but the soreness remains.

Back to routine. Coffee. Emails. Staring at unfinished assignments. The same cycle, the same motions. But something feels off.

A new message appears on my laptop. No sender. No subject.

"You were not meant to see this."

I frown. My fingers hover over the keyboard. A prank? A glitch? Before I can respond, the screen flickers. Symbols I don’t recognize flash for a fraction of a second before disappearing entirely.

I blink, rubbing my eyes. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I need more sleep.

But deep down, I know better.

The world just shifted.

And I don’t know why.