Beyond the Darkness

Dr. Oleman's calm, measured analysis of the pandemic felt unnervingly reminiscent of a fictional plotline—like something straight out of the Resident Evil franchise. As I listened, it was almost as if I was watching the T-virus spread through Raccoon City, one bad decision after another leading to global catastrophe. While we all know the real pandemic wasn't caused by an engineered virus designed to turn people into mindless monsters, the panic and chaos felt strikingly similar. In both cases, it starts quietly—a few cases, an isolated event—and before long, it's everywhere.

The origins of the T-virus itself, created as part of the Umbrella Corporation's experiments, have an eerie connection to real-life speculation and paranoia surrounding the pandemic. In fiction, the T-virus was a biological weapon created in a lab, a concept that, for some, isn't far removed from theories that circled the origins of the pandemic. The loose threads between the two are enough to make anyone question the reality we live in. Watching the world unravel from the safety of my couch made it all seem surreal, like I was in the audience of a bad horror film, helpless but too curious to look away.

But while everyone was losing their minds over toilet paper and hand sanitizer, I barely felt touched by it. I've always been somewhat of a ghost to sickness. I can count on one hand the number of times I've fallen seriously ill since the age of 10. But when I do get sick, it's not just a case of the sniffles. It's always been severe, almost like the universe punishes me for daring to think I'm invincible.

Whether due to personal mistakes or familial pressure, I found myself on the edge of life itself at one point. That brush with death stands out vividly, not because of any overwhelming fear, but because of the strange calmness that accompanied it.

I was in this strange state—darkness all around me. But it wasn't the kind of darkness that scares you as a kid. It was more of an infinite void. Empty. Silent. No time, no sense of self. I felt like I was floating in stasis. There was no fear, just calm indifference. It was the kind of nothingness that makes you question everything. Was this death? Had I already crossed over?

Time became meaningless (wasn't it always?). It could've been minutes, hours, or even centuries. There was no way to tell, and frankly, I didn't care. It was just... being. I thought about my life, but even those thoughts faded after a while. I don't know how, but somewhere in that timeless void, I tapped into something—a piece of me that was both unfamiliar and intimately known.

That experience felt like an awakening, a profound connection to something deeper within myself—my soul.

It was like I touched something essential about life and death, something profound and simple, yet inexplicable. Slowly, I meditated, feeling my way through the emptiness. When I began to feel the return of my strength, it was like a resurgence of life itself. I wasn't dead. I wasn't finished. The flood of relief and excitement was overwhelming. I felt like I had been given another chance, and all I needed to do was wake up.

And when I did wake up, the doctors seemed beside themselves with joy. They talked to my father, saying it was a miracle I survived. Apparently, six other patients had been admitted with my identical symptoms, and none of them made it. But I did. I overheard them and smiled. I knew why I survived. I'd been to the edge of that darkness and back. I had faced death, and instead of fear, I'd found something else—an unshakable indifference.

Ever since that experience, I've carried that void with me. It lingers, like a reminder that I've seen the other side. It's given me a strange sort of sixth sense about the world around me. Maybe I've always been more sensitive than others, attuned to things most people miss. But that's just me—I am weird and sensitive (paging Mr. Bing).

Looking back, it makes sense. ISTJs are known to be the quiet observers, the old souls, even in childhood. I wasn't the kid who thrived in chaos. While others played, I studied, trying to make sense of the world in a way that didn't overwhelm me. The quiet was my solace, my chance to recharge. If too many things were happening at once—school, family, social events—I'd get drained fast. The world was chaotic, but I kept my little bubble of calm. Discipline was my way of staying grounded, my way of keeping things from spiraling out of control.

But feelings—those were the hardest part. They didn't make sense. I wanted everything to be logical, but emotions had a way of throwing everything off balance. I tried to suppress them for the longest time. Even when I faced death, there was no overwhelming fear. It was just... nothing. Cold indifference.

Even now, the solitude of that near-death experience—the void—stays with me. It's become a part of who I am, shaping how I see the world, how I interact with it. While the world may rush forward, filled with noise and uncertainty, I move through it with calm precision, grounded by that darkness that once threatened to consume me but, in the end, only made me stronger.

But that near-death experience—it was a turning point. That darkness gave me answers to questions I didn't even know I had. And yet, it also left me with more questions. Maybe that's why I've always been different, why I've always felt like there's more beneath the surface than what we see.

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But enough about me for now. Let's get back to the story. Here we are, living through what many called the golden age of humankind. At the time, it was hard to see it that way. Technological advancements surged ahead, the internet connected the world, and industries grew more efficient. Yet, somehow, the golden age felt like it slipped through our fingers, marked by moments of great progress but also deep fractures in the global fabric.

The pandemic, when it hit, was the tipping point, revealing just how fragile our world had become. It wasn't just about a virus, although that was the catalyst. The real shift was in how we viewed life, work, and survival. Overnight, systems we thought were ironclad crumbled, exposing cracks we'd ignored for too long. It forced the world to rethink everything—from the way we interacted to how we approached work. The golden age, in hindsight, wasn't about the abundance of resources or technology—it was about how we adjusted in the face of chaos.

As for me, those years after the pandemic were a time of deep reflection. Like many, I found myself trapped in a strange limbo between the old world and the new. Remote work became the norm, global industries reshaped themselves overnight, and for once, the traditional 9-to-5 model felt… outdated. It didn't take long for me to realize that things would never go back to the way they were. The shift wasn't just about where we worked—it was about how we worked. There was an undeniable freedom in this new structure, and I wasn't about to let that slip by.

Day-to-day life became quieter, more introspective. Without the constant rush of a commute, the endless office noise, I found myself thinking more about what I wanted. About how I could carve out my own path in this changing world. That's when I started building something of my own, laying the foundations for a business. A business that wasn't just about survival in a post-pandemic economy but about freedom—freedom to adapt, to live on my terms.

But freedom is a tricky thing. It exists in many forms. The global work culture might have shifted, offering some version of freedom in the civilized parts of the world, but out in the uncivilized lands, it was a different story entirely.

Life in the uncivilized lands is like walking through a carefully managed storm—chaos everywhere, yet somehow, it works. At first glance, it feels like the end of the line, a place where the rule of law no longer exists, and survival belongs to the most ruthless. But if you take a step back and look broadly, there's a method to the madness. It's a dance, one of contradictions, where power shifts hands in silence, and what seems like disorder is simply the way things are done.

This place is my home. The rest of the world may see it as chaotic, but I know it's more than that. There's a rhythm here, a way to move through it without getting swept away. It's not about following the rules. It's about learning when to push forward and when to hold back, when to bend, and when to stand firm. That's how you not just survive but thrive.

In these lands, power doesn't come from a government or any official authority. There's no structure. Not in the traditional sense. The uncivilized lands are ruled by those who can adapt—by strength, influence, and resilience. People come and go, making their own rules, building their own little empires. But the real power? It lies in understanding the game and knowing how to play it.

Thriving here is like surviving rush hour traffic (because Truck-kun, like the Viper, can strike from outta nowhere)—stressful, unpredictable, but manageable if you keep your focus. It's a test, a constant push-and-pull between the chaos outside and the calm you have to hold onto inside. That's where I find my edge. When things get crazy, I stay steady. There's always opportunity if you know how to look for it.

Connections are currency here. You don't form friendships for comfort or companionship—you form alliances for survival. It's all about trust. Loyalty. Having people you can count on when things fall apart. Sometimes that's worth more than all the supplies or weapons in the world.

I've learned to move quietly, to observe before making any decisions. In a world that's constantly shifting, you can't afford to make the wrong move. While others lose their heads, panicking in the face of uncertainty, I keep my focus. There's a balance to everything, even here.

In this brutal place, there's also freedom. Without society's rules, you can carve out your own path. Heroes and villains? They don't exist here. It's all about survival, and the lines between right and wrong blur more with each day. But no matter how bad things get, there's always a way forward. You just have to be willing to find it, to adapt, and most importantly, to keep moving.

And so, while the world outside rebuilds and reshapes itself, I find myself here, navigating the storm, finding my own way through the golden age, however fleeting it may be.