Veck Starken, a man who exists on planet Earth in the distant calendar years of the late 2030s, sat hunched in a wooden chair, an odd juxtaposition against his cutting-edge gaming setup. His room was dim, illuminated only by the glow of multiple monitors surrounding him like portals into other lives.
On-screen, combo strings and frame data danced in artificial violence, but Veck's mind was elsewhere, lost in a maze of mental agony.
He was twenty-two. Thin to the point of absurdity. A frame that stood six feet tall and barely carried 130 pounds. His limbs looked sketched rather than sculpted. Handsome, undeniably. His parted brown hair, streaked and highlighted with a naturally ethereal green, his hair flowed down his back like draped silk. But that's where the awe ended.
Physically, he was closer to a mythos of sickness than any conventional beauty. He often called himself subhuman.
"Kekke… I really am a skeleton in disguise," he muttered, lips curled in a private smirk. "Not that it matters." He launched into a game, initiating the first string of a combo with the casual violence of muscle memory. "This subhuman will drag you into a pit of despair... In this realm, I can be anyone…"
Yes, subhuman, and not in the derogatory sense, but in the context of physical comparison. Compared to the gods he idolized, the fighters, the monks of fictional greatness, he was the monkey king's pale shadow.
He imagined himself standing beside that very monkey king, watching him ascend through the nine heavens. Veck, gaunt and hollow… was sat in his gaming chair…. participating in a realm more fake than artificial.
"I've never known a purpose I'd die for," Veck said aloud, reclining with his feet on the desk. His jeans and shirt, both stark white, made him look like a specter of someone who once dreamt of cloudscapes. "And until I find one, I'll keep kickin it."
Don't be fooled by his superficial image. This feeble weakling was a global icon in the world of fighting games. Veck made his living racking up pixelated trophies. He didn't work a job... as being home was his occupation. Tournaments, titles, sponsorships, they were all his. He was even ranked top five across multiple games, including the very one he played now.
But none of that silenced the echoing voice of introspection inside him... the whisper that none of it truly mattered.
He was deep into the trending XerDead, a brutal, stylized fighting game. It's greatness boasted a massive following over the two years of it being released back in 2025.
Fingers danced over his controller with chilling precision. His opponent's health bar shrank with each ability combination.
"They don't fight back. Makes me wonder… are some of these people even real? Or are they lines of code among stardust?" He tilted his head. "What's the ratio of real to autonomous? I hope there isn't one."
"When was the last time I lost?" He paused, as if expecting an answer. "Oh, right now? Man… you're really harsh aren't you Veck."
His opponent broke the combo. "Oh, he managed to break out?! Finally, some valor. But how long will it last?!" Veck's face reignited, as if fire touched dry wood.
The opponent launched an attack, catching Veck off guard. "He's… not… that bad," he admitted, only to be immediately stunlocked by this same overpowered character.
"Weren't they supposed to nerf this?" Veck said, barely escaping with 40 health, only to be trapped in another brutal combo, and then another one. "Fuck, fuck… this character needs to be removed. I can't move." At this point, he knew it was over. "Using Franken… is… n-not even remotely close to talent."
[You have been brutally killed. Rematch. Main Menu. Next Match]
Defeated, Veck rose abruptly and hurled his controller against the wall, carving a small crater that grazed the insulation beneath.
"FUCK!"
Calmly, he looked down at his arms, then his legs, then back to the losing screen. A muscular fighter glared back from the TV, the virtual character who just destroyed him.
Vehemently, that glare felt directed at me… cutting deep, he declared I was worthless.
I could hear the words loud and clear.
"I worked harder than you. Why else do you think I'm yoked and you're skinny? Keep playing this fighting game, please… it just makes crushing your skull beneath my feet that much sweeter."
Dark words. Yet true. He crushed my virtual skull.
Though angry and having broken a controller, Veck's face instantly returned to neutral when he glanced at the character.
"He gazes at me like he holds some cosmic purpose. Must be nice, carrying all that fulfillment. Probably strolls through his forest in a peaceful saunter, touching the ever growing and fresh plants around him."
Unnoticed, Veck's eyes flickered a strange green for a few seconds, "I'm so incredibly envious of you." Then his irises snapped back to brown.
Assuming almost a perfect posture, his mind-state elevated in a terrible situation.
"Oh no… what is this feeling of limitless despair? My pistol is really catching my eye. Might just click it to my brain."
I'm really doing this?
Veck reached for the handgun he bought for protection against intruders.
I know it's sudden, but… I'm going to kill myself.
I can't explain it, but somehow I'm okay with dying right now. Sure, I'd be happy to die in many ways…
But right here, right now… it feels flawless.
This very second, in this pointless life of mine, dying seems ever so imminent.
Running, I left my small apartment, desperate, ascending the complex stairs one floor at a time toward the roof.
So this is death, a lurking sensation in which prowls any and all doubts. I thought I was living, but I was merely persevering in an uncharted jungle.
Why am I here? I should be relaxing in the luxury of America's lifestyle.
Oh well. I chose this, didn't I?
Around me were trees and plants ablaze in a crimson fire, and if I don't kill myself soon, a fiery death will surely claim me.
I don't want to be a burning man alive.
He wasn't athletic, so he stumbled on the third floor. Breathing in deep, he was utterly winded.
Man, man… I never thought I'd find myself here. The question's already answered… yet… why the hell am I doing this? Me? Suicide? I vowed I never would…
"I promised myself I'd be different from them."
It's a betrayal of every ideology I once held. What happened to using the mind as a conduit for positive energy?
I thought I was steering my consciousness like a professional Nascar driver… turns out I crashed, and deplorably survived.
There's the door.
Years ago, I reflected and resolved to evade despair and madness by chasing ascendancy.
Oh, how I hate this world, forcing me to die like this.
Veck opened the door and gazed at the cityscape before slowly walking to the center of the roof.
"This… this is the perfect way for the reaper to take me. Wind brushing my skin, a cool breeze, and my appreciation of it all."
Never thought I'd stand on a rooftop, content in the face of death.
I always assumed it was a harsh, agonizing decision, something impossible to embrace.
But this… this isn't complicated at all.
I'm definitely in psychosis.
But strangely, and maybe this is the magic of insanity…
I don't care.
To be aware, yet follow what you know isn't true… huh... Duality works in the most fascinating ways.
After this, I hope I never witness the grace of existence again.
I'm agnostic, but if eternal paradise exists…
I want no part of it.
Veck inspected the gun, confirmed it was loaded, and spoke his final words.
"I'm a worthless coward, through and through. Blame the world, my family once told me before they all blew their craniums to bits. Bullshit… you never turned the blame inward… and ultimately, that's why growth never surfaced."
"I'm different from them. I did what they couldn't and found a sliver of purpose in this severely sullen tread."
"All I can do now is hope my bloodline doesn't spread to future generations."
His face flat and cold, Veck raised the gun to his temple.
"Life is beautiful. This isn't something I've lost sight of… it's just… maybe for us, it should have been."
I wonder… why utter such a grim wish for discontinued life? Is it because I don't want them to endure this perpetual pain?
"Nevermind… I retract that statement. Just shut down your curiosity. You don't have to entertain it anymore."
"Impending death can play tricks on the mind, I guess."
Okay. It's time. I'm dying now.
As Veck wrapped his index finger around the trigger, he uttered, "Happiness for me really only existed solely through the impossible expectations I imposed upon myself."
Veck pressed the trigger and realized it wouldn't budge.
Lowering the broken weapon, Veck began collecting his thoughts and future plans. "C-calm down. It's not like I can't find another way. I'm not jumping off the building. I don't want to hurt anyone below. I could cut my throat. Slow, or fast… but better than a pill overdose."
Then came what was thought to be an anomaly… space itself bent, warped… and walking out of an emerald portal was someone not of this world.
From a swirling magical circle of green liquid, a tall, muscular humanoid figure emerged. His ears tapered to subtle points, hinting at something like a elven man. His face, sharp and striking, carried an unsettling beauty; if not for the cloud-white hue of his skin, he might have passed for ordinary.
His six-foot-four height loomed over Veck like a monument carved from sheer willpower. Every inch of his body was forged through years... no, decades of relentless calisthenics and punishing weightlifting. His arms bulged with thick veins snaking down to forearms which were as dense as concrete. His shoulders were broad and square, covered by his cloak, like the base of a temple, framed a chest that rippled with layered muscle, each breath he took seemed to animate a huge chest. His torso tapered into a sharply cut waist, the kind that made him look more machine than man, while his legs, thick as support beams, hinted at explosive, inhuman power.
He didn't just look strong. His body was a weapon. A lifetime of suffering and repetition made visible in flesh.
This was all, of course, covered by a pristine white cloak, edged with intricate patterns of verdant green that seemed to ripple like living vines. It was a short-sleeved cloak, stopping at his lower biceps.
At his waist, suspended from a sleek black belt, hung a peculiar emblem, an upward-curving wishbone, polished and gleaming, as if a sacred sigil forged from some forgotten cosmos.
"Pros and cons to every method," the man spoke casually while slowly walking towards Veck. "But running away is no longer on the table, Veck Starken."