Cacophony, slow and slow and steady. The buzz of human activity always hung low over Athens, even in the early hours, the subtle intensity of it never once giving. But it made sense, they were toiling through trying times after all, surviving a world ending war was no easy feat.
Dusk was bidding it's farewell, and dawn lazily peaked through, the rising sun painting the sky a beautiful shade of lilac. It was pleasantly cool, spring was in the air, and the morning breeze—wafting through the forlorn streets of Athens, washed away the pungent smell of a working industry.
The city itself was a sprawling metropolis, its gears slowly coming alive as Dawn shook off the dreary shackles of night. Towering skyscrapers stood like ominous monoliths, and the roads stretched between them like veins, keeping the whole thing alive.
People, both checking in and out for work, filled the streets. The heat was, slowly, but inevitably growing unbearable. The war had taken its toll on the world, and on its people. An especially dire side effect was the growing heat. If it keeps on escalating at the same pace, scientists had predicted the Earth to be uninhabitable in a minimum of a decade.
Yet past all that, Athens had still maintained its rich heritage. Not to say it could compare itself to the city it was a century ago, but even as the 22nd century came to an end, Athens still continued to stubbornly hold onto its relics.
Intricate buildings popped out from the sea of gray bricks from time to time, its delicate, yet tasteful designs a refreshing sight in the concrete jungle. Ancient fountains still stood strong as junctions, the clear water coursing through it both a commodity and a guilty respite in the heat.
Athens was truly an oasis in a burning world.
But alas, one could never judge a book by its cover.
Outside of the grandiose facade, the city was failing, and its residents knew that.
Every single person was tense, rich, poor and beggars alike. After all, there was no way to tell when the terrifying claws of war and famine would finally snatch for them.
It was a depressing life really, knowing your entire world could be blown up by a single nuclear warhead, yet having to live normally through that.
It was especially depressing for a particular young man, whose brain had decided that the day of doom has finally come for them. Leaning on his windowsill, Yuki Veritasis let out a dejected sigh, his drowsy eyes—as red a pool of blood, still gazing at the city.
The feeling of wrongness had come out of nowhere. First, a small tugging instinct, then growing into this all consuming fear that had not let him get any sleep.
If anyone asked, the dark circles under his could have vouched for the fact.
Yet, Yuki was no stranger to the lack of sleep, having struggled with insomnia all his life. This particular situation was more or less routine to him by now.
Not the feeling of wrongness though, that abomination was new.
He had been struggling against it all evening, barely managing to not break down as the feeling grew and grew. It had taken him all his strength to not call his brother or his dear friend—both away on important business. At one point, he had his brother's number dialed on his phone, tears pooling under his eyes as he struggled with the guilt of wanting to disturb him.
But that had passed, same as everything else had in his life.
Now he found staring at the widening maws of oblivion. He was tired, tired of caring, tired of worrying, tired of living.
As vibrant as the two pools of red were, all warmth was gone out of his eyes, he was pale, and his skin was stretched on his gaunt, emaciated body. Yet, even though it should have been impossible, as disheveled as he was, the young man was unreasonably pretty.
Infact, cradled in dawn's arms, the sight of him was almost haunting.
Like a piece of something that did not belong in this world. Like a deity of a beauty standard so bizarre one could not help but gawk at the epiphany their mere presence bestowed upon a mortal.
The wind picked up, ruffling Yuki's hair and bringing him back to reality. He glanced tiredly at the city once more, then slowly, almost reluctantly, straightened. It took him a moment to step away from the windowsill, but once he did, the terror seized him once more.
He gritted his teeth, then dragged himself out of the room.
Downstairs, the sound of boxes clattering echoed through the house as the young man frantically searched through the medicine cabinet. The exhaustion in his face was more pronounced now, the dark circles under his eyes a little more darker—the two vibrant pool of red utterly lifeless. His forehead damp from sweat, eyebrows scrunched in panicked focus.
Yuki was doing his best to not think about anything as he desperately searched for his sleeping pills.
He was determined to at least see that through before utterly succumbing to the terror that gnawed at his mind.
Sleep was important, breaking his streak would not be a good thing, not for him—not for anyone else. Especially since he was prone to… weird tendencies when he got sick.