Finn rose to his feet, a strange lightness filling his body. His voice had returned, but the words caught in his throat. *Where am I? What is that... thing?* His thoughts raced as he studied the figure's trembling outline.
"I am Destiny," the being declared, its voice simultaneously solemn and monotonous, like a teacher reciting a well-worn phrase for the hundredth time. "You stand between life and death. This is a state where the soul strives to leave the body but cannot... Usually due to an unfulfilled desire."
Black fingers flipped through the pages of a book.
"Sometimes the thirst for life is so strong that even I..." Destiny suddenly fell silent. The smooth mask tilted towards the text. "But stop. You... have no destiny? How is that possible?"
The figure jerked upright, the chair toppling over with a dull thud. In three strides, it closed the distance to Finn and seized his wrist.
The touch burned like dry ice. The surrounding darkness contracted—first the desk vanished, then the walls of the non-existent room, until the entire world shrank into a black sphere the size of their clasped hands.
And then—a flash.
They stood in a spacious room with sky-blue wallpaper. Against the right wall loomed a massive sofa wardrobe—a light oak structure with a pull-out bed covered by a checkered blanket. On the opposite wall hung a plasma TV with a cracked corner.
Sitting at the writing desk was... himself. Only younger—no more than ten years old. The boy was diligently sharpening pencils, a growing pile of shavings before him.
Destiny slid through the desk like a shadow.
"What are you doing?" she asked, leaning towards the child.
Finn wanted to answer, but the words burst forth as if pulled from the depths of memory:
"Trying to look busy..." His younger voice sounded muffled, tinged with weariness.
"Why?" Destiny pressed.
At that moment, the door flew open.
A man in his forties filled the doorway—tall, nearly six-foot-three, with jet-black hair and sharp features. His brown eyes shone with a damp gleam. Sweatpants and a worn sweater clung to his muscular frame.
Finn felt his fists clench. He lunged forward—and passed right through the stepfather like smoke.
"Who is this?" Destiny inquired, watching as the man sat on the edge of the bed.
"Andri," Finn hissed. "Stepfather. Mom's husband."
Andri slapped the mattress with his palm.
"Bring what you sharpened here."
The boy flinched. His fingers trembled as he gathered the pencils. He approached with nearly silent steps and held out the bundle—each one sharpened to a razor point.
The stepfather took one, testing the point with his thumb. He grunted in satisfaction. Then, without warning, he drove the pencil into the boy's thigh.
"Ow!" The childish voice broke into a shriek.
Finn saw the blue lead sink two centimeters into the flesh. Blood welled around the wound, soaking the light-colored trousers. But not a single tear fell from the boy's eyes.
"Tears only make him angrier," Finn whispered, watching his younger self grit his teeth.
Destiny observed silently. Her featureless mask remained impassive.
Andri yanked the pencil out and tossed it on the floor.
"Too sharp," was all he said before walking out into the hallway.
The instant the door slammed shut behind the stepfather, the air in the room thickened. Time accelerated, becoming a kaleidoscope of agonizing days:
*7:00 AM.* The boy leaps from bed at the first sound of footsteps in the hall. His fingers fumble, buttoning his torn school uniform. He slips out the window while dishes clatter in the kitchen.
*4:00 PM.* Returning home. The door flies open—Andri stands there with a mop handle. The first blow tears the shirt fabric and strikes his back. The second hits his legs, knocking him down. Blood seeps through the shirt, leaving scarlet prints on the floor.
Sometimes the mother appeared—a woman slightly taller than her son, with long-unwashed black hair and a puffy face. Her figure, once slender, had blurred under layers of fat and alcohol. She would grab Andri's arm:
"Stop, please..."
The response was a punch to her stomach. She fell, gasping, and the beating of her son continued. On better days, she crawled in later, clutching a bottle of spirits, eyes wet with tears, trying to dab his wounds with a filthy rag.
Then time slowed down. Finn recognized this moment.
The boy sat half-naked in the kitchen. His body was crisscrossed with bloody stripes—marks from a wire, inflicted with mathematical precision. On the table lay an old corded phone, its casing cracked, the buttons worn down to the metal.
Andri dialed a number. Speakerphone on. Ringing.
"Hello?" A thin, girlish voice. Twelve years old, at most.
"Andri here, Finn's father. He's got something to confess to you," the stepfather smirked, thrusting the receiver into the boy's bloodied palm.
Finn-the-child was already crying. Tears mingled with blood on his cheeks.
"H-hello... Mila... I... I love you," his voice cracked into sobs.
Destiny sat nearby, resting her featureless head on her hands as if listening to an interesting radio play.
The darkness constricted around them like lungs before an exhale. When the world rematerialized, they stood in a school corridor.
Walls painted dirty beige were scrawled with graffiti. The floor creaked underfoot—old linoleum worn through in pathways. Teachers' voices drifted from classrooms.
Before Finn-the-child stood Mila. A girl with hair the color of ripe wheat, braided tightly. Her blue eyes, usually kind, now sparkled with contempt. Her school uniform—a brown dress with a white pinafore—looked perfectly pressed.
Classmates stood around them in a semicircle. No friends, not even acquaintances—just an audience hungry for spectacle.
"Are you serious?" Mila snorted, looking Finn over like a piece of mud on her shoe. "You, a stinking pauper, dare say that to me?"
Laughter rippled down the corridor. Someone shoved Finn in the back. He staggered but stayed upright. His gaze was fixed on Mila—his eyes showed not pain, but a strange relief.
Destiny shook her head.
"You have an interesting life, Finn!" Her voice held no compassion, only a statement of fact.
The darkness thickened, swallowing the school corridor, the laughing faces of classmates, Mila's anger-distorted face. Last to disappear was Finn-the-child—his battered body dissolved into the blackness as if it had never existed.
Destiny stood, her featureless head bowed. Her fingers slowly turned the pages of the book, where the letters now glowed blood-red.
"And why do you cling to life so fiercely?" Her voice held a hint of something resembling sadness for the first time. "You are unripe fruit on a rotting branch. Your entire world is pain and filth."
Finn clenched his fists. A lump formed in his throat.
"I don't know," he breathed the truth. "But... I don't want to live like this."
Destiny took a step forward. Stars flickered in her empty eyes, and for a moment, the featureless mask seemed to quiver, as if attempting a smile.
"Then you hurried," her fingers touched the last page. "Literally in a month... all of this will cease to be."
The darkness around them exploded with visions:
Cities engulfed in flames. The sky cracked open, and through the fissure poured creatures—part insect, part machine, with chitinous shells and steel claws. They shredded people like paper, leaving behind only puddles of molten asphalt and charred bones.
The school where Finn had just been tormented now lay in ruins. Children's hands protruded from beneath concrete slabs, frozen in final convulsions.
His home. Andri lay with his stomach split open, entrails draped over the kitchen table legs like festive ribbons. His mother sat nearby, clutching an empty bottle, her face streaked with tears and blood. She was whispering something, staring at the sky—perhaps praying.
"Your entire lineage will be sent into the past," Destiny's voice now held a metallic resonance, as if broadcast from a radio. "You will leave this world and be forced to atone for your sins."
Gradually, the darkness began to thin, admitting faint glimmers of light that grew steadily brighter. These flashes resembled stars in the night. The light spread, and soon Finn was standing once more on the cold iron rails. Steam billowed from his mouth—he was back in the freezing reality. Ahead, a dark figure slowly approached.
As Destiny drew near, the darkness around her began to expand again, swallowing space, but this time it seemed to draw Finn in.
"I offer you a choice," the figure instantly shifted, appearing to Finn's left, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "A harsh childhood, rejection, pain... Are you prepared for a chance to start anew?" As she spoke, a fragment of darkness detached from her figure and settled onto the rails.
"Or... you can surrender, and all future trials instantly lose their meaning. Though," a note of disgust pierced the calm in her voice, "to others, it's as if you don't exist anyway."
The darkness thickened briefly, as if Destiny paused before adding:
"But the choice is yours, boy."
The figure began to slowly dissipate, but before vanishing completely, it whispered:
"We both know what choice you will make, Finnlein Reinhard."
The darkness filling the space condensed into a dark sphere that began to rotate around the teenager, detaching fragments and weaving them into his body.
Time seemed to roll back. The silence that followed his fall was broken once more by the raucous cawing of crows. A moment later, an earsplitting train horn tore through the air—but Finn was no longer on the rails.
And somewhere in the vast expanses of the universe, among countless stars, a new one flared into existence...