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The sun was slowly sinking into the horizon, painting the blue sky and white clouds with a reddish-orange hue, resembling dancing flames across its surface. On the other side, the hand of night was pushing away what remained of the sun's light, as if it were a silent battle between light and darkness for the right to rule.
As the two forces continued their struggle, the earth below embraced a bustling city full of passersby and cars. Everyone was hurrying like worker ants, flowing across sidewalks and crosswalks. The sounds of engines, hurried footsteps, and honking horns filled the air, mingling with the scent of sweat, exhaust fumes, and the burning oil aroma from a traditional food cart standing at a street corner.
The streetlights, vehicles, bicycles, and shiny buildings sparkled like stars on a sleepless land. Leaves rustled in the cool evening breeze, and the city's tired air brushed gently and wearily against the faces of passersby, as if the city itself were breathing with difficulty.
While everyone rushed or waited at traffic lights, a young man in a formal suit walked slowly. In one hand, he held a work bag, and in the other, a phone he was browsing intently. His face bore clear signs of fatigue and boredom, shaped by daily work stress and long hours of commuting.
The young man walked slowly—not just him, but everyone around him too. As if exhaustion and daily routine had painted the city with a shade of inner laziness. Everyone was like a machine, moving without soul, from work to home and back again.
This was one layer of modern society: the working class, who labor daily and work overtime for a bite to eat. Their bodies walk, but their souls are worn out, searching for a moment's rest that never comes.
The crowd continued to move—sometimes fast, sometimes slow. In every wave that passed, some people left, others joined. Each person followed a solitary path—no friends, no eye contact, only eyes buried in screens. This was the norm everywhere: in streets, buses, trains, even inside cars. A society locked in the prison of the virtual world, its jailer being technology itself.
Minds filled with trivialities, and hearts distracted from what truly matters: family, friends, and life itself. Everything real had faded… and everything fake had become sacred.
As the crowd kept walking, pausing at traffic lights and then moving again, the young man in the suit, still fixated on his phone, continued forward without any awareness of his surroundings. He didn't notice the red light and kept crossing the street, while the crowd around him didn't notice him either. Everyone was immersed in their screens, as if they were windows absorbing their tired souls.
In the middle of the street, a speeding truck appeared, with no intention of slowing down. The driver clutched the wheel tightly, his eyes lifeless, as if his mind had drifted into another world.
The truck approached quickly, and suddenly struck the young man with great force, launching him into the air like a projectile. Only then did the driver notice what had happened and slammed the brakes violently—but what was the point? A life had been taken.
When the pedestrians heard the crash and the screeching of tires on the slick street, they suddenly looked up, as if a hidden switch had activated to pull their souls from their phones. Yet none of them moved toward the accident. Instead, they lifted their phones and began snapping photos and videos of the young man's body lying in the street. His bones shattered, and blood poured from his nose, mouth, and eyes. The truck stopped in the middle of the street, blocking traffic, but no one came near... only photos and videos—then their heads returned to their screens to publish the incident as quickly as possible.
It wasn't long before the wailing of ambulance and police sirens added to the city's noise, like a chaotic symphony played on a stage of disorder, with the stars above as its silent audience.
In a building near the accident scene, there was a young man in a dimly lit room, sitting on a gaming chair, wearing a headset, his fingers rapidly tapping on a keyboard and mouse. The room was cluttered with empty food bags, half-full drink cans, and a choking smell of mold and old leftovers.
He saw a flash of light from the window overlooking the street, but didn't care and continued playing. He only paused when the round ended. Taking off the headset, his ears were filled with the noise of the street and sirens.
He muttered softly:
"Another traffic accident…"
His expression didn't change. He had no intention of standing or looking. These accidents had become routine. He returned to his keyboard and mouse, then muttered again:
"Do all people hit by trucks reincarnate, like in those fantasy stories?"
He smirked sarcastically:
"That only exists in fiction... Here, the ground isn't soft and warm, but hard and cold."
His name was Jack. He was 24 years old. He graduated a year ago from law school and tried to make it on his own against society. He was a young man with big dreams, but reality had slapped them out of him.
In this world, there are only two classes: the unimaginably rich, and the poor who are buried alive. You either go with the flow or drown and disappear. That's how the rich wrote the rules of this world.
sigh…
Jack let out a heavy sigh, turned back to his screen, and started a new game—just like life, a game he restarted again and again.
His phone rang on the table. He glanced at it… It was his mother calling. He didn't answer. Instead, he lowered the volume, flipped the phone face-down, and turned up the game volume.
He didn't want to answer. Shame and sorrow were enough to keep him from doing so. He didn't want his mother to hear his voice and discover the truth he was ashamed of.
His mother had married a rich man after his father died nineteen years ago. Since childhood, he knew that family wasn't truly his. He didn't want to be a burden on them, even though his stepfather never made him feel like a stranger… but Jack knew he wasn't his son.
He felt that the care shown to him stemmed from pity, and that's what he hated more than anything. Though he had lost his father young, his father's final words were: "Never bow to anyone, and never accept pity."
That's why he avoided his mother's calls. Every time, she offered him a job at her husband's company. He hated the proud tone in her voice. Though he loved her, he hated that feeling in her tone, as if she were trying to fix him with words.
The phone kept vibrating on the table, and with each buzz, his grip on the controller tightened, his face tensed, and his eyes reddened with emotion.
His heart was full of buried hatred: hatred for his stepfather's pity, hatred for his half-siblings' scorn, hatred for his mother's voice soaked in false pride, and hatred for this corrupt society.
His teeth clenched, breath heavy, and one word echoed inside him:
"Hatred... Hatred... Hatred…"
Suddenly, his nose bled. A drop of red blood fell onto his trembling hand. Time seemed to slow down. He leaned back in his chair and extended his shaky hand toward the phone.
He picked it up and put it to his ear.
He heard his mother say:
"Why aren't you answering? Do you know how worried I was about you?"
The words carried fear, but her tone was ordinary… cold.
Jack closed his eyes and replied in a faint voice:
"Why?"
Then silence…
"What do you mean why? Huh? Jack?"
The phone slipped from his hand, and his mother on the other end heard the sound of it falling. She began screaming into the phone:
"Jack? What's wrong? Jack!"
But Jack was no longer there to answer. He had left life behind.
His mother didn't discover the truth until three days later, when one of Jack's friends entered the apartment and found his body sprawled on the floor.
She wept bitterly, with genuine tears…
But do tears bring back the dead?
No.
The place was dark, as if it didn't contain a single speck of light. A terrifying, silent darkness with no beginning and no end. In that void stood a transparent soul alone, glancing right and left, then looking behind itself, and then forward.
It was clear that the soul was trying to find its direction, but in this place, there was no such thing as direction. No up, no down, no front, no back… only nothingness.
Suddenly, the soul began moving forward, even though "forward" did not truly exist. It drifted along an invisible path, as if being pulled through the void without pause, without exhaustion, without any sense of time or physical form.
In this place, time had no meaning. But as the soul continued its journey, a strange energy began to creep into it slowly… quietly. A cold, suffocating energy, as if it were devouring something alive. Little by little, the soul began to darken, losing its transparency. Its spiritual features dissolved, shrank, as if it were being absorbed by the void itself.
This place was unfit for any being. Even the rulers of realms dared not enter it. It was a hidden layer between dimensions, where no laws applied and no power reigned.
Suddenly, the void tore open. A strange rift formed, emitting a dim, yet dark light — like the mouth of an indescribable entity. The soul couldn't resist it. It was pulled inside with overwhelming force, then vanished, as if it had never existed.
---
In a small bedroom, dimly lit by a soft lamp, a young man twisted and turned on the bed, drenched in sweat, his face contorted in sharp pain.
His breaths were rapid, erratic. His hands clutched the blanket tightly, as if seeking stability in the grip of a savage nightmare. Beads of sweat rolled from his forehead down to his neck, soaking the pillow. The heavy air was thick with the scent of his hot body mixed with the stale odor of the closed room.
Suddenly, the young man jolted upright from his sleep, startled — as if hurled from the depths of hell.
"Where... am I?"
His voice was hoarse, frightened, echoing softly between the room's walls. His chest rose and fell quickly, and his eyes were wide with panic, searching for an explanation.
His heart pounded violently, his hands trembled. He looked around, as if he didn't recognize the place. The curtains swayed gently with a cool breeze from the window, but everything seemed foreign to him… as if the world had suddenly changed, or as if he was no longer the same person.