Chapter 3: A Life on Repeat

The days in the city began to blur into one another.

Ainz woke up early, long before the sun fully rose, before the world outside their tiny apartment began its relentless march forward. His mother was already up, moving quietly as she prepared breakfast. She always made sure he had something to eat before leaving for school, no matter how tired she was.

Some mornings, Ainz would catch her rubbing her hands, pressing against her fingers as if trying to ease some invisible pain.

He knew the long hours of scrubbing floors had taken a toll on her, but she never mentioned it. She never complained.

His father, on the other hand, had grown quieter. He left before Ainz did and returned home late at night, barely having enough time to eat before collapsing into bed.

He looked exhausted, but just like his mother, he carried his struggles in silence.

Ainz wished he could do something to help, but he knew there was nothing he could do—not yet, at least.

For now, all he could do was study.

That was what his parents expected of him. That was why they had come to the city, why they worked themselves to exhaustion—to give him a chance at a better future. Ainz understood this.

But the weight of it sat heavily on his chest.

School was nothing more than a routine now.

He arrived, took his seat in the back of the classroom, and went through the motions. The teachers spoke, he took notes. The students laughed, he stayed silent. The hours passed, and then it was time to go home.

The students around him continued their effortless conversations. They talked about the weekend, about the places they had gone, about the new things they had bought.

Ainz never joined in.

At first, some of them had tried to include him. A few students—Rohan, Aditi, and some others—had invited him to sit with them at lunch. They had asked him questions, tried to get to know him.

But Ainz had learned that it was easier to keep his distance.

Every conversation felt like a reminder of how different their lives were. They would talk about the latest games, the newest phones, the places they visited during holidays.

Ainz had nothing to add.

He didn't own the latest phone. His family couldn't afford vacations. The world they lived in was not the same as his.

So he slowly withdrew. He wasn't rude. He would smile politely, nod when needed, but he never let himself get too close.

Eventually, the invitations stopped.

No one was unkind to him. No one bullied him or made him feel unwelcome. But there was an unspoken distance between him and everyone else—one that only grew wider as time passed.

The only place he felt at peace was the school library.

It was one of the few places where no one expected him to talk. He could sit for hours, lost in books, pretending that he was somewhere else. Sometimes, he read fiction—stories about people who lived lives completely different from his own. Other times, he read history books, biographies of people who had struggled and succeeded.

He wondered if he would ever be one of them.

But most of the time, he just felt tired.

After school, Ainz went straight home.

Their apartment was always empty when he arrived. His mother wouldn't return until later in the evening, and his father even later than that.

The silence was heavy.

He would finish his homework, not because he cared about it, but because it was expected of him. Then he would clean the apartment—sweeping the floor, washing the dishes, folding the clothes his mother had washed before leaving for work.

It became part of his routine. Wake up, go to school, come home, clean, study, sleep.

Every day was the same.

By the time his mother came home, she looked exhausted. But she still smiled at him, still asked how his day had been.

"It was okay," Ainz always said.

She never asked for details. He never gave them.

Dinner was quiet. His parents would talk in hushed voices about rent, about the rising cost of food, about their work. They always tried to keep their voices low, as if lowering their voices could soften the weight of their struggles.

But Ainz heard everything.

He heard his father sigh deeply before speaking.

He saw his mother rub her hands under the table.

He felt the tension that never truly disappeared.

He wanted to tell them that they didn't have to worry, that one day he would earn enough to make things easier for them.

But even as he thought it, a part of him wondered if that day would ever come.

And if it did—if he finally earned enough money to support them—then what?

Would that be his life?

Wake up. Work. Earn. Provide. Repeat.

Was that all there was?

One evening, after another long day, Ainz sat on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn't stop.

He thought about his future—what it would look like.

He thought about his parents—how they had spent their entire lives working, sacrificing, struggling.

And he thought about himself—how he was slowly turning into them.

It wasn't that he didn't love them. He did. He was grateful for everything they had done for him. But the thought of living this way forever—of waking up every day just to survive, never really living—made something inside him ache.

For the first time, he allowed himself to admit it.

He was tired.

Not just physically, but in a way that sleep couldn't fix.

He was tired of pretending.

Tired of smiling when he didn't feel happy.

Tired of holding everything in.

And worst of all, he was tired of feeling like his life didn't belong to him.

But what choice did he have?

His parents needed him. He was their only support.

He couldn't abandon them.

So, just like every other day, he forced himself to take a deep breath, pushed down the heaviness in his chest, and continued with the life he never chose.