The world is filled with many terrible people—dictators who rule through fear, murderers who take lives without hesitation, and rapists who destroy the dignity and peace of others. Humanity has produced countless monsters throughout its long and violent history, individuals whose cruelty and selfishness leave scars upon the world that can last generations. And yet, terrible as these people are, they all pale in comparison to another race of beings entirely—creatures that do not belong to this world at all.
Far below the surface of our reality lies another realm, a domain spoken of in whispers and ancient stories. A place humanity has feared for centuries.
Hell.
It is said that within that abyss exists a race of beings far more malicious and destructive than any human who has ever lived.
Demons.
...
I am a regular high schooler. My name is Solaris Gunther, though that is not something I often share with people. In fact, very few individuals even know my true name. To most people, I am simply another unremarkable student drifting through the halls of school like a shadow—present, but rarely noticed. Someone whose existence blends seamlessly into the background of everyday life.
The name "Solaris" was given to me by my parents, though it is a name that has rarely been spoken since I was very young. In truth, only one other person outside of my family has ever learned it—a random classmate from years ago.
Instead, the name most people know me by is "Shard," a nickname that emerged during my middle school years. It is not a name born from friendship or admiration, but rather from curiosity—and perhaps a little mockery.
The nickname is tied to a strange mark that covers my right forearm. It is a triangular patch of black pigmentation, sharp-edged and oddly geometric, stretching from my wrist up toward my elbow. circling the entire forearm. Its shape almost resembles a broken shard of glass embedded within my skin, which is likely how the nickname began.
What makes the mark truly strange, however, is that I do not remember how it appeared.
It was not something I was born with, nor was it the result of an injury I can recall. One day during the seventh grade, I simply woke up and found it there, as if it had always existed. There was no pain, no itching, no discomfort of any kind. Because of that, I initially dismissed it as some strange late-developing birthmark.
Unfortunately, my classmates found it far more interesting than I did.
It quickly became a topic of conversation, speculation, and eventually teasing. Before long, the nickname "Shard" had spread through the school.
Ironically, that brief period of attention was the first—and nearly the only—time in my life that people truly noticed me.
Academically speaking, I am neither particularly talented nor especially incompetent. My grades hover comfortably in the middle range; good enough to pass every class without trouble, but not impressive enough to draw praise from teachers. I do not participate in sports teams, clubs, or extracurricular activities of any kind. My days follow a simple, predictable routine: attend school, complete assignments, go to work, and return home.
Most days, I only interact with one person in any meaningful way, usually a teacher during class discussions or the occasional classmate when group work is unavoidable. Outside of those brief exchanges, I make little effort to engage with others, choosing instead to keep to myself.
It is not that I dislike people. I simply find a certain comfort in solitude.
Building meaningful connections requires time, emotional energy, and a level of vulnerability that I have never been particularly eager to invest. Perhaps that reluctance is a kind of defense mechanism developed over years of instability. If I had to give a reason for it, I might say that I prefer solitude because it allows me to remain closer to the family I never truly had.
Though if I am being honest with myself, that is not entirely the truth either.
My mother left when I was six years old. One day she was there, and the next she simply wasn't. There was no dramatic goodbye or heartfelt explanation—just an empty apartment and a silence that lasted far longer than any words she could have spoken.
My father had already been gone long before that.
When I was only two years old, the crushing weight of financial debt and personal failure drove him to take his own life. I do not remember him at all. The only knowledge I have of him comes from fragmented records and the occasional reluctant explanation from social workers.
After my mother disappeared, I spent the majority of my childhood drifting from one foster home to another. Some of those homes were tolerable, others far less so. None of them ever truly felt like a place where I belonged.
Life remained like that for many years—temporary beds, unfamiliar faces, and the quiet understanding that I would eventually have to move again.
Everything finally began to change when I turned sixteen.
I managed to secure a small job, working long hours whenever school allowed it. With enough persistence and careful saving, I eventually earned just enough money to rent a small apartment. The building owner, a surprisingly kind man given the circumstances of the neighborhood, agreed to lower the rent slightly after hearing about my situation.
The apartment itself was far from luxurious. It was a modest single-room unit with a small bathroom, located on the thirty-third floor of a towering residential building in one of the city's poorer districts.
Given my limited income, the room was sparsely furnished. I owned little more than a mattress placed directly on the floor and a small microwave used to prepare most of my meals. There was no television, no couch, and very little decoration to speak of.
Despite its simplicity, however, the apartment represented something incredibly important to me.
Stability.
Compared to the constant movement and overcrowded chaos of foster homes, this small, quiet room felt like a sanctuary.
Of course, there are moments when the isolation becomes noticeable. Living alone means long stretches of silence where the only sounds are the distant hum of the city and the occasional footsteps from neighboring apartments. At times like those, I cannot help but wonder what it might feel like to share this space with someone else—to have a real conversation, to hear laughter echo against the walls.
Yet even with those moments of loneliness, I still deeply appreciate the independence my apartment provides. For the first time in my life, I have a place where I can exist entirely on my own terms. A place where I can think, study, rest, and plan for whatever future might lie ahead.
However, this is not the story I wish to tell.
My true story begins only a day from now.
As the droning voice of the teacher discussing the history of the school faded gradually into the background, my attention drifted away from the classroom. My eyes wandered toward the large window beside my desk, eventually settling on the courtyard outside.
The scene there was surprisingly peaceful.
A small cluster of trees stood in the center of the courtyard, their leaves swaying gently in the wind. The soft rustling of branches created a quiet rhythm that contrasted sharply with the dull monotony of the lecture taking place behind me. Beneath the trees, patches of grass moved with the breeze in a subtle, almost hypnotic dance.
It was a simple sight, yet strangely captivating.
These patches of greenery were far more significant than they appeared. Trees like these were remnants of a world that had largely disappeared. Nearly two hundred and eighty years ago, forests and natural landscapes were far more common across the planet. Over time, however, the relentless growth of human populations had consumed vast portions of the natural environment.
Cities expanded. Housing developments multiplied. Forests were cleared to make room for steel and concrete.
Eventually, the damage became impossible to ignore.
In response, the government enacted a series of environmental preservation laws. One of those laws required every school, hospital, and prison to maintain a minimum number of trees—usually between six and eight—within their courtyards or surrounding grounds. The measure was small compared to what had been lost, but it was at least an attempt to preserve a fragment of the natural world.
As I watched the branches sway against the pale afternoon sky, my thoughts drifted further and further away from the classroom.
I began imagining what the world must have looked like centuries ago, before cities dominated every horizon. In my mind, I saw endless forests stretching across valleys and mountains, rivers flowing freely through untouched landscapes, and fields of vibrant green farmland supporting small human settlements.
I imagined a time when humanity lived alongside nature rather than replacing it—when the earth itself seemed alive with color and movement.
It must have been breathtaking.
Lost within these thoughts, I barely noticed the moment when the lecture ended.
My attention snapped back to reality when the teacher suddenly slammed his hand against my desk, the sharp sound echoing through the quiet classroom.
"The class is over," he said flatly. "You're free to leave. I'll see you on Monday."
I nodded quietly before gathering my belongings.
As I made my way toward the classroom door, I overheard a small group of students excitedly discussing their plans for the weekend. Their voices carried a mixture of enthusiasm and anticipation—plans for parties, outings, and gatherings with friends.
Once my bag was secured over my shoulder, I stepped into the hallway and began the familiar journey home.
Despite the fact that my apartment building was technically only three streets away from the school, the actual distance between the two locations stretched nearly five and a half miles. Walking the entire route would easily consume more than an hour of my time, something I preferred to avoid whenever possible.
Because of that, I often relied on the city's shared vehicle program.
The process was simple. Using a valid identification card, anyone could unlock a nearby city car for temporary use. The system would automatically charge fifty dollars for the trip, allowing the driver to reach their destination quickly before leaving the vehicle for the next user.
Finding one available after school, however, was usually a matter of luck.
Fortunately, today happened to be one of those rare, fortunate days.
I slid my ID card into the reader mounted on the dashboard, and after a brief beep of confirmation, the system accepted the charge and activated the vehicle. The drive itself was short, lasting only around ten minutes before I arrived at the towering building that housed my apartment.
After parking the car in one of the designated city vehicle slots, I gathered my bag and stepped outside. Almost immediately, another person approached and repeated the same process I had just completed, quickly driving off once the system accepted their card.
I sighed softly as I looked up at the massive structure before me.
Thirty-three floors.
Retrieving my ID once more, I swiped it across the building's entry panel and stepped inside.
The elevators were technically functional, but I personally avoided using them whenever possible. Aside from the small fee required for each ride, I simply never felt comfortable trusting such machines with my safety.
So, as usual, I took the stairs.
By the time I finally reached my door, my legs were already beginning to protest.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the quiet familiarity of my apartment.
That night was uneventful.
I heated a simple meal in the microwave, took a quick shower, and eventually laid down on my mattress to sleep.
Yet as I stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, a persistent thought lingered in the back of my mind.
No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise… something in my life still felt incomplete.
I had a place to live.
I had a job.
I had an education.
And yet… There was still an emptiness I could not quite explain.
Perhaps I needed a hobby to occupy my time.
Perhaps it was something else entirely.
Thoughts like these slowly filled my mind before gradually fading away, shrinking from a rushing stream into a gentle trickle as sleep finally overtook me.
Little did I realize that by this time tomorrow…
My life would collapse completely.
And something far stranger would begin.