***
What took the place of the darkness were white walls, the smell of... antiseptic, and the constant beep of a machine way off in the background, making it obvious that it was a hospital.
A twenty-or-so-year-old man sat on the edge of the bed, looking down.
His body was built strong, but his left leg ended at the thigh, and a few fingers were missing from his right hand.
His hair was mostly gray, though here and there, a few black strands still clung on; his eyes were entirely dark, however, a bit too unblinking and calm.
Someone... a doctor stood in front of him, flipping through papers.
"Sir Fralnexdoviktru, we can have you fitted for a prosthetic soon."
The doctor cleared his throat and forced a smile.
"You won't even notice the difference, at least for the leg. The hand…"
Said smile faltered for a moment, though he continued:
"We'll do what we can."
The gray-haired man, now Xenos, inclined his head.
"That's more than I expected. Thank you."
The doctor's voice lowered.
"Is there nothing more you want to say?"
Xenos shook his head once, an answer enough.
"Sir Zompyrelthunqar..."
The doctor sighed before presenting him with a folder and opening it before him.
"These are the notes from the therapist you constantly refused to see despite upper command's insistence."
A folder that annoyed him.
"I eventually went, didn't I? Besides, I'm no longer fit for duty..."
Xenos's fists trembled a little.
"There's no need for it..."
He felt a pain that passed.
"I can't return."
Finally, he looked up at the doctor.
"I came here to fix my body, not sit through some damn mental evaluation. Stop trying to upsell me, this isn't some scam garage putting me onto invisible problems and premium air when all I asked for was an oil change. Just do your damned job."
The doctor didn't show much of a reaction, as if expecting this.
"This is a part of my job, Sir Wibtraskelondru; it is you who isn't allowing me to do it."
"..."
Xenos said nothing.
"...Did you know?"
At the doctor's question, he let out a quiet sigh of his own.
"Hm, yes, not the medical name, but… There was always something wrong with me. And no, it wasn't the missions, or the stress, or the nightmares... my hair graying; that wasn't it either."
Those words left him so easily.
"It's…"
Only the final ones made him pause.
"It's how I was born."
The doctor nodded slowly and flipped a page, reading out the cause:
"Schizoid Personality Disorder."
His tone became a bit more professional.
"In plain words, it means you can't connect with people like most can. Emotions like love, rage, jealousy… they don't stay with you. They pass right through, and no, it's not depression or despair. You are simply... wired differently; your mind does not process things the way we do."
"..."
"..."
"..."
The words hung heavy in the air until finally...
"I don't want to live like this."
Xenos smiled.
***
The scene shifted to a luxury suite.
Outside, the city glowed, lights scattered across the skyline.
Xenos sat alone, leaning against a chair, a cigarette between his fingers.
Smoke curled upward, blurring the reflection of his gray hair in the glass.
He seemed to be a bit older now, perhaps in his late twenties.
And he... he was alone.
Though luxurious, his place felt cold and free of personal items.
Much like the room, there was no warmth in his life, none at all.
His hand adorned no wedding ring, and his phone had no photos of any fiancée or girlfriend, not even a family member; there was barely a trace of someone else's presence in his monotonous life.
Everyone around him had moved on, now married, engaged, and raising children.
Of course, it wasn't about money; he had plenty of that, and it wasn't about looks; objectively speaking, he was a catch, even when considering the prosthetic for a leg and the loss of a few fingers.
It was him.
Once, his parents had pushed him into blind dates and introductions, many attempts to "fix" him, but of course, they couldn't continue doing it forever; it was obvious that there was no hope for him.
His friends gave up on him, his lovers left, and his family kept in touch out of obligation, stubbornness, or guilt; he didn't care enough to tell which.
Xenos he... he didn't resent or envy them.
Yeah, he simply didn't care.
This was life...
It was what was left of it.
He exhaled smoke, watching the gray cloud drift until it disappeared against the night.
***
The glow of a monitor lit the room now, and sitting before it was Xenos.
A headset covered his ears, his hand steady on the mouse, clicking about.
Next to him was a virtual reality headset that he seemed to have left unattended for a while.
On the screen, the sprawling fantasy world of a game unfolded, beautiful as could be.
Yes, his life was as gray as his hair, but that didn't mean he spent his nights drinking away and smoking without end.
No, he had his own version of "fun."
His vice was this game, a medieval fantasy MMORPG called Old-World Hunter, or, as they later renamed it, due to... copyright reasons, Old-World Diver.
Now, if you asked the average player, they'd tell you that it was some epic game about Great Houses warring, the Three Stratums, each depicting a different time period, ancient Monsters awakening, Tartaros bringing calamity, Diving into its depths, fighting for Runes in the Coliseum, obtaining land, hunting Daemons, maneuvering Greek-based Gods, prophecies being fulfilled... yada yada.
Xenos couldn't tell you a single thing about the plot.
He didn't give a damn about saving princesses or fighting wars.
The thing he loved about this game was the system, a madman's sandbox.
Physics, economics, Rune markets, city-building—all of it was simulated down to the tiniest detail, and he, the now engineer with a mind like a scalpel, ripped it apart.
He found every loophole and broken mechanic, min-maxing entire economies, reverse-engineering forbidden Ancient Runes, and establishing Houses in uninhabitable zones just to prove he could.
Now, this legend of a player found himself scrolling through the leaderboards.
—
{Leaderboards}
[1st Rank: Richlordx]
[2nd Rank: Fatwhale]
[3rd Rank: Stranger]
—
"...Stranger."