On the other side of the world, where magic and abilities are a work of fiction, a young man walked alone, a solitary figure in a vibrant, chaotic sea of people. His short, straight black hair was swept forward in a soft fringe that just barely touched the edge of his dark brown almond eyes. He looked up to the orange sky, where the sun, a tired, weary fire, was already setting, and the air was getting colder, biting at his exposed skin.
The constant, buzzing roar of the crowded city street, a symphony of car horns and distant chatter, could not distract him from his thoughts. The cold, a sharp chill that settled deep in his bones, was colder than all the other days, and he wondered if it was only the weather, or if it was also the emptiness in his heart.
The world around him was filled with people, with noise, with life, but he felt like a ghost, a silent, invisible observer in a world that wasn't his.
"Bright?"
