Have you ever wondered, "How can we change something that's already destined to happen?" Some believe it's the law of the universe, governed by cause and effect—where outcomes are determined by their causes. We, as humans, have the freedom to choose, but our results are often influenced by factors beyond our control.
I recall a movie—or perhaps a story—about a protagonist's journey of revenge. The villain killed entire family of protagonist after hearing a prophecy that someone would eventually take his life. Ironically, by acting on this prophecy, he set the events into motion himself. So, does a cause always precede an effect, or can it be the other way around? Where does it all begin? Honestly, I don't know. If I had to blame something, I'd blame fate. Or perhaps the one who made that cursed prophecy—a manipulative figure bending the rules.
[Don't look back]
Suddenly awake, he realized he was late. Hastily gathering his belongings, he rushed to the meeting point—a secluded bar hidden in an alley. Today, the boss had summoned the team leader and the transport crew for new instructions. It was an honor for him to be called by the boss.
Yesterday was tough; the team was ambushed, resulting in significant losses. Fortunately, no lives were lost. With a makeshift bandage over his left eye, he was lucky his vision remained unaffected—it should heal in a few weeks.
By noon, the streets were bustling with people heading to eateries. Amidst the crowd, he felt an urge to stop, a nagging feeling telling him not to proceed. But time was pressing.
Upon arrival, the place felt ominous, contrary to his expectations. His instincts screamed to stay away. Living in danger had honed his senses.
Outside the bar stood two well-dressed men with stern faces—clearly the boss's bodyguards. He nodded subtly; they didn't obstruct him.
"You're with the Runners, right? Go in. The Boss is waiting."
Waiting for me? I must be special to get his attention. Better watch my words.
The doorbell chimed as a small-framed young man—perhaps a teenager—entered, breathing heavily, hair damp with sweat. The bartender turned and remarked,
"We don't babysit here, kid. Come back when you're older."
Annoyed at being underestimated, he wanted to retort. Before he could, a deep, cold voice interrupted,
"This kid is with me."
The bartender, recognizing the voice, allowed him in without further comment. In a dim corner sat a middle-aged man in a neat suit, every crease immaculate. His sharp features and deep, dark eyes exuded a chilling aura. No introduction was needed; his presence commanded respect.
He gently placed his glass on the table, exhaled, and pointed to the seat beside him. His gaze fixed on the young man, making the room feel colder.
"Take a seat."
[To the left]
??
A whisper echoed in his mind. Where did that voice come from?
"What's your name?"
The man's voice snapped him back.
"Sir—I'm Aven, from the Runners—"
"Enough."
He quickly sat on the left, his body tense. He leaned slightly away, hoping it went unnoticed. Alarm bells rang in his mind; something dark loomed ahead. His palms were sweaty; he dared not breathe loudly. Glancing at the wall clock, hope seemed lost.
Without warning, a knife flew across, piercing his right hand and pinning it to the table. The bar patrons gasped; some fled, others froze. The man calmly poured himself a new drink, pushing a glass toward Aven while keeping the knife pressed.
"Did that useless team leader of yours tell you nothing?"
Still in shock, Aven's eyes remained on his impaled hand. The man's words added to his confusion.
Team leader? He didn't say anything!
The pain was excruciating, clouding his thoughts.
What's happening? Is it just because I'm late? Where's the team leader and the others?
"You're right-handed, huh? Sorry about that. Let me explain, to make up for your hand."
Is he sadistic? Can't he just talk? Damn it, is everyone in this gang insane?
Uncertain whether to feel honored or terrified, Aven nodded slightly, biting his lip to endure the pain. Using his left hand, he lifted the glass, his voice trembling,
"Sir,… it won't happen again…"
Noticing the man wasn't looking at him, he felt a slight relief. But it was short-lived.
"Who said it's about you being late?"
"What I mean is—your team leader and those you call comrades—they've fled. You're the only one left here with me."
His mind went blank; a chill ran down his spine. His ears rang, chest heavy, vision blurred—as if submerged in a dark ocean. His pupils contracted, paralyzed by the revelation.
"After betraying me, that bastard and your team took all the money and vanished last night. I only found out this morning. It's the first time someone has outsmarted me in this territory."
He glanced at Aven, his face cold, eyes filled with deadly intent.
"Unlucky for you. Instead of bringing your corpse here, you should've run far away, so I couldn't find you. Didn't that bastard tell you? Or did he offer you to me as a parting gift?"
Aven's body froze; he forgot to breathe, the pain in his hand forgotten. He looked at the man beside him, seeking confirmation.
A mere pawn, discarded like trash. Why? Why was he always the one abandoned?
So it was from the moment he arrived—perhaps even before—that he was marked for death. Suddenly, emotions drained from him. No more anger at the bartender's words, no more fear of the man's voice—only acceptance. Acceptance of the fate that had been sealed.
Growing up in poverty explained his small stature. The bartender wasn't wrong. From a young age, he had to work to earn a living, never truly experiencing childhood. From menial tasks to the dirtiest jobs, he'd done it all. A child forced to mature early—was it true maturity or just survival?
He despised this world, where fairness didn't exist, or if it did, it wasn't for the weak. A place where the rich and powerful ruled. Only those chosen by fate thrived; the rest were mere background noise, born from nothing and returning to nothing.
Taking a deep breath, knowing this might be his only chance—especially for someone like him—he lowered his head, gripping the glass tightly, and spoke softly,
"Sir, I'm underage. Could you drink this for me?"
"What did you say—"
As the man leaned in to hear better, Aven swiftly smashed the glass into his head, causing him to stagger.
He yanked his pinned right hand free. The pain was immense, but his mind was cold. His hand was torn, blood spraying everywhere. Seeing Aven's unusual gaze, the man couldn't react in time.
Aven flung blood into the man's face, blinding him momentarily. Seizing the opportunity, he grabbed the knife with his left hand, pushed the man down, and amidst the chaos of breaking glass and falling furniture, plunged the knife into his neck.
"I'm ambidextrous, you fool!"
Realizing what he'd done, Aven's face was smeared with blood—not his own. The man's body trembled, his hands gripping Aven's wrist, eyes wide in disbelief. The eyes of the dead can be terrifying, especially his. Perhaps he never expected to die so suddenly—blame it on meeting someone as crazy or desperate as Aven.
Exhausted, Aven released the knife. A strange feeling welled up inside him—perhaps it was his first kill, or maybe it was killing such a vile person. Torn between the relief of breaking free and the dread of a dead-end.
Soon, he'd meet the same fate. The doorbell rang. Those who once shadowed the boss, his loyal men, had allowed a street rat to kill their master.
Turning to look, he managed to utter a few words to those scoundrels,
"You bastards are nothing but—"
A gunshot echoed. A single bullet pierced his head, his body collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. Couldn't they have aimed elsewhere? Now no one would recognize his face.
Just one—or perhaps more. The first bullet ended his life; he wouldn't know if there were others.
At least leave my body intact… but the dead shouldn't ask for favors.
His vision blurred, fading into darkness. No more sound, sight—every sense ceased. So this is death—a rather peaceful one. No, dying with holes in your body isn't peaceful. Speaking of peace, why did he feel warmth?
Suddenly, in the silent darkness, a voice echoed. An ancient language, both unfamiliar and familiar. It spoke directly to his mind, bypassing all barriers, as if from deep within his subconscious.
[Initiating setup process]
[Regarding a prophecy faded in the past]
[Clear yet hidden, present yet invisible, straight path yet with turns]
[Welcome, The Unraveler]
[Told you, don't look back…]