The sun hadn't risen yet.
His alarm screamed at 5 a.m., dragging him out of whatever fractured pieces of sleep he'd managed to gather.
Groggy, heavy-lidded, he rubbed at his eyes and sat up with all the grace of a dying machine. His limbs resisted, but routine had more power than comfort.
He grabbed his towel, his uniform—neatly folded the night before—and shuffled toward the bathroom. The water was lukewarm. Not too cold. Not warm enough.
Just there, like most things in his life. He showered, dressed, brushed his teeth, and left the apartment after a meager breakfast. He always cleaned up after himself—some strange need for order he never questioned.
The door clicked shut behind him, the lock sliding into place with a sound that always gave him a strange comfort. The world, for now, couldn't get in.
He didn't take the job near his apartment. That one was closer, easier. But… it was too familiar. Too exposed. He shopped there. The cashier knew him.
Not his name , but his face. But it was enough.
The idea of standing behind that same counter, wearing a name tag while regulars passed by, made something curl inside his gut.
Embarrassment? Shame? He didn't know. He just knew he didn't want to be seen that way.
Instead, he worked at the other branch—ten minutes away. It wasn't far, but far enough to be invisible.
His shift was from 6 to 8 in the morning. Short, but enough. He had signed up that way when he first joined.
The store owner was kind enough to give him that slot, knowing about his school. That kindness—it lingered in his memory, a rare softness in a world that often felt like cold metal.
Today, unlike the others, he had a slight smile on his face. It was payday.
Aside from holidays, this was the second lightest day of his life. A strange way to measure joy—by absence of weight rather than presence of warmth—but it worked for him. He didn't expect much from life, so even a whisper of relief was a luxury.
The pay wasn't much. The higher-ups had reduced it, claimed budget cuts. But it was still enough for him to survive the month.
He didn't need much. Some clothes. Some food. Things that lasted months, if not years. The rest, he didn't care for. He'd learned early that wanting more only hurt.
When he reached the store, he changed into the uniform. The same dull color. The same faint scent of old air conditioning and sterilized tiles. He stood at the desk and waited.
Receptionist. Nothing fancy. Just standing, nodding, occasionally helping, mostly just existing.
By 8, he clocked out and changed into his school uniform. Before he stepped out, his door's notification panel lit up. A small beep. A message.
His pay.
That slight smile returned, softer this time. Genuine.
He started walking to the station.
The notification faded. His smile didn't last long, but the echo of it lingered in his chest like a small ember. That was enough for now.
He walked toward the station, the morning breeze threading through his hair. It was quiet. The streets were still half-asleep. That was how he liked it. Fewer people. Fewer eyes.
School.
He didn't hate it anymore. At first, maybe he had hoped it would be different—an escape. A fresh start. New people. A new place. A new version of himself. But things didn't change just because the setting did.
The past didn't rot and fall away. It followed. And eventually, it blended into the present like it had always belonged.
He wasn't bullied outright—not like before. No slurs. No public beatings. No ripped notebooks. Just… absence. Like he was glass.
People walked by him like he wasn't there. They didn't see him, didn't speak to him. He was ignored so thoroughly it almost felt designed.
But then there were those five.
He didn't even know their names at first. Just faces. Expressions. Eyes that saw him, even if only to look down on him. They weren't violent, not always. Just cruel. Little things. Words.
Looks. Moments stolen in passing. Enough to remind him that even invisibility came with cracks.
Sometimes he thought about dropping out. He didn't need the degree. Not really. But he didn't. Not because of hope. Just… habit. And maybe, deep down, a pathetic part of him craved the attention.
Even the twisted kind. At least they acknowledged he existed. That was more than most.
But when those thoughts surfaced, they brought a bitter taste to his mouth.
Disgusting.
He felt like a dog—no, worse. A starving dog begging not for food but for scraps of attention. That realization curdled his insides.
He clenched his fists, breathing deep, trying to bury the thought before it swallowed him.
By the time he reached the station, it was 8:30. He boarded the train like always. Quiet. Alone. Just another body in a seat. He stared out the window, but didn't see anything.
His school started at 9 a.m., so he had time. He walked faster anyway. He didn't like lingering.
When he entered the school grounds, nothing changed. No heads turned. No voices called out. He blended into the background like he was part of the paint.
Then he saw them. The five.
They laughed. Talked. Loud enough to draw attention. Eyes like knives, if they turned your way.
His gaze lingered for half a second too long. He caught himself, pulled away, heart tightening. They hadn't noticed him. Not yet. He prayed it stayed that way.
Their class was different from his.
He kept walking.
When he entered his classroom, it was like always. Silent acknowledgment of his presence—none at all. He sat at his desk, middle row, by the window. His seat. No one ever asked for it. No one cared.
At 9 a.m., the teacher arrived. Told everyone to quiet down. The class responded—casual chatter fading into stillness. The lesson began.
He listened. Took notes. Didn't ask questions. His grades were average. He wasn't a genius. But not dumb either. Just… middling. Nothing that stood out.
When class ended, he slipped out early. Avoided the hallway where they might be. He didn't want to risk being seen.
But this time, he didn't go home.
He walked toward the city's other department store. His second part-time job. He worked there three times a week—this was one of those nights. Convenient. Exhausting.
From evening to near midnight, he stood, stocked, greeted customers, bagged items. The pay was better here. The hours longer. But money was money.
He put on his uniform, then stepped onto the store floor.
The road to his post was familiar. His feet moved without thought.
People came. Went. Smiled. Laughed.
A group of girls passed by, laughing among themselves. One of them—pretty, bright-eyed, warm—smiled at her friends, something soft and golden in her voice.
He looked away. Quickly.
Not because he was shy.
Because he was scared.
He didn't fear rejection. He feared what came after. He feared the illusion of hope being torn apart again. He feared what love might look like from the other side—mocking, distant, cold.
So he didn't let himself feel anything.
Even though, deep down, he wanted to be seen.
Cherished.
Healed.
He wanted to be part of something—someone. To live a life where he wasn't just surviving the day.
He wanted to be noticed. To be great. But those were dangerous thoughts. Hope was a blade with no hilt.
So he stayed still.
Smiled when required. Nodded. Helped.
But inside, he was a locked room with no key.
He didn't fear death.
But pain?
Pain was a slow kind of hell.
And that was what he feared most—living, while feeling like he didn't exist.
*****
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✶ Dimension Walker ✶
✧ The Veiled Paragon ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
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*****
It started with little things.
A scrape on a classmate's knee after bumping into him. A lightbulb popping overhead when he laughed too loud. A teacher's favorite mug shattering on the floor the day after she scolded him.
At first, no one said anything. Coincidences. Children are clumsy. Things break.
But coincidences kept happening—always near him. Always after something.
One boy tripped on flat ground after mocking his name.
Another got food poisoning after stealing from his lunch.
A foster mother's back went out the morning after she slapped his hand away at dinner.
None of it was proof. Nothing anyone could point to and say: This is why. But people don't need proof to be afraid. They just need a pattern.
And he had become one.
Adults started talking less. Looking more. Watching him with unease, like something about him didn't fit the frame of their world.
Children picked up on it quickly—kids always do. Their games stopped including him. Their eyes stopped meeting his.
When accidents happened—broken bones, sudden fevers, missing pets—there was always a pause. A beat of silence. Then someone would glance at him.
They didn't have to say anything. The silence did it for them.
Eventually, the whisper came.
He's cursed.
The words spread like mold in the walls—quiet, inevitable.
He didn't know where it started. Maybe from the boy who found his pet bird dead after throwing a rock at him. Maybe from the girl who broke her arm the day after making him cry.
He didn't argue. What could he say?
He didn't understand it either.
He never tried to hurt anyone.
He didn't want things to go wrong.
But they did.
Especially when he felt things. Strong things. Sadness, shame, anger.
The more he tried to hide it, the worse it got.
As if the world around him twisted when he did.
One time, he smiled—really smiled—for the first time in weeks. The orphanage's power shorted out for an hour.
Another time, a boy shoved him to the ground and walked away laughing.
Later that night, that same boy was found curled in the hallway, sobbing from a nightmare he couldn't explain. He refused to sleep for days after. Just kept repeating,
"The shadows had eyes."
The staff said it was stress. Night terrors. Growing pains.
But they looked at him differently after that.
The worst was the fire.
It started in the west wing. No faulty wires. No unattended candles. Just… flame.
By the time it was controlled, part of the building was gone.
No one was seriously hurt. But as they evacuated, someone whispered it again.
It's him.
He heard it that time. Saw the way two caretakers glanced at each other, then looked away when he met their eyes.
It wasn't said with fear anymore.
It was said with resignation.
Like they'd accepted it. Like they'd known all along.
That's when it stopped being rumor.
It became reality.
No one punished him. No one comforted him. He became invisible.
A shadow in their peripheral vision.
A story to avoid.
A thing best left alone.
And then he ran away.
Not out of defiance.
Just… quiet understanding.
They didn't want him there. Maybe they never did.
Maybe he never should've been born.
He was thirteen when he left.
No big moment. No stormy confrontation. No suitcase packed with trembling fingers.
Just one quiet evening. A flickering streetlamp. An empty sidewalk he didn't turn back from.
No one chased him. No one called his name.
It was as if the world silently agreed—he didn't belong anywhere.
The first nights were the hardest.
Cold concrete under thin clothes. Hunger that gnawed more at his soul than his stomach.
The kind of loneliness that didn't feel like silence, but pressure—like he was being crushed by the weight of being forgotten.
He worked where he could. Carried crates. Cleaned alleys. Picked up shifts adults didn't want. Some looked at him with pity, others with suspicion, but most didn't look at all.
He learned to live in the spaces between people's eyes.
Eventually, he saved up enough to rent a small room in a part of the city where no one asked questions. The walls were thin. The heater wheezed like it was dying in slow motion. But it was his.
His new school was… the same.
Smiles were just thinner masks. People were quieter in their cruelty. But isolation wore the same face no matter the backdrop.
They didn't call him cursed anymore. They didn't need to.
They simply didn't see him.
He started waking up at 5 every morning. Got a job at a convenience store two towns over. Worked two hours before school.
He chose that store for a reason.
There was another one just down his block. Would've been easier, closer, cleaner.
But that one… that one was filled with people he knew.
Faces that might smile and ask why he was working so early.
He couldn't handle that.
He didn't want to explain why someone his age was clocking in at dawn, wearing the same uniform every day, barely eating.
He didn't want their awkward sympathy or hollow kindness.
So he took the long train.
Worked quietly. Cleaned the floors. Stocked the shelves.
The owner was kind—didn't ask questions. Just nodded when he showed up and paid him without delay.
It was one of the only places that felt… stable. Predictable.
That night, when his shift ended and he left the store, the plaza outside was buzzing with life.
People laughed.
Streetlights painted the pavement in orange and gold.
Music played softly from someone's speaker.
It felt like a world he could observe but never touch.
He didn't slow down.
Didn't smile.
He just walked.
Like he always did.
At the station, he pulled out his phone to pay for the ticket—and froze.
The date stared back at him.
A hollow sort of weight settled into his chest.
He knew this feeling. It came around every year like a storm that never missed its mark.
His birthday was coming.
For most, it meant cake, smiles, soft reassurances about the future.
For him, it meant the beginning.
The day everything ended.
He remembered the orphanage.
He remembered that day.
The woman had held his hand, told him she was taking him to a "special place." That everything would be alright. That it was for the best.
He remembered thinking the car ride felt too quiet.
He remembered the sound the gate made as it closed behind him.
He remembered standing there, suitcase in hand, heart in pieces.
He remembered realizing they weren't coming back.
That they hadn't dropped him off—they'd left him.
Because they were afraid.
Not of what he'd done. But of what he was.
Something not quite human. Something that broke the world around him without ever trying.
And now, every year, the date came around like a cruel joke.
A reminder.
That he hadn't been born into a life.
He'd been born into a mistake.
-To Be Continued