The office was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that felt unnatural after a full day of ringing phones, clicking keyboards, and distant conversations. Now, only the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint buzzing of overhead lights remained.
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Klik
A man in his late twenties sat hunched over his desk, staring at the laptop screen with tired, unfocused eyes. His fingers rested idly on the keyboard, hesitating. His right hand clutched the mouse weakly, scrolling through rows of data he could barely process anymore.
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His head throbbed, his vision slightly blurred from hours of staring at numbers and emails.He glanced at the bottom corner of the screen. 20:14.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips. Still this early? Feels like I've been here forever…
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It wasn't just today. He had been overworking for days straight—an entire week without a proper break. Each morning started with exhaustion, and each night ended with him dragging himself home only to collapse on the bed for a few hours before doing it all over again.
His meals had become quick, convenience-store snacks eaten at his desk, his coffee intake had doubled, and his body was running purely on habit and caffeine. He had stopped keeping track of time, the days blending together into an endless cycle of work and fatigue.
His eyes burned as he rubbed them with the back of his hand, feeling the dryness scrape against his corneas. Every blink felt like dragging sandpaper across his eyelids. The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh glow over his desk, making the contrast between the dim office and the bright screen even worse.
The air was stale, carrying the lingering scent of long-finished instant coffee and the faint traces of printer ink. The once-busy workspace now felt abandoned, the empty chairs and silent phones making it clear that everyone else had left hours ago.
Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his arms above his head, feeling the satisfying crack of his stiff joints. His entire body ached with exhaustion, shoulders tight from the long hours of sitting. His mind screamed at him to stop—to just shut the laptop, gather his things, and leave.
But deadlines didn't wait.
"I wish I could just sleep forever and never wake up," he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse from disuse.
It wasn't a serious thought, not really. Just the kind of thing someone overworked and exhausted might say to themselves. But still, as soon as the words left his lips, a strange chill ran down his spine, making the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end.
The laptop screen flickered for a split second—so fast he almost thought he imagined it. The air suddenly felt heavier, the silence of the office pressing against him in a way that hadn't been there before.
Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe it was just exhaustion.
Or maybe… it wasn't.
A sudden, sharp pain struck his chest.
It wasn't the dull ache of exhaustion or the tightness from bad posture—it was something far worse. It felt like an invisible fist had reached into his ribs and clenched his heart, squeezing with unbearable force.
His breath hitched, and before he could react, another wave of pain surged through his chest, radiating up to his jaw and down his left arm. A cold sweat broke out across his skin as his body went rigid, his fingers trembling against the keyboard.
His lungs fought for air, but each breath felt shallower than the last. His vision swam, dark spots creeping at the edges. His ears rang, drowning out even the faint hum of the office. His body felt heavy—so unbearably heavy, as if gravity itself was dragging him down.
And then, just as the pain peaked, everything in his mind shifted.
It was as if a switch had been flipped. In just ten seconds, his entire life flashed before him.
Not his work, not the endless emails or the overtimes that stole his years—but the moments that truly mattered.
His childhood wasn't a happy one. A broken home, arguments behind closed doors, the feeling of being unwanted. He had long convinced himself that family was just a word—something he never truly had.
But then, he saw them.
His friends. The ones who had shown him what family was supposed to be.
The late-night ramen runs, the laughter that made his stomach hurt, the way they never let him feel alone. He remembered the warmth of a shared meal, the way they celebrated his small wins when no one else did. They were the ones who gave him a place to belong, the ones who told him to chase happiness.
And yet… he had abandoned them.
Because of work.
Work.
And work.
That cursed, never-ending cycle of deadlines and stress that had stolen everything from him.
He don't deserved them.
Even the thing that once brought him joy.
He saw himself, years ago, watching One Piece with childlike excitement. He had loved it—not just as a show, but as something that gave him hope. The adventure, the friendships, the unbreakable bonds—it had taught him what he never had in real life. It had made him believe in something greater.
But two years ago, he stopped.
No time. No energy.
Just work and work again like a maniac.
The realization struck deeper than the pain in his chest.
He had given up the things that made him happy. He had thrown away the people who cared. And for what? A job that would replace him in weeks? A paycheck that never felt like enough?
His vision blurred, and his body slumped forward against the desk. The laptop screen flickered again, but he didn't see it.
His mind was somewhere else—trapped in the memories of a life he had lost.As his consciousness faded, a weak, almost breathless whisper escaped his lips.
"...I guess… this is it. I'm already gone… but if there's a next time… I just wish I could heal all the pain that still lingers."
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
And then, finally… darkness.
In the void of darkness, where time and space felt meaningless, a voice echoed.Deep yet soft, neither distinctly male nor female. It carried an eerie calmness, as if it existed beyond human understanding.
"If you were granted a power, what would you choose?"
The words floated around him, surreal and distant.
He barely reacted at first. His mind was already slipping, and he had read somewhere that people hallucinate before death. Maybe this was just part of the process—a final illusion before fading completely.
Death, after all, was supposed to be a release. A blessing in disguise, especially for someone like him.
Yet, despite knowing that, something in him still answered.
He let the silence stretch for a moment, as if considering the weight of the question. But in truth, he didn't think too deeply. What was the point? He was already dead, wasn't he?
"...Healing," he murmured. "I don't want to feel pain anymore."
A pause.
Then, the voice responded.
"Understood."
And in that instant, something shifted.
He would soon regret this choice for a lifetime.