His name was Seven. 

Once, he asked his parents why he was given this name, not out of spite or a sense of being wronged, just for simple curiosity. Seven was a lucky number, they replied, plus they were both mathematicians. Their love for numbers was apparent. 

Luck did not shine for Seven. He was born with congenital insensitivity to pain, and the experimental treatment did not bear results. To protect the child, the parents were selective of Seven’s friends, the environments he could frequent, the food he ate and also procured a personal doctor to do checkups daily. They were not lacking in money and loved him dearly. Every aspect of Seven’s life was monitored by his parents. He grew up in a limited circle of people, places, foods, activities... He lacked experience and thirsted for it. But he couldn’t go out of that small garden planted by his parents. 

So, he read. 

It started with novels, those easily accessible through the web and that teenagers liked to read, mostly romance or action ones. He paid special attention to the description of objects, no matter how trivial they were, and searched for then online to create an image. 

As he read many types of novels that year, he grew tired. Many followed the same formulae and he had already eaten up the most acclaimed, both in the genres he enjoyed and the others he only had a glimpse. It didn’t satisfy him anymore, and even if he admitted that the author of a particular novel wasn’t bad, nothing felt new and searching through the pile of subpar stories for a hidden gem felt like a waste of his time. 

But he still felt an attachment to novels. Unsatisfied, he picked the pen and started to write himself. But what would he write about? He knew very little about the world. Still, he tried and pushed forward for his first novel. It was a fail. No one read it, he simply stopped writing it and moved for a new one, and once he felt like revising his text, the difference of his previous writing skills as compared to the newer inputs was abysmal. He couldn’t bear to look at it and destroyed it. 

Once, twice, thrice... How many novels had he discarded? Every time he looked back, he unceremoniously deemed them trash without an inch of feeling. They were not up to his standards. 

Growing up, he started to read other books. Classical books, romance, poetry, eventually even books that couldn’t easily be reached, those that dealt in secrets of the occult. They kept him entertained for a long time, and he had no need for the pen. It was at the same time that his circle of friends shrunk to non-existence. He was an outcast, always so fixated in books that he disregarded the life happening outside his small world. He knew it, but didn’t care, books were more interesting. 

Like that, he passed most of his school years reading different kinds of books daily, without much interaction with others. 

Even that came to a halt. 

There were many books to read, but as his appetite grew larger, his tastes became more refined and specific. Not any book would satisfy him, they had to fit into a strict pattern of quantity and quality. But the number of authors that could reach him through their publications, jumping the barrier of languages and passing through his skimming were few. 

The time which he used to read books was slowly swapped with time searching for books, until all he did was a frenzied search in any kind of place, leaving only desperation and emptiness. 

Stolen novel; please report.

Was there nothing else for him there? 

Seven moved on. 

Now it wasn’t only literature, but science. Engineering, mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology... He was not as adamant at first, and his thirst was not quenched as he barely understood anything, but it was much better than the void he felt inside. The research papers and redactions of news websites were different from the kind of texts he was used to, but he quickly grew accustomed and gobbled up information from many sources. 

But they weren’t enough to sate him, not nearly enough. They were just a distraction, and he knew that once he grew tired, he would be left with nothing. 

He had to write his own books. 

At this point, he had already finished school and started with a literature major, but he wasn’t interested in finishing it. It was all a means to follow the way paved by his parents. 

He wanted to write. No, he needed to write. 

So, he wrote, and also studied how others wrote. It was all novelty, a feeling he had experienced ages ago but didn’t feel quite right.  His writing skills grew up at a fast rate, there were so many styles of writing, so many genres, themes, and there was never a lack of things to write about. He could go on writing forever... Or so he thought. 

Seven did not finish a single story. 

Just as his writing evolved, he grew unsatisfied with his previous texts. He aimed for perfection, but his style was in a constant state of change that could only be explained if he was possessed by past authors. Not only that, he was unsatisfied with the plot. He wanted to create something new, but nothing felt new anymore. 

There was nothing for him to write about. 

Emptiness. It finally came to him why he always felt such emptiness. 

All that Seven knew about the world was through ink-filled pages and computer monitors. 

He never saw anything. He never felt anything. All those tastes, smells, sounds, colors, textures... They weren’t his. 

More emptiness. 

Even if he was to travel the whole world to collect these experiences, he was inherently limited by birth. Not feeling pain, at first glance some people might like the idea, but it felt excruciatingly bitter. Seven could only laugh, for he didn’t even know what he was feeling at that realization, despite all the books he read. Everything he felt was through the characters of books. 

His feelings weren’t his. 

[Do you want to feel and to experience?] 

Who was it? He looked around, but there was no one near him. 

[Do you want to go out into the world and see things for yourself?] 

Seven's state was so low that he suspected he was beginning to hear things. 

[I can bring you to my world, but it won’t be a pleasant experience. Death and decay, emptiness and despair, pain... And only pain] 

Seven showed a self-deprecating smile. 

-You can talk of both happiness and sorrow, I have no say in the matter. 

[So, do you wish to come?] 

Seven shrugged. 

-Why not, let me see for myself. 

||Achievement: The one who was brought willingly|| 

||Effect: You are granted one wish|| 

Screens fluttered past his eyes. He was gradually falling to a stupor, but his mind was still clear. 

Was it because of his despairing self, or just a glimmer of hope that awoke? He couldn’t tell, but the last screen seemed to speak to his heart. 

As he felt his consciousness fading, he departed with one last thought. 

"I want to feel pain, like a normal human...” 

[By the laws of my world, your wish was granted, but something was taken]