Hopeful tommorow!

In the dim glow of a solitary screen, a young man sat slumped in a worn-out chair, his fingers aimlessly scrolling through his phone.

The cold blue light reflected in his dark, tired eyes, which, like his disheveled black hair, blended seamlessly into the oppressive gloom of the room. The air was thick with stagnant silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath him.

A sudden vibration jolted the phone in his hand. The sharp ring tone echoed through the hollow space, cutting through the heavy stillness. His gaze flickered to the screen, and a shadow passed over his face. The name on the display made his stomach sink. He exhaled sharply before answering.

"Hello, Dad," Dawn murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What are you doing?" his father's gruff voice came through, rough and direct, carrying the weight of unspoken disappointment.

Dawn already knew where this was going. He had heard it all before—like an old, broken record, its scratches deepening with every replay. His grip on the phone tightened. With a forced neutrality, he answered, "Nothing."

"Nothing, yeah, right. That's all you're ever capable of," his father's voice snapped, crackling with anger and the bitter aftertaste of pity.

The words struck like a dull blade—blunt and painful, yet too familiar to draw fresh blood. A beat of silence stretched before his father spoke again, his tone eerily calm. "You're a failure."

The sentence settled over him like a suffocating weight, pressing into the cracks of his already crumbling resolve. Dawn had long since grown numb to these conversations. He no longer fought back. No longer defended himself. He only waited, hoping the storm would pass quickly.

"Yes, a complete and utter failure," he muttered under his breath, sighing as regret seeped into his voice. He lowered his phone and, as if on autopilot, opened a game.

Video games had become his escape, a mindless refuge from the world that seemed determined to remind him of his shortcomings. At first, it had been a simple pastime, a way to kill time. But before he knew it, the flashing numbers, the small victories, the intoxicating sense of progress—had become his only source of gratification.

Yet, deep down, he knew. Games wouldn't fill his stomach. They wouldn't change his life.

"Tomorrow, I'll change. I'll do better," he said, trying to believe in his own words, though they felt hollow. He had promised himself this countless times, yet each attempt ended the same way—with nothing changing.

His vision blurred as the screen's glow burned into his exhausted eyes. His stomach churned, his body aching from prolonged neglect. He was barely holding together, a puppet with broken strings.

"Damn my body, my life—everything's ruined," he muttered, voice cracking with fatigue.

Despair stood over him, whispering thoughts he dared not dwell on. But he forced himself to push them aside. Thinking wouldn't solve anything. If he wanted change, he had to act.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, seeking a sliver of peace in the embrace of sleep. Maybe tomorrow would be different.

Minutes passed. The room fell into silence once more.

Then—

A presence.

A black shadow materialized from the void, swirling at the foot of the bed like liquid night. Two glowing eyes burned with malice, fixed intently on the slumbering figure.

A whisper, venomous and seething. "If I erase you from every reality, the Great Seer Athen's vision will never come true."

A shift in the air. The shadow tensed. It had sensed something.

The Guardian was near.

"Too late."

A flicker of movement. A silent attack. And then—nothing.

Five minutes later, the air in the room shifted once more. A figure clad in crimson armor stepped through the darkness, his gaze falling upon the ruined remnants of what once was a shabby room.

A disfigured body. A wasted life. A tragedy written before it even had a chance to unfold.

A weary sigh escaped him. He lingered only for a moment before vanishing into the night, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.