He was Ako.
He stood at 1.84 meters and weighed 82 kilos.
For fifteen years, he had trained his body without interruption, sculpting an athletic form through sweat and discipline.
Every time he looked into the mirror, he saw the sharp lines of his muscles, the width of his shoulders, and the clear definition of his abs.
It gave him confidence.
Sport was the foundation of his life, like breathing.
If he skipped even a single day, he felt something essential was missing.
His black hair, his strong facial features, and his green eyes…
People said his gaze was unsettling yet magnetic, carrying a strange pull.
Women noticed him at first glance, and this was nothing new.
But in this world, looks alone were never enough.
If he didn't have money in his pocket, if he didn't hold power in his hands, women eventually turned their backs.
That was his struggle: being desired outwardly, yet shackled by the lack of wealth.
They lived in difficult times.
Finding a job was nearly impossible.
By thirty, you either had years of experience or your own business.
Otherwise, survival itself was a battle.
He chose a different path.
He never gave up on training, never sacrificed his body, but he paid the price.
He was a classic citizen of ForksVille, trying to hold on to life in his own way.
Meeting women was never the hard part.
Over the years, he had been with many.
In an age where technology ruled every interaction, it only took a few messages and a few photos, and within a night, a date was set.
Sometimes, in a bar, he struck up a conversation, and it turned into a wild night until dawn.
But things were no longer the same.
Women now looked different.
Their eyes went first to his phone, then to his wallet, and only after that to his face.
Today was supposed to be like any other.
He was meeting a woman again.
He prepared carefully at home, straightening his collar in the mirror, sliding on his watch, and spraying his best perfume onto his wrists and neck.
The scent wrapped around him like armor, and he took a deep breath of confidence.
The woman he was meeting was tall, around 1.75 meters, with a delicate frame.
Barely fifty kilos, her body was slender and light. Blonde hair, blue eyes, she was like a dream.
Through their conversations, he could think of nothing else. He pictured touching her, feeling her, making her his through the night.
He wanted her breathless, screaming with pleasure, her body pressed against his until sunrise.
His steps quickened.
The evening was cool, the orange glow of streetlamps casting long shadows on the cobblestones.
People hurried past, no one looking at anyone, every soul lost in their own race.
That was when he heard it, a scream, sharp and panicked.
His eyes caught a woman struggling in the distance, her bag ripped away by a thief who now sprinted down the street.
He didn't hesitate.
His legs moved on their own.
Years of training pumped through his veins as raw power.
He knew he could catch him.
His heart pounded like war drums as he surged forward, pushing through the crowd.
The thief darted into narrow streets, twisting and turning, but he refused to stop.
His breath grew faster, his lungs burned, but his muscles carried him onward.
Each turn brought him closer.
At last, he cornered the thief in an alley.
They stood face-to-face, both gasping for air.
The thief's eyes were wide, feral with panic.
Ako's hands seized the bag, pulling hard.
The thief tugged back, desperate.
Ako trusted his strength, certain he could overpower him.
The thief snarled, swinging his arm wildly, and Ako slammed his shoulder into his chest.
The man stumbled back, crashing against the wall.
Ako felt the rush of victory building inside him.
He was stronger.
He was faster.
For a moment, he saw fear in the other's eyes, the fear of a predator cornered by another predator.
He raised his fist and struck, knuckles slamming into the thief's jaw.
The thief's head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his lip.
He staggered but didn't fall.
He lunged again, wild and desperate, and they clashed, wrestling for the bag, for control, for dominance.
Ako's training gave him the edge; he forced the thief down, twisted his arm, and pinned him against the stones.
Victory felt close; he was about to end this fight.
But then, in that flash of triumph, he heard her voice again, the woman screaming for help, her desperation echoing in his ears.
He glanced toward her for the briefest second. That single distraction cost him everything.
The thief ripped his hand free and pulled a blade from his pocket.
The steel flashed under the dim light.
Before Ako could react, the knife plunged into his chest.
A fiery pain exploded inside him. He roared, more in rage than in agony, and grabbed the thief's wrist.
With all his strength, he twisted, forcing the blade away.
They struggled, bodies pressed together, his muscles straining against the thief's wiry frame.
He slammed the thief against the wall again; the man's breath wheezed out, but blood poured hot and heavy from Ako's wound, weakening him.
The thief stabbed again, this time lower, into Ako's stomach.
His grip faltered. His knees trembled.
The world began to tilt. Still, he fought. He slammed his fist into the thief's ribs, heard the crack, and watched him cry out and stagger back.
The thief limped, clutching his side, blood trickling from his mouth.
Ako almost won; he could feel it. His body was a storm of fury and strength, but his blood drained faster than his will could hold.
He collapsed to his knees.
The bag slipped from his hands. His vision blurred.
The thief spat blood, snarled, and stumbled away, limping into the shadows. He escaped, but not without fear, not without wounds.
Ako fell onto his back, the stones cold against him.
His chest rose and fell shallowly. He tasted iron in his mouth.
The woman was suddenly there, her face pale, tears streaming.
She pressed her hands against his wound, but it was useless.
As he faded, memories flooded him.
He saw his past rushing before his eyes, moments of pride, of shame, of mistakes he had never corrected.
He saw the jobs he had never taken, the chances he had let slip away, and the failures that had shaped him.
He saw the women he had once held, their faces blurring one into another, the warmth of nights that ended too quickly, the heartbreaks he caused, and the ones that broke him.
His regrets piled up, heavy as stone.
If he had made different choices, would he be here now?
If he had valued more than just strength and appearance, would he have had a better life?
He wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness, but his voice was weak.
His heart pounded slower, each beat like a fading drum.
He looked into her eyes, the woman whose bag he had tried to save.
She was crying, clutching his hands with a desperation that cut deeper than the knife wounds.
Her lips moved, and this time, her voice reached him.
"No one else would have done this," she whispered, her tears dripping onto his skin. "You are not meant to end here. Remember this moment. One day… we will meet again, in a place you cannot yet imagine."
Her voice trembled but carried a weight he could not explain. His vision blurred, darkness closed in, yet her final words pierced through the haze:
"Do not fear death, Ako. It is only the beginning."
Her gaze, filled with sorrow, was the last warmth he felt.
His body gave in.
His eyelids grew heavy; darkness swallowed his vision.
The sounds disappeared, and the lights faded.
All that remained was endless black.
Death wrapped its cold arms around him, and he, Ako, departed from this world.