HP Rise of the New Lord

 As Michael Oshani walked out the front door of his worn-down, rustic-looking studio apartment, he began to stride toward his battered Honda, keys in hand. The past year had been tough, as he was disowned by his parents, and at only 21, he struggled to find work. He lived alone in a small apartment in a less populated neighborhood. Today, he was determined to change his life, as it was his third job interview of the week. Though he lacked extraordinary skills, his appearance was striking—black shoulder-length hair and bright, starry blue eyes that drew attention wherever he went. His father had suddenly passed away two years ago from a heart attack, and after his mother remarried, she and her new husband took his step-siblings and moved five states away, leaving him alone with nothing but his battered Honda Civic. Although it was hard at first—spending most nights in his car and barely scraping together enough for one meal a day—Michael soon adapted to his lonely life, working as a clerk at a nearby convenience store and saving every penny he could. Eventually, he had enough to rent his own apartment, which wasn't much, but it was his. Over time, he slowly rebuilt his life, working 60-hour weeks across three jobs. Unfortunately, all were paid minimum wage, allowing him to save only about $200 a week. With plans to return to school someday after having to drop out due to his father's passing and his mother not paying tuition, he needed a better job. Recently, he tried out for several positions—such as a waiter at a high-end restaurant 45 minutes from his apartment, a toll collector, and even a personal secretary—but none worked out. Today, he was headed to a job interview at a mechanic shop that specialized in fixing cars. He knew a lot about repairs, including fixing his own car, which should have been retired years ago. His car started with a push, and he slowly headed toward what he hoped would be his future job. As his car merged onto the freeway with country music filling the cabin—him humming along to the out-of-tune tune, since his radio had been acting up lately—about 20 minutes later, he pulled into an empty parking lot and headed toward a small garage. That's when he saw a little girl standing off to the side with a teddy bear, seemingly about to cross the road. He tried to ignore her and keep walking when he noticed a truck charging toward her, the driver distracted by his phone and not paying attention. The girl wasn't there anymore. Frantically, he turned his head toward the road and saw her. She was happily skipping along with her bear at her side. His blood ran cold, his mind froze. It felt as if time itself had stopped. He ran—faster than he ever thought possible—toward the girl, reaching out in hope. His arms hit her, and she was thrown back onto the sidewalk, mouth open as if to cry out. But he didn't hear her. He heard the horn, shouts, the crash—and then it hit. The pain shot through every fiber in his body; his muscles contracted and screamed. Then it stopped. He could feel it—the breath leaving his lungs as he lay sprawled on the ground like a rag doll. He closed his eyes as his heart stopped, and the last thought that ran through his mind was, 'Better me than her.' And then, nothing—absolute silence—because Michael Oshani was dead.