Life on Earth is hell.
Trapped in an endless cycle, I pray—beg—for release. From gods, demons, anyone who might hear me. I won't survive much longer in this place.
My name is Chris. It fits me, really—forgettable, just like me. A background character destined to blend in. I was born with the worst possible specs to thrive in this world. My caramel skin, a flaw in this era. My face? Unremarkable. My mind? Capable, but wasted—I never apply myself. I drift through life, aimless and invisible.
I am, in every sense of the word, a failure.
I lack ambition, drive, or any spark that might lift me above mediocrity. But maybe… just maybe, in another world, I might stand a chance.
I'm addicted to stories where the weak rise to become gods. I crave that kind of transformation. If only I could rewrite my fate. If only I had a chance.
The next morning came like a slap to the face.
Chris woke up with the sun already blazing through the window, too bright, too late. His phone lay face-down on the floor, a dead battery and a pile of tissues beside it. Another night wasted—half of it spent whispering desperate prayers to gods he didn't believe in, and the other half numbing himself with pixels and moaning echoes. He hated himself for it, but it was easier than facing the quiet.
"Shit," he muttered, throwing on wrinkled clothes that smelled like his room: stale air and faint deodorant. No time to eat. No one waiting on him anyway.
School was as lifeless as ever. He shuffled in during first hour, hoodie up, eyes down. A few kids glanced his way, but no one said a word. They never did. He was a piece of the furniture—quiet, scuffed, unneeded.
He sat in the back like always. Perfect view of all the polished faces pretending their lives mattered. Athletes tossing around inside jokes. Girls painting their nails like war paint. Overachievers begging for another B+ to become an A.
"Clowns," Chris muttered to himself, slumping in his seat. They looked alive, but they were just as hollow as he was. Only better at hiding it.
The teacher hadn't even started roll call yet when Chris's head dropped onto his folded arms. The world melted away behind his eyelids. For once, he didn't care if he woke up again.
Then… chaos.
He never heard the alarm. Never saw the panic. Never noticed the hallway doors flung open or the sudden emptiness of the room around him. What finally stirred him wasn't noise—it was heat.
An unnatural, rising warmth licked at his skin. His eyes cracked open to find the classroom bathed in smoke, thick and choking like the air had turned to ash. The windows glowed orange, like hell had decided to peer inside.
"What the…?" he croaked, coughing as the realization sank in.
Fire.
The hallway outside was already a furnace. Flames crawled along the doorframe, gnawing at it like starving beasts. The air was so thick he could barely see the whiteboard across the room. Smoke poured in, curling around his feet, climbing higher. Every breath scraped his throat raw. He stumbled to the door, but the metal seared his palm the moment he touched it.
He screamed.
Not from the burn—but from the fear. The kind that drops into your stomach and eats you from the inside. He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not alone. Not forgotten in a fucking math classroom.
He pounded on the door with his fist, skin blistering, tears mixing with soot. "Help! Somebody!" he cried, voice cracking like glass. But no one answered.
The smoke grew thicker. The heat more unbearable. His vision blurred and spots danced before his eyes. His knees buckled. His lungs betrayed him.
I don't want to die… I don't… I don't—
And then… nothing.
Darkness.