New Life, reborn

Zale's eyes snapped open.

For a moment, the world was nothing but blurred smudges of dark and light, his vision swimming as if he were peering through murky water. His breathing was shallow, his chest heaving like a drowning man's desperate gasp for air. Everything around him felt surreal, stretched thin by the strange sensation clinging to his mind like cobwebs.

But this wasn't the void. No endless darkness or aching nothingness pressing in on him. This was real.

His fingers twitched, and a rough, uneven surface scraped against his skin. The ground. His body was sprawled across it, half-pressed against the cold, unforgiving dirt. He shifted, muscles creaking as if every fiber of his being had rusted over and was only now being forced to move.

He clenched his hands, expecting pain to bloom where broken bones and bruised flesh had been brutally torn apart. But... there was nothing. Only the solid clench of his fists, the flex of fingers responding perfectly to his command.

His hands flew to his chest, pressing against the tattered remains of his shirt. The fabric was still torn, ripped apart by the savage beating he'd endured, but the skin beneath was untouched. No cracked ribs, no sickening sting of torn muscles. Nothing.

Zale's eyes widened, panic and confusion battling for control. His hands roamed over his torso, down his legs, up to his shoulders and neck. Everything was whole. No trace of the injuries that had once left him a crumpled, bloodied mess.

His breathing quickened, mind racing to understand what he was feeling. The memory of darkness and pain flashed through his thoughts, that terrible nothingness consuming him. And then... the light. The ball of light he had touched with the desperation of a man clinging to life.

"The Sin of Sloth."

The words reverberated through his mind, carrying a weight that both chilled him and filled him with a strange, twisted exhilaration. Whatever that sphere of light had been, whatever power it held, he had taken it. And it had changed him.

No. More than that. It had saved him.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, the world still swaying slightly around him. Despite the bizarre clarity of his senses, a fog of weariness hung over him, a bone-deep fatigue that coiled itself around every part of his being.

He felt stronger. His muscles were firmer, more responsive. His senses sharper, picking up every slight sound, every distant creak and shuffle of the world around him. But there was also a weight pressing down on him, like gravity itself had doubled just for him alone.

An unnatural exhaustion that made every movement feel like wading through thick sludge.

Zale gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, straining against the heaviness that tried to drag him back down. But his determination outweighed the fatigue. His rage burned hotter than the weariness could smother.

He looked down at his hands, turning them over and clenching his fingers into tight fists. The power coursing through him was undeniable. The company had left him for dead, but he was very much alive. And now... now he was something more.

They would pay for what they had done. He would make them regret every decision that led them to try and crush him. The mere thought of it stirred a surge of excitement within his chest. A thrill that nearly had him laughing like a madman.

But the thrill was fleeting. As quickly as it came, it was drowned by a crushing wave of exhaustion so intense it nearly brought him to his knees. His limbs trembled, his eyelids drooping like they bore the weight of the world itself.

What was this? Was it the power's curse? The price he paid for surviving what should have killed him? The heaviness clung to him, pressing against his chest, fogging his mind.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as if he could suck the fatigue from his body with sheer willpower. When he opened them again, his vision remained steady, the world a little clearer than before.

Focus.

His breathing evened out, and his mind latched onto a single goal—getting home. Revenge would have to wait. Whatever this power was, he needed rest before he could do anything with it.

Home. Just that one word became a beacon of clarity, a distant light cutting through the oppressive haze trying to swallow him whole.

He took a step forward. His legs nearly buckled under him, his muscles groaning in protest. But he kept moving. Staggering, swaying, but not stopping. His senses felt sharper now, but his body moved like it was encased in lead.

The night was mercifully quiet. A blessing, considering how ragged he must have looked. Filthy, covered in dried blood and wearing nothing but the shredded remains of his shirt. But the only thing he cared about was putting one foot in front of the other.

One step. Then another. And another.

His hands dragged along rough walls, using them as support when his legs threatened to give out. The air was cool, but his skin burned with every strained breath he took. The power he had gained, whatever it was, sang within his veins. But it also smothered him with a weight unlike anything he had ever known.

Was this the nature of "The Sin of Sloth"? To grant him strength and tear it away in the same breath? To give him the power he craved but bury it beneath a crushing weariness?

It didn't matter. Not now. All he had to do was make it home.

The world blurred around him, time becoming a disjointed flow of effort and frustration. His mind wavered, his vision narrowing until all he could see was the cracked pavement beneath his feet.

At some point, his apartment building loomed before him, its shadowed outline more comforting than he ever could have imagined. The sight drew a choked laugh from his throat, a sound edged with madness and relief.

He stumbled up the steps, his fingers fumbling to pull open the rusted door. It creaked in protest but gave way, and he practically fell through the entrance.

His apartment was dark, the familiar clutter of his miserable little home spread out before him like a haven. He stumbled to the nearest piece of furniture, collapsing onto the frayed couch with a groan. His limbs felt heavy, his body sagging under the unyielding weight of his own exhaustion.

But he was alive. More than that—he was stronger.

His fingers twitched, the sensation of power still humming beneath his skin. The company had tried to destroy him. And they had failed.

But revenge could wait. His eyes slid closed, the darkness wrapping around him with a gentleness that made him feel sick. The last thing on his mind before sleep swallowed him was the promise he made to himself.