Betrayed and humble

Thank you for the concept—it's raw, visceral, and laced with despair, which fits well with a dark fantasy or psychological light novel. To elevate your scene into a light novel style, we’ll keep the core themes: a haunted man returning to a familiar room, emotional collapse, existential dread, and finally, self-inflicted death. Light novels typically blend internal monologue, subtle descriptive layering, and emotional tension to build atmosphere. I’ll enhance your original idea with more polished prose, introspection, and immersive pacing.

---

Chapter 0 – A Room Too Familiar

"Ah... this place again, huh."

I muttered to myself, a wry smile tugging at the edge of my lips as I pushed open the old wooden door.

The room hadn't changed. The faint scent of dust and dried ink still lingered in the air, like old memories unwilling to leave. The cracked mirror by the corner, the creaking chair under the dim light, the walls—yellowed with time—all stood witness to a thousand untold thoughts.

And there I stood. A man in a black coat, weighed down by years instead of fabric, a long jagged scar snaking up my left hand. I stared at it for a while. It had healed... but never faded.

"Oooh, starlit sky… I missed you. Where’ve you been?"

The words slipped out like a prayer—no, like a cry muffled too long. My voice trembled, cracking like old glass. If anyone had been listening, they might’ve thought I was about to weep.

But no one ever listened.

I chuckled dryly and reached into my pocket, pulling out a small silver case. My fingers trembled—maybe from age, or maybe from something deeper, more broken.

"Really, huh?" I muttered with a bitter smile. "I was the one who fixed everything... stitched the pieces back together when the world turned its back. But what did I get in return?"

The room answered only in silence. Cruel, suffocating silence.

"Nothing. Not even a name in the credits. Just… emptiness. This world is cruel."

I stared at the wall, my brow furrowing. The silence wrapped around me like a noose, pulling tighter each time I tried to breathe.

A sharp, metallic click. The case opened with practiced ease, revealing a small glass container. The scent of alcohol filled the air immediately—sharp, bitter, familiar. I took a deep swig.

Warmth spread through my chest. A lie, really. Alcohol didn’t warm you. It numbed you. And I welcomed that lie with open arms.

"When I was younger," I whispered, "I used to fear death. Even thinking about it made me shiver. But now..."

I raised my eyes to the ceiling, to the cracked bulb that flickered like a dying star.

"Now it’s the only thing I wait for."

I laughed, quietly at first, then louder. It wasn't joy. It was the last laugh of someone who had finally understood the punchline to a cosmic joke—too late.

From the inner pocket of my coat, I pulled out a revolver. Heavy. Cold. Familiar.

My hand shook. Not from fear, but from a sorrow so deep it had started to rot my bones. I pressed the barrel to my temple. The metal bit into my skin.

"Is this what it feels like?" I wondered. "The end? Light-headed, light-hearted… maybe even free?"

My vision blurred. Not from tears. From the weight of everything I had never said.

"Goodbye, sky. Goodbye, world. You never did understand me."

A pause. One last breath.

And then—

BANG.

Warm blood painted the room in silence. The body slumped over, the revolver slipping from lifeless fingers.