They say suffering carves strength upon the soul, but for Ikarus, it never felt like strength—only emptiness, a void carved deeper with each passing year.
Ikarus's earliest memory was of watching his family from afar—the father's laughter, the mother's gentle touch, reserved always for his elder stepbrother, Joseph. Joseph, beloved, cherished for no special reason except for being the symbol of the family's hope. Ikarus, by contrast, moved through life as if wrapped in fog—present, visible, yet intangible to anyone who might have cared.
He was the son of secrets. His father's indiscretion had brought him into the world, and from his first breath, that accident marked every interaction. At family gatherings, Ikarus sat apart, his silence misunderstood as arrogance, his kindness mistaken for manipulation. Had he been loud, reckless, or foolish, perhaps it would have been more forgivable. But he was not. He was exceptional at everything—studies, sports, art—but every achievement seemed an affront to those around him. His parents' longing glare fell only on Joseph.
At school, teachers applauded Ikarus's intelligence, but classmates kept their distance. "He thinks he's better than us," some whispered. "No wonder his family acts that way," others muttered. Even his successes at competitions failed to win him friends; praise only deepened others' envy. He responded with gentleness, helping those who struggled, sharing notes, inviting others to study. For every kindness he offered, suspicion returned tenfold.
Joseph, meanwhile, strolled through school with a confidence born of knowing he could never fall from his pedestal. His average marks were applauded, his failures excused, his jokes remembered. He learned early to play his parents, deftly weaving lies and half-truths, blaming Ikarus for the smallest mishaps—missing money, broken glass, a poor grade. The punishment was always swift and humiliating, and Ikarus endured it, hoping that time and patience might earn him love.
Every family member—from grandparents down to distant cousins—echoed the hierarchy. "Joseph is such a joy," they would say. "Ikarus is so… quiet." If they acknowledged his talents, it was out of politeness, tinged with suspicion and resentment. At family celebrations he watched, always at the edge, as laughter circled elsewhere.
But if there was a world less forgiving than family, it was that of the heart. As a first-year in college, Ikarus fell—not swiftly, but slowly and deeply—for a girl in the same institution, a fourth-year whose humor and kindness made crowded halls seem bearable. He kept his affection hidden, content if her gaze settled briefly on him or if they crossed paths in the library. His heart soared when she smiled, even if the smile was meant for someone else.
Rumors, though, have a life of their own. Word reached him that she admired him, found his quiet nature intriguing, maybe even felt something more. Yet, she was Joseph's classmate, and the web of family loyalty was strangling. Ikarus dared not hope for more. Joseph teased him mercilessly, aware and threatened by any hint of affection directed away from himself. What should have been a simple crush twisted into another reason for envy and contempt.
Through it all, Ikarus's only solace was in books—tales of heroes misunderstood, kindness repaid, justice delivered without hesitation. His love of fiction grew from pastime into obsession; pages became the confidantes he lacked in real life. In stories he could be the prince, the magician, the savior, but outside the pages, he was only the forsaken one.
His eyes were often described as "piercing"—more than merely sharp. They could read the intent behind words, discern the half-truth beneath promises, unveil the jealousy masked by smiles. Friends called it a "gift"; Ikarus called it a curse.
His mother once accused him of "seeing things you shouldn't," blaming him for the tension his insight caused. But Ikarus never used it to harm—only hoped that by knowing the truth, he could finally make sense of why love eluded him, why every gesture was twisted.
Even in daily life, the dynamic sharpened. At dinner, Joseph was given the larger portion of food, the better seat, the right to speak first. Ikarus's school report cards were hardly noticed, while Joseph's were celebrated. If something went wrong, Ikarus was blamed; Joseph was consoled. Even simple pleasures, like choosing a movie or dessert, became battles he didn't wish to fight.
This reality fractured further when, after graduating with honors and accepting a prestigious job, Ikarus became the subject of rumors in the family circle. His parents, led by Joseph's whispers, accused him of arrogance, selfishness, and of "thinking himself above us." The ultimate betrayal arrived as swift exile. "You don't belong here," his father finally said. "It's better if you make your own way."
Ikarus packed his bags in silence, fighting back tears.
Homeless in a city he once called home, Ikarus sank deeper into his books. His successes had garnered scholarships and savings—a small apartment, food, but no family. He built a life in solitude, his only connection to the world through pages and occasional, cautious kindness.
That was how he met Saya.
She was often seen at the market, polite and modest, her burdens many, her gratitude immense. She asked him for help more than once—not out of manipulation but desperation, or so he thought. Her eyes mirrored pain; Ikarus, ever sensitive, saw there a story as tragic as his own. Their conversations were brief: "Thank you, Ikarus," she'd say. "No trouble, glad to help," he'd reply.
Over time, their paths seemed almost fated to cross. Ikarus felt drawn to her sincerity, her haunted expression. He never asked personal questions, respecting her boundaries. But on days when silence felt unbearable, he imagined what her life might be like.
One gloomy afternoon, he found himself at the mall, distracted by thoughts and lost in the comfort of fiction. As he wandered the aisles, seeking food, he noticed Saya struggling with several bags. He approached.
"Let me carry those for you."
She smiled—a gesture so fragile it seemed liable to break. "Please, thank you. I don't know what I'd do without your help."
Outside, the sky drizzled. Ikarus walked her to her car, noticing her nervous energy, her eyes darting to and fro. He hesitated at her side.
"Saya, are you okay?" he asked, wondering about the fear he could nearly taste.
She gripped her keys, hands trembling. "Ikarus, I'm so sorry," she whispered, tears welling. "I didn't want this…"
Before he could respond, pain seared his side—a blade, cold and merciless, slipped into his flesh. He staggered, gripping the car door, the world spinning.
Saya burst into sobs. "I'm sorry. I had no choice. My husband needed me…" Her voice was raw, desperate. "I wish things were different."
Ikarus reeled from the pain—physical and emotional. He had always seen intent, could always predict betrayal. But in that moment, his heart refused to accept the truth. Why him? Why did every kindness only serve to wound him? He'd never hurt anyone. So why did it always end like this?
He collapsed as his blood poured onto the wet pavement. Saya knelt, crying, shaking with guilt. "I wish you could forgive me…"
His vision blurred, not from pain but from an overwhelming sadness. Images from his past flashed—Joseph's lies and triumphs, his parents' cold stares, the girl in his dreams, beyond his reach, countless nights alone, reading about worlds kinder than his own.
In those moments, another truth dawned: Saya was Joseph's wife. It all made sense—her fear of Joseph, the controlling way she glanced at her phone, hurried away after their casual meetings. The way Joseph would sneer, "You're always helping people who'll never repay you."
He'd wanted nothing—never coveted status, only affection. To be counted as part of a family, not as an error to be corrected. Even now, as death crept nearer, he could not muster hate for Saya. He understood desperation, having lived inside it for years.
But anger towards those who orchestrated his suffering—his parents, Joseph, the world at large—surged. It wound itself around his heart, transforming pain into fierce resolve.
His eyes fluttered shut, and the world grew silent.
What makes a person so hated, when all they want is to be loved? The question echoed as reality stretched thin. In the void, he felt himself dissolve—books and pain, betrayals and dreams fading into a strange, cold light.
If the world will not have me, let me find another—one that values more than birth and ambition.
With that final thought, everything vanished. The mall dissolved, his wounds faded, Saya's apologies echoed somewhere distant. He drifted in that space between life and death, his soul searching for understanding, for justice, for the love denied him.
Then, as if summoned by his last and most desperate wish, he sensed new laws pressing in—new possibilities, new power, new meaning. He would awaken—reborn, not as a forsaken child of secrets, but as someone destined to take control of fate.