The gray morning pressed against Ernest's window like a silent accusation. He sat on the edge of his bed longer than necessary, staring at the thin streaks of light that barely cut through the curtains. Every day, it seemed the world outside was alive and moving, and he was left behind, floundering in shadows he couldn't escape. Even his breathing felt too loud in the quiet room.
Breakfast was a routine, mechanical act. Cold cereal scraped against his teeth, tasting like nothing. His mother glanced at him from across the table, expression taut with silent judgment.
"You didn't do your chores yesterday," she said quietly. Her voice wasn't sharp, but the disappointment it carried weighed more than any shout. then she angrily said why are you such a failure, why aren't you like the rest.
"I'll do it today," Ernest said, voice faint. He avoided her eyes, focusing instead on the spoon in his hand, turning it slowly in the bowl.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. That was all the response he got. No encouragement, no warmth, just an invisible tally being kept somewhere in the air between them. He finished quickly and left for school, backpack heavy and shoulders slumped.
The hallways at school felt like corridors of judgment. Every laugh, every shout, every locker slam seemed amplified, directed at him, even when it wasn't. A group of boys noticed him as he rounded a corner, one of them intentionally tripping over his foot.
"Clumsy," the boy muttered, laughing just enough for others to hear.
Ernest bent quickly to pick up a fallen notebook. His face burned, hands shaking slightly as he clutched the books to his chest. "Sorry," he muttered, though no one had asked for an apology. The words felt empty even as he spoke them, like he was apologizing to a world that didn't care.
In class, a question was asked that he didn't know the answer to. He hesitated. The pause was enough. Snickers rose from the back of the room, and a few whispered comments—soft, almost imperceptible—but they pierced him deeply. Everyone's watching. Everyone knows I'm a failure. His chest tightened, his throat burned. He forced himself to look down at the desk, hoping to disappear into the notebook, wishing the floor could open up and swallow him whole.
Why am I like this? the thought gnawed at him. Why can't I just get anything right?
Lunch was worse than morning. He carried his tray across the cafeteria, careful to avoid the groups of students who could notice him in ways that cut deeper than physical blows. He made for his usual corner, hoping for invisibility.
But it didn't last.
A group of boys nearby leaned over, catching his gaze for a split second before one of them spoke, loud enough for him to hear:
"Why are you even here? You can't do anything right."
Ernest froze, tray clattering slightly in his hands. The boy's smirk was sharp, predatory. He forced a weak smile and shuffled to his usual table, ignoring the whispers that followed him. Food tasted like ash in his mouth, and he pushed it around mechanically, swallowing once or twice, pretending to chew.
Maybe they're right. Maybe I really can't do anything right, he thought. The poison of doubt spread faster than he could resist.
He tried to occupy his mind with small fantasies—if he could just be good at one thing, if he could just make someone notice him in a positive way—but even those were fleeting. The whispers, the laughter, the indifference—they always came back to pull him down.
By afternoon, his day had become a series of small torments, each unnoticed by anyone else. A wrong answer in class drew a sigh from the teacher and a ripple of suppressed laughter from classmates. Someone knocked into his shoulder in the hallway, muttering, "Watch it, idiot," before walking away without a backward glance.
He wanted to fight back, to defend himself, but words failed him. He couldn't summon the anger, couldn't find the courage. All he could do was shrink, retreat, and carry the invisible bruises of humiliation.
Why can't I be like everyone else? Why does life hate me so much?
Walking home was a slow, painful process. The sun was low, casting long shadows that seemed to reach for him, accusing. He imagined each shadow as a finger, pointing, reminding him of every mistake, every failure, every time he had fallen short. Every laugh in the cafeteria, every sigh of disappointment at home, every snicker in the hallway—it followed him, stitched together into a tapestry of shame.
He wanted someone, anyone, to call his name with kindness. But the streets were empty, indifferent. He carried himself as small as possible, hoping that maybe, somehow, if he shrank enough, he could disappear entirely.
At home, he found no comfort. His mother's eyes met his briefly as he entered, full of the quiet weight of someone who had tried to reach him too many times and failed.
"Homework?" she asked, voice tight.
"I'll do it tonight," he said, almost under his breath.
No smile, no encouragement. Just the knowledge that he had failed yet again. He went to his room, slammed the door lightly, and collapsed onto the bed.
For the first time that day, he allowed himself to cry.
It wasn't soft crying. It was raw, bitter, the kind that wracked the body and burned the chest. Tears fell unchecked, staining the pillow. His hands clutched at the thin blanket, his mind spinning with thoughts of inadequacy and self-loathing.
I'm nothing. I'm worthless. Why can't I just disappear?
And yet... even as despair clung to him, he whispered into the quiet, Maybe tomorrow... maybe tomorrow I can do something right.
The ember of hope, fragile and flickering, refused to die. It was a small, stubborn thing, but it existed. And that was exactly why it was dangerous.
Lucifer's presence lingered in the edges of Ernest's mind, subtle as a shadow. He didn't need to appear. He only needed to nudge, to plant doubts, to twist small failures into unbearable weight. The boy's self-blame was perfect fuel. The fragility of hope made the despair sharper, made every insult, every dismissal, every overlooked effort sting more fiercely.
The first real test had begun. And Ernest had no idea how close he was to being truly broken.
Even that night, sleep did not bring escape. He lay staring at the ceiling, shadows pooling in the corners of the room. Thoughts circled relentlessly: the cafeteria, the hallways, the teachers' sighs, the missed homework, the casual cruelty of peers. He could see each moment in sharp detail, feel the sting in his chest, the hollow ache in his stomach.
I can't do anything right. I can't... I'm not enough.
Tears returned, silent this time, burning hot behind closed eyelids. And yet... even as he struggled under the weight of a world that seemed set against him, a voice whispered in the darkness, fragile but defiant: Maybe tomorrow... maybe I can be better.
Lucifer smiled, patient and deliberate. Every whisper, every failure, every bit of self-doubt was a step toward the inevitable. And Ernest Acura, fragile and human, held the one thing that made him most dangerous—hope. Lucifer smiled because he knows that hope is a very Fragile thing when push toward it limit it breaks.