Omen laid on the small bed like he did every other day, the thin blanket doing little to hide the sharp lines of his bony frame.
His black hair, rough and tangled, fell across his face, sticking slightly to the sweat on his pale forehead.
His eyes were covered with a clean white cloth, tied tightly but still gently enough that the world beyond sight didn't matter.
Omen had long stopped caring what the world looked like.
A soft, warm sensation brushed across his skin, the touch of a wet cloth moving carefully across his shoulder, arms, and chest.
It smelled faintly of soap and something citrus, a scent that contrasted with the constant bitterness of his very being.
His skin tingled under the caress, not from comfort, but from the awareness that something soft was brushing against him.
"Careful there," The 17-year-old boy muttered, his voice dry and low.
The words sounded thin in the room, but they carried the weight of his deep fatigue.
Rebekah, the girl who was 'cleaning' him, hummed softly, her long black hair falling over his shoulders as she leaned closer.
The strands brushed against his pale skin, catching the soft morning light that escaped the windows of the small apartment.
She wore black shorts that barely reached mid-thigh and an oversized blue t-shirt that hung loosely over her frame, the sleeves brushing past her elbows.
The girl of around a similar age to Omen moved with quiet precision, wiping him gently, never hurried and never harsh.
Her developed boobs shifted slightly with each movement, and Omen would sometimes be attacked by the sheer softness of it while she bent over to clean his sides.
"I told you to stay still," the girl said softly, though there was no sharpness in her voice. Just the faintest sign of a blush, the kind that belonged to someone who refused to let misery take over them.
He made no answer, only the slight twitch of his shoulders under her careful hands.
Every day, Omen's routine was the same. He was cleaned, dressed, fed, and left alone with his thoughts.
But the thoughts were not easy.
They drifted endlessly, towards the outside world he could never see.
He could hear it, faintly, surely through the small television mounted to the right of the bed. The sound was a constant companion, giving updates on news, events, and the lives that moved on without him.
Today, a voice cut through the usual chatter: warm, commanding, and familiar.
"…and as the disease spreads across the northern districts, Priestess Sarah has been dispatched to administer the cure.
Her efforts have saved thousands already, and more are expected to be safe within the week…" Omen's ears twitched, Sarah, the Priestess of the Light Clan.
The very clan he he was born in had abandoned him because of him being born a cripple.
He never had any idea about his past or anything that occurred in his life.
The earliest memory Omen even had of his life was being exiled here with some butler of the Light clan along with Rebekah.
All they'd ever done for him could be summed up into buying this flat for him and giving them a monthly allowance.
Even the butler they'd got had long left them years ago, saying about how Omen was nothing but a useless garbage not worth saving.
The boy didn't mind though, he was used to these kinds of words by people around him.
He was used to all this.
As for the Priestess of their Clan?
He knew her name very well.
She was the face of his family.
Every 2 decades, The Light Clan nurtured hundreds of girls in the name of the priestess ceremony.
This process went on until they had come down to a single maiden worthy of being their clan's face.
It was also an edict that no one from the direct family can become the Priestess of the house.
Omen's body would always ache with a strange combination of jealousy and longing.
She had received all the care and love from his family that she wanted.
This wasn't an extreme case of emotion but simply a drifting feeling that passed through him.
In all these years, it was almost like his emotions had been thrown down the drain slowly and steadily.
In fact, if not for the constant attention of Rebekah on him, he would have long drifted to some darkened place which he could never return from.
It was this girl's laugh, her voice that kept him grounded of the fact that he was still alive.
"More good news, I suppose," Omen muttered, his voice hoarse. "Another wave of suffering, and she's out there fixing it. Everyone safe, thanks to her."
Rebekah paused for a moment, holding the cloth between her hands. Her dark eyes met his hidden ones, as if she could see into the cloth covering his hollowed eyes.
She said nothing for a few seconds, simply moving again, wiping the wet fabric along the curve of his hip.
"Do you think our miseries will ever be over, Rebekah?"
The 20-year-old girl sighed, shaking her head wryly.
Omen was abandoned for being useless…and Rebekah because she refused to be useful.
The girl was supposed to be the current priestess in place of her twin sister, Sarah.
But all her life, she looked at what being a priestess really meant, and the girl just couldn't accept being a hollow figure meant to hide the darkness of the Light Clan.
When she was selected as the Priestess, the girl was asked to sign a non disclosure agreement, and when she realised that the only thing she would be living by being one was a life of deception, she rejected them.
And well, the only punishment for people that dared to reject the Light Clan's authority was being exiled and given a task meant for the lowest of the race.
Rebekah's punishment was being exiled with Omen and serving the crippled boy for an eternity in return of a negligible wage.
Looking at the weak boy in front of her, she smiled slightly, but it was not a smile that hid discomfort, it was a small, stubborn warmth that refused to be erased.
She leaned closer, her long, black hair brushing against his shoulder.
He turned his face slightly, even though he could see nothing but blackness. The boy's black hair was rough, thick, and ruffled, his bony fingers flexed slightly against the mattress.
"You don't have to," Omen said. "You could leave. Go and enjoy your life–"
"And do what?" Rebekah cut his words in between, continuing. Atleast as long as I'm here, atleast I get a place to safely live in, enough money to get things by.
Her words took a sharper turn as she sighed, "…if I leave you here, not only will I not receive any wage of compensation from the light house, but I won't be able to work or earn anyways because of the strict restrictions placed by the World Government on each person's Endowments."
"Plus I don't mind taking care of you…if anything, I've gotten used to living with you, Omen." She added hurriedly, worried that the young boy might take it the wrong way and get hurt.
"She can do things I never will." The boy said as he listened to the television, he acted like he didn't care but in reality, living the life of a cripple haunted him every second.
"…comparing yourself to others will only hurt you, Omen, sometimes God takes things from you only to give them back to you thousandfold." Rebekah whispered, finally done cleaning his body with the wet cloth, watching the slight rise and fall of his ribs under the thin skin.
Omen sighed. The sound was weak, almost a whisper against the background hum of the television speaker.
Outside, the world moved on. He could imagine the streets alive with people, the noise of business and laughter.
But here, in this small apartment, the world felt different.
Condensed, harsh, and silent except for the voice of the daily updates, except for the small warmth Rebekah brought with her.
He rolled slightly, wincing as the motion tugged at muscles he hadn't used in years.
The room smelled faintly of soap and dust, clean but cold. There was no color, no life besides what Rebekah brought, and yet somehow, it was enough.
What Omen didn't know was that his black and white life was going to come to an end soon because of a mysterious game that had taken hold over the entire world in the last few days.
People called it The Sephora.
***