Floating in the vacuum of space, a rotating space station barely held against the passage of time, launching metallic debris into the void from time to time—a testament to its growing weariness and worsening shape.
Inside one of its many hangars, separated from the freezing emptiness by a force field, a group of men worked on a space vessel, preparing it for the journey ahead. Among them, a self-proclaimed leader barked orders left and right, his disdain particularly directed at a scrawny teenager with thick glasses. The boy wore an oversized space tracksuit, dirty boots barely clinging to his feet, and a face smeared with grease.
"Hey, rat! We don't have time! The ship leaves in fifteen minutes—finish the diagnostics now, or forget about your rations for the day!"
The teenager—who, for some reason, still looked like a twelve-year-old—paled at the threat. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. Even an expired synthetic paste or a dented food can would have sufficed, but his boss had been starving him on purpose. None of his fellow workers defended him, fearing they'd be next.
"S-Sir, I'm doing my best," the boy stammered, his face drawn with exhaustion. "The ship is old and damaged—the process is taking longer because it's falling apart."
At this point, his face was so sickly and deathly pale that it was impossible to distinguish between desperation and his unnatural complexion. He was small in stature, with long black hair tied in a bun, gray eyes, and long lashes. Freckles dotted his face, his nose and ears were small, and his lips were thin and cracked from dehydration.
The leader snorted. **"I don't care about excuses. You have two minutes to finish, or you get nothing. I don't have time to accommodate your pathetic needs."
The young man glanced at his comrades, silently pleading. For the sake of their shared past, maybe someone would stand up for him. But he was met with the same cold stares.
No one even acknowledged his desperation—as if the last five years meant nothing.
He had been brought here by the old supervisor, who had recognized his talent for artificial hacking and programming at a young age. The man had found him at an enforcer's station in an asteroid belt colony, where the boy—then only ten—had been deeply involved with underground gangs, hacking for them, removing evidence, tracking shipments, and marking targets.
When he was finally caught, he thought his life was over. But then, the old man had shown him a kindness he never believed he deserved.
Since he was only ten and of unknown origin—presumably orphaned or abandoned—he was granted bail on the condition that the old man became his legal guardian. With no choice, he left with him for the space station, where he used his skills to run diagnostics on ships before their deep-space voyages—a vital job that kept crews alive for months at a time.
For a while, he had grown close to his fellow workers. Some had even treated him like family.
But four years later, his savior—his boss—passed away.
And from that moment, everything turned for the worse.
His new supervisor was a racist, discriminating between planet-born workers and those from the asteroid slums. And since the boy had spent a decade in the asteroids, he became the prime target of the man's hatred.
To his utter disbelief, no one came to his aid. When he finally asked why, the answer was simple—so simple it hurt:
"Sorry, kid. We've families to feed"
The question that burned in his mind back then was:Hadn't he been part of that family too?
On one hand, he didn't understand their betrayal. On the other, he remembered a saying he'd lived by in the slums: *Survival of the fittest.* He couldn't blame them, really. He had no right to ask for help when he had nothing to give in return.
So he endured.
For an entire year, he absorbed every insult, every abuse—physical and verbal. With each passing day, his shy, introverted nature hardened into something colder, more cynical.
Now, he was hungry, thirsty, exhausted—barely able to lift his fingers.
No one looked out for him. No one even *saw* him. He felt invisible, yet paradoxically, he was always the center of attention—the punching bag for his supervisor, the pushover for the very people he'd once trusted.
It was as if they enjoyed the show. As if bullying a kid—whose only sin was being a nobody with no one to lean on—gave them some semblance of power.
And then, in a moment of weakness—maybe from hunger, maybe from thirst, maybe from sheer exhaustion and he snapped.
Defeated, he looked down at the metallic floor, took a shaky breath, and muttered to himself:
**"Fine. You want me to finish my job? So be it."**
His delicate hands hovered over the keyboard. His fingers moved unnaturally fast, as if composing a masterpiece with an elegance that contrasted sharply with his frail, trembling figure.
A moment later— The crystals illuminating the hangar cracked.
The force field separating them from the void flickered—and failed.
In the fraction of a second before the field disintegrated, no one had time to react.
Then, the vacuum of space claimed them all.
Some were crushed against the ship's metallic frame, reduced to meat paste instantly. Others floated, eyes wide, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
The young man—now drifting in the infinite dark—watched the space station grow smaller in the distance, its alarms flashing in silent panic.
His mind was empty.
Except for one thought, repeating like a broken transmission:
"My life should have ended five years ago"
That was his last thought before his breath halted.
His lungs burned. His blood boiled, seeping from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes. The freezing void wrapped around him like a mother cradling her child to sleep—strangely comforting, this embrace of infinite nothing.
His mind emptied, as hollow as the space swallowing him. Sound vanished. His vision blurred, then fractured, edges dissolving into static. The last vestiges of his consciousness dimmed—a candle flickering in a gentle breeze.
It grew harder to keep his eyes open.
So he closed them.
Darkness surged forward, not as an end, but as a relief. It swallowed him whole, pulling him under—away from hunger, away from pain, away from the crushing weight of being no one.
For the first time in years, he felt peace.
And then—Nothing.