Cream pie…
So this is what it looks like?
I wonder what makes it so special—that people fawn over it like flies, coming from all across the world just to see what it tastes like. They treat it as if it's the most precious thing they've ever eaten.
After all, it's just a piece of crust filled with golden cream. No matter how rare it is, it's still just one of many delicacies.
Seated on a wooden chair outside a lavish restaurant, a frail little boy gazed intently at one of the most expensive desserts in the entire world. Sure, it was fancy—maybe too fancy for something that's technically just a cake, or… whatever it was.
then again who was he to judge?
He was just a rat from slums, after all—someone who'd spent his whole life living off leftovers and spoiled scraps.
The real miracle was that fate had even allowed someone like him to taste food like this—food usually reserved for the rich.
The boy shifted slightly on the wooden chair, which groaned under his fragile frame. His clothes clung to him like rags—thin, faded, and barely intact. His trousers were patched so many times that the original fabric was a mystery, just a memory buried under years of repairs. His small, delicate hands were stained with layers of dirt, the kind that no amount of washing could truly erase.
His very existence seemed like an anomaly here.
A disheveled boy with wild, knotted hair and grime smudging his cheeks, sitting among luxury—he didn't belong. And yet, no one judged him. No mocking glances, no angry glares, no one rushing over to drag him away.
Because no one was there.
It was as if the world itself had vanished.
Maybe they were all too busy trying to survive. After all, the world was dying—or so they said. A sun on the verge of exploding. A planet hanging by threads. Cities collapsing in panic and madness.
But he didn't care. Not anymore.
Without hesitation, he reached for the fork nestled among the polished silver utensils. They shimmered under the soft lantern light, casting faint reflections across the ivory tablecloth. He barely noticed. His focus was entirely on the slice of dessert before him.
He stabbed into it.
The crust gave way with a gentle crack, golden cream spilling out like a secret finally revealed.
His mouth watered instantly.
Leaning forward, he scooped the bite into his mouth, almost frantic, half-expecting someone to snatch it away. But when it touched his tongue, he froze.
It melted like butter—warm, sweet, impossibly soft. His eyes widened. His limbs stiffened. He had never known food could taste like this.
For most of his life, food had been war.
He scavenged from the backs of markets, ate what others threw away—moldy bread, cold soup, bruised fruit barely clinging to life. Hunger had been his constant shadow, whispering reminders of its presence in every empty night. The idea of choosing what to eat, of being served—it was absurd. That was the kind of dream that belonged to the people who lived behind clean windows and locked gates.
But this… this was real.
And it was delicious.
Far too delicious for someone like him. This wasn't meant for a boy raised on cracked concrete, who had to learn how to run long before he learned how to read, who begged, stole, and fought just to see the next morning. This kind of food belonged to another world entirely.
His eyes began to sting. He blinked hard. A lump rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down. Emotions had no place here.
Not now.
Instead, with a trembling hand, he picked up the spoon and dug deeper into the plate, determined to savor every bite before the world came crashing down—
And then the world did crash down.
A deafening roar split the air as a massive truck hurtled over the curb and smashed into the café wall, flattening chairs and scattering tables across the garden like leaves in a storm.
The boy flinched but didn't move.
The driver stumbled out moments later, covered in blood and soot, screaming like a madman. "It's coming! It's coming! Run! Run!"
The boy sighed, rolled his eyes, and calmly shoveled another bite into his mouth. "Great," he muttered. "Another disaster."
He didn't even glance at the chaos unfolding around him.
Sirens howled in the distance. Cars crashed into each other in long, winding lines of metal and flame. People screamed as they fled their homes—dragging children, carrying infants, abandoning property and pride in desperate waves toward underground shelters and open wastelands.
He looked up at the sky.
The sun glared down at the city with an intensity that was almost cruel. Late afternoon bathed everything in a golden sheen—but not the warm kind. This glow felt... final. Like the last page of a book.
He took another deep breath.
"They say it's going to explode," he said aloud to no one. "The sun. They say it'll wipe out the whole system. Burn everything to ash."
Maybe it was true. Maybe they had all gone insane.
He chuckled softly to himself.
As if some underground bunker could save them.
Everyone's gonna die, he thought. Might as well enjoy one good meal first.
His gaze shifted again, landing on a young couple running down the street—frantic, terrified. The man clutched his children tightly, holding the hand of his wife as if she were the last tether to hope. The kids were crying, but the father whispered reassurances. "It's okay, it's okay," over and over again, even as everything crumbled around them.
The boy snorted.
Where did people like that come from? So emotional. So dramatic. So hopeful.
His mother hadn't clung to him like that. No. She had thrown him in the trash like rotted meat, cast him away like a curse she needed to be rid of. Just a crying infant, left to die in filth and hunger.
He had cried and cried. But no one came. No one picked him up.
Until one day, when his voice had nearly given out, a beggar woman stumbled upon him.
Maybe she pitied him. Maybe his crying annoyed her.
Did it matter?
She picked him up, wrapped him in a torn shawl, and gave him her last piece of bread.
She raised him like he was her own.
He sighed, eyes distant. She saved me... but even miracles don't last forever.
They begged together, starved together. People passed them by, always too busy. Always too wrapped in their own lives to spare a second glance.
That was how the world worked. No one cared if you lived or died—unless it was their loss.
Helplessness wasn't new to him. It was normal. Expected.
He grinned bitterly. This world is cruel. You want to live? You fight. If the world doesn't care about you, then you don't care about it.
"Ahhh... beautiful days," he whispered.
He remembered slashing car tires and watching rich folks argue with mechanics. He'd steal wallets while they were distracted. Some days, he felt like a king.
"Sure, it's not ethical," he said with a shrug. "But in a world of hypocrites, you fight fire with fire."
Honor, dignity—those were luxuries.
He faked accidents, cried in front of strangers, pickpocketed in the markets, and stole fruit from vendors who were too distracted to notice. It was survival, not theft.
But all good times end.
His smile faded.
His greatest mistake had a face.
He thought the man was just another rich idiot. An easy mark. He slipped the wallet from his coat—and that was the moment everything changed.
Instead of money, strange, colorless stones tumbled out like diamonds carved from glass. His heart froze.
He bolted—never noticing the wallet was still in his hand.
When the beggar woman saw what he had done, her face drained of color. She dragged him into a dumpster, clutching the purse, and whispered with trembling urgency, "Don't come out. No matter what."
He wanted to ask why. She didn't answer.
Just before closing the lid, she met his eyes one last time—and smiled.
Then they found her.
The men who had followed him.
She tried to return the wallet. She apologized. She begged.
They didn't blink.
They shot her—once, twice, again and again. Chest. Skull. Arms. Legs.
The boy watched it all.
Paralyzed. Helpless.
Maybe he was too scared. Maybe he was too selfish. Maybe he was like everyone else in this godforsaken world—a hypocrite pretending to care, until caring became too dangerous.
They didn't just kill her.
They tied her body to their car by her hair—and dragged her down the street.
He tried to follow but tripped, collapsing into the filth. He cried until his voice vanished again.
"She knew," he whispered. "She knew what would happen… and still she protected me."
Why?
His own parents hadn't cared. But she had.
She'd loved him.
His throat burned as tears ran down his cheeks.
But it didn't matter.
None of it did.
Soon, they would all be dead.
A world as cruel as this—maybe it deserved to burn.
He was still lost in thought when the plate in front of him began to tremble. The buildings around him shook. Pavement cracked like shattered glass. The sun overhead pulsed unnaturally, swelling and groaning as if something was pulling it apart.
He took a deep breath.
So… it's time.
He closed his eyes.
And then the light came—blinding, soul-piercing. A scream of light that shattered the sky. A sound followed—thunderous, deafening. It tore through him, through buildings, through mountains. His body burned. Melted. Screamed.
He wanted to run, but he had no legs.
He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth.
The pain was endless. Not physical. Not even spiritual. Something deeper.
Then—
Darkness.
Silence.
Was he dead?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But for a moment, just before it all faded, he remembered the taste of the cream pie.
And smiled.