If you're reading this...
It means I survived.
Or maybe I'm hallucinating so hard I'm writing inside my own head.
Whatever.
The last 24 hours?
At least... that's what I thought.
But before all that—
I was done.
Eight months unemployed.
Eight months choking on automatic rejections, digital silence, ghost recruiters.
My last shot?
A teaching gig. Yep.
"Survival" teacher at some school no one's heard of.
One of those weird "alternative reintegration" programs.
I clicked "Apply" just for laughs.
Ironic, huh?
Me. Teaching survival.
And then—
Gamm Micheline happened.
Then that damn Gali-Gali rum.
A beat. A breath. A jolt.
Like the universe had a seizure.
And I fell.
Not into a hole.
Into silence.
A silence so deep, even my own thoughts echoed.
I landed on the new King of this cycle.
Or maybe a demon wearing a crown.
Still not sure.
Now? I'm the chosen King, marked by the Eye of Ozen.
I watched my phone look back at me.
Actually look.
And then a voice:
— Welcome, Master. It's time to reconfigure failure.
I saw my mom again.
My parents.
Their siblings.
The neighborhood.
My childhood.
Then— a reversed mirror.
And inside...
Me.
But not me.
A version of me that had never been weak.
That's when it clicked.
I came back.
The first time, it was too soon.
Back then, my parents were labeled rebels.
Same names. Same faces.
Wiped.
Not by mistake.
Not out of necessity.
Just… out of hunger for power.
Now I remember.
The Creolins were all erased.
An execution. Screams.
One by one—for saying no.
And me?
Now I carry their hopes.
I feel their memories.
I understand their story.
Today, I'm ranked Class Zero.
Not because I'm useless.
But because I'm a threat.
An unstable element. A voluntary glitch.
Thanks to Iris,
I see the cracks.
I sense what's unspoken.
Memories glued to people's skin.
Intentions hidden under plastic smiles.
I'm no hero.
I'm a bug in their system.
And now?
I'm awake.
Wait...
You don't get it?
Still lost?
Normal.
Even I had to reread the damn prologue, champ.
Back to reality.
I move forward. Slowly.
Each step sinks into a thick, greasy, living muck.
A disgusting mix of rotting trash, forgotten flesh, and secrets dissolved in filth.
The air reeks of rust, dried blood, and hate.
Each breath cuts my throat.
The atmosphere clings to my back—
Sticky. Aggressive.
Like a clammy hand that refuses to let go.
In my earbuds, Damian Marley is blasting Welcome to Jamrock.
Heavy. Gritty.
Perfect soundtrack for this apocalypse set.
[Welcome to a world where everything stinks of survival.]
— William (thought):
Fantastic. Another death trap. I'm gonna get smoked again... What karma did I piss on this time?
Vrrrrm.
My phone vibrates.
The cracked screen flashes—blinding.
[Presence detected: 12 meters.]
I clench my jaw.
— Iris (metallic whisper):
"Multiple thermal signatures. No hostile behavior... for now."
— William:
"Why'd you say it like I'm about to get stabbed in ten seconds?"
— Iris:
"Correction. Probability of attack: 80%... if you keep acting cocky."
Great.
I breathe in. Deep.
But something's off.
I always feel like... somebody's watching me...
A shiver rips down my spine.
A breath.
A flicker behind me.
Too fast.
Too precise.
The air vibrates.
Twists.
Tears.
I turn—
Too late.
— AN ARM SHOOTS OUT OF NOWHERE.
— BOOM.
My back smashes against a decaying wall.
Hard. Brutal.
My ribs scream.
My vision shakes.
CLACK.
A blade.
Shiny. Thin.
Pressed against my throat.
Its edge is icy.
Its metal burns.
A breath—hot. Animal.
And a voice.
Cold. Sharp. Threatening.
Their breath smells like mint...
And their armpits? Lavender.
Weird combo.
— ???:
"WHO SENT YOU?!"
CUT.