Reshi relished the gentle caress of the wind as he stepped out of the convenience store, the tinkle of the bell ringing out into the melancholic peace of the night. The bag in his hand rustled softly as he began the walk home.
It had been a good night. A night wrapped in the quiet embrace of a dark, endless sky and a full, bright moon.
One of those rare nights perfect for a stroll—preferably while listening to sad music to drown out his own thoughts.
He almost felt at ease.
That was rare nowadays. Since that day, night usually meant hours of being trapped in suffocating darkness, his worst thoughts running rampant as he curled up in the corner of his room, starkly aware of how alone he was. The burning grief in his heart was the only reminder that he was still alive—that he hadn't died and gone to hell.
Yet…
On those nights, he would sit in his dead mother's room, rocking back and forth on her bed while clutching one of her pillows as if he could recreate those moments of warmth and reassurance he had felt while she was alive.
As if he could summon the ghost of her smile, her soft voice, and delicate laugh that had always kept the darkness at bay.
He had been a soldier since he was young. Too young. But in the Republic, that didn't matter. You could die for your country at any age—that was the way they saw it.
He had been fourteen when he joined, and he hadn't even been the youngest.
And every time he returned from his tours, his mother had been there. There to pick up the pieces that war and bloodshed had shattered him into.
But she was gone now.
And he could no longer remember her smile. Or the warmth in her eyes. Only her shock. Her pale face. The tears in her eyes as she was brutally stabbed. Her blood soaking into the floor. Then he would see his father collapse from his wounds, the corpse of his younger sister still wrapped in his limbs.
And finally he would see Joseph. His twin. His mirror. Certainly, the better half of the two of them. Joseph had been smarter, kinder, softer. Too soft for this world. Maybe that's why angels only belonged in heaven.
Without him, Reshi felt like half a man, hobbling on a crutch of grief, dragging himself through a world that now felt two sizes too large and unbearably unfamiliar.
Sometimes, he felt like one of those protagonists in the web novels he loved reading. But instead of a person with a tragic past transmigrating into a world of magic, fairies, and joy, he was the opposite. Stuck in a world that was two degrees too cold.
...…
I stopped walking, my breath turning ragged as a wave of emotion surged forward at the mere thought of my family.
"No," I whispered hoarsely, shaking my head in a futile attempt to banish the images from my mind. "Fuck, man. This night was going so well."
Now, it was ruined.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I continued down the dimly lit street, my shadow stretching long and lonely beneath the flickering streetlights. Solitude was a cold thing. It wasn't something you got accustomed to. You didn't get used to solitude—you survived it. Like a disease for which there was no resistance. Solitude wasn't being by yourself. Solitude was absence, the lack of someone that should've been there.
As I passed a dark alley, the distinct sounds of scuffling reached my ears—unmistakably violent. I kept walking. Who cared if there was a fight? Certainly not my business.
It had taken years—and the death of everyone I ever loved—before I finally understood the lesson life had been throwing at me. I was done. Done with the foolish hero complex, with the idea of duty and ideals. They had been a kids dream, and it had cost me everything.
Then a scream tore through the night. A raw, desperate sound. Female. Filled with agony.
I froze, my heart pounding, my mind turning deathly calm.
Then, with a snort, I continued walking. Guess it was someone else's turn to have a real shit day. I smirked, finding a sick pleasure that someone else was also getting fucked over by life.
And then came the second scream. A wailing cry. Desperate, raw, and innocent. The heart-wrenching cry of a young boy.
It was the sound of someone crying for their mother.
This time I didn't smile.
I stopped dead, my breath hitching in my throat.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was running, sprinting down the alley with reckless urgency.
The scene was horrific. A small, pale-faced boy knelt beside a bleeding woman, his tiny hands pressed against her stomach in a futile attempt to stem the flow of crimson. Opposite them stood a man in a black mask, a knife dripping blood in one gloved hand.
Rage surged through me, white-hot and all-consuming, burning away the cold apathy that had settled in my bones for so long.
"You bastard!" I roared, charging forward.
The attacker reacted a second too late. As I closed the distance, my fists flew in a barely controlled fury.
He slashed wildly with the knife, leaving a deep gash across my arm, but I didn't care.
The pain drowned beneath the flood of adrenaline. I kept swinging—again and again—each blow landing with a sickening crunch until the bastard crumpled to the ground.
And then I kept going. Even as he lay gasping for breath, teeth missing, his face a pulpy mess of bruises, I stomped and kicked, relishing the sound of breaking bones beneath my boot.
"You. Fucking. Disgusting. Little. Bastard," I snarled, punctuating each word with another brutal kick.
At some point, I staggered back, breath ragged. My hands were a bloodied mess, trembling as a thousand tiny cuts wept blood.
I turned to the kid, and I must've looked like a demon because he recoiled, fear darkening his tear-streaked face.
"It's okay, kid," I rasped. "I just wanna help."
I approached slowly, hands raised in a gesture of peace. "She's bleeding out. I can help."
The boy didn't move at first, but as I crouched beside him, he made no effort to stop me. I tore off a strip of my t-shirt, using it as a makeshift bandage to slow the bleeding.
Then, I picked her up. "My place is close. I've got supplies to stop the bleeding properly. Follow me."
The boy nodded silently.
We moved quickly. He grabbed my bag—the one I'd dropped in the rush to reach them—and we made our way to my apartment.
I laid the woman down gently on my couch, wincing as her blood seeped into the fabric. Then, without hesitation, I rushed to the cupboard where I kept my medical supplies.
My hands, which had been trembling before, now moved with practiced precision. The moment I started working, the shakes disappeared. I cleaned and disinfected the wound, stitched it up, and bandaged it with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times before. Which I had, and under worse conditions.
When I finally stepped back, exhaustion settled over me like a heavy weight. I let out a tired sigh.
Irony had a way of slapping you in the face. I thought I had stopped playing the hero. Turns out, all it took was one scream to drag me right back.
Isn't it madness to do the same thing again and again, expecting different results? I let out a humorless chuckle.
In the army, I'd been all about honor—saving the weak, being a hero. But that was just the Republic's propaganda talking. Heroes were what they needed. Heroes were fools, always willing to throw their lives away for nothing.
Guess that's why I excelled in the army. I was talented in death. But killing legally wasn't murder—it was service.
Then I became a medic. The army had even given me a scholarship for medical school. It had felt like a dream, like all my ideals were finally paying off. As if I was finally making a difference.
That's what I had been doing when my family was murdered. Fat lot of good ideals did me then.
"You're crying," a soft voice said, cutting through my thoughts.
I turned to see the boy watching me, his dark eyes filled with cautious wariness.
I touched my face. My fingers came away wet.
With a tired smile, I wiped the tears away. "You can rest here for the night. She won't wake up anytime soon. We should eat something in the meantime."
"Thank you, mister," the boy said hesitantly. "But... I don't have anything to pay you with."
I snorted, a dry chuckle escaping me. "Don't worry about it."
I moved to the kitchenette, pulling out the instant noodles I had bought from the convenience store. So much for a quiet night of manga and ramen. I sighed as I busied myself.
The boy devoured his portion, practically inhaling the food. I ate slowly, trying to savor the warmth, as if it could burn away the darker thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind.
"What's your name, kid?" I asked, trying to break the silence.
"Judas," he murmured.
I raised an eyebrow. "Hell of a name. Who gave it to you?"
"My father."
I nodded, ignoring the weight behind the words. I wasn't planning on being a damn therapist. Someone else could come along and fix his daddy issues.
"Well, my name is Reshi."
The rest of the meal passed in silence. When we were done, I got up, returning with spare blankets and pillows. One set, I gave to the woman. Or was she his sister? She looked too young to be his mother.
The second set, I handed to Judas. "Guessing you want to sleep next to her, right?"
He nodded.
"Well, take these. I'm going to bed. The bathroom's the last door on the right. If she wakes up, explain what happened and tell her to rest. She needs it."
Then, I went into my room, locking the door behind me. I might've helped them, but I wasn't dumb enough to trust them.
I climbed into bed.
For the first time in a long while, sleep came easily.
No silent tears.
No hours of staring at the ceiling.
Not even the idle daydreaming of better times.
It was nice