Prologue – In the Ashes of Ruin
For some people, life is a crooked sequence of small victories, ugly stumbles, and half-decent restarts.
Lian Rid's life had none of those good parts.
His life felt more like hell on Earth than anything else—one where even the devil would feel sorry.
The old living-room clock said two in the morning. The hands moved, but time inside that house felt stuck. The grimy curtains tried to hide the flickering streetlight outside and failed miserably. The TV poured canned laughter from a stupid show, way too loud for that cramped shack.
Lian's father was sunk into the couch, slumped sideways like his body was already giving up on holding itself. A cheap bottle dangled from his hand. His belly spilled out under a stretched-out shirt, his pants unbuttoned at the waist. The sour stink of beer, cigarettes, and old sweat poisoned the room. He laughed to himself—raw, torn laughter that had nothing to do with joy.
— Lian! — his voice cut through the TV, harsh, soaked in alcohol and piled-up rancor. — Bring me more beer, damn it!
Lian closed his eyes for a second. He was at the kitchen table, a physics notebook open, the same equation rewritten three times without going anywhere. The yellow bulb flickered.
"It could just burn out for good," he thought. "That way nobody would see when everything collapses."
He got up without arguing. He'd learned young that arguing only made everything worse.
He opened the fridge—almost empty, like always—and grabbed the last can.
— Last one — he muttered, more to himself than to his father. — After this, there's none.
— The last thing here is you, you leeching plague — the man growled, ripping the can from Lian's hand. — If your mother had listened to the doctor back then, you wouldn't even have been born.
He said it with the same casualness as someone commenting on the weather. It wasn't new. Just another line that had already turned into an echo in Lian's head.
"You're useless."
"You ruined our life."
"You're a curse."
At first, it hurt. Now, it just weighed.
His father took a long gulp. His bloodshot eyes turned into drunk embers.
— And stop staring, you bastard. — The can crumpled in his fist with a metallic crack. — Get out of my sight before I break you.
Lian didn't answer. He gathered his notebooks, his chewed-up pencil, and went back to the narrow room he shared with his sister.
Bia slept curled up, hugging her pillow like she was trying to be smaller than her own pain. She was skin and bone; the dark circles under her eyes were deep; her bald head shone under the weak light leaking in from the hallway. A pile of colorful scarves sat on the chair like tired flowers.
He approached slowly, careful not to make the raw cement floor creak.
She coughed—dry, short—and opened one eye.
— You studying again? — her voice came out thin, but it still carried her usual sarcasm. — Gonna be the new Albert Einstein, Lian Rid?
— Not a genius — he said, trying to force his mouth into a smile. — Just someone who can get out of this hole.
Bia laughed softly, then winced in pain and pressed a hand to her chest. Lian reacted automatically, grabbing the glass of water from the nightstand and bringing it to her lips. She took a sip and breathed through it.
— If you ever get out of here… — she murmured, resting her forehead against his arm — send me a photo. Of anything. Your new house, your new family… somewhere without people screaming all the time.
Lian swallowed hard.
— I'll take you with me.
— I don't fit in a backpack, idiot.
He laughed, but it broke halfway through.
A crooked drawing was taped to the wall near the bed: two stick figures, one with glasses, holding a badly drawn rocket. Bia had scribbled it years earlier, when she still had hair and enough strength to fight over colored pencils.
— Still wanna go to Mars? — he asked, nodding at the drawing.
— Anywhere that isn't this trash planet is fine by me — she muttered, eyes half-closed. — If you end up on another planet and forget me, I'll pull your foot at night.
— Another planet, huh? Ambitious.
— Faith's the last thing to die — she shot back, a tiny smile blooming at the corner of her mouth.
In that cramped room, with the stuck window and the constant smell of medicine and mold, Bia was the only piece of light he had left. Sister, friend, official clown. Proof that, once upon a time, he had loved someone in that house.
Too bad cancer didn't care.
♦
The Rids' house sat in a village forgotten on the map. No "romantic countryside" or "peaceful little town." Just a cluster of crooked homes, barely paved streets, decaying poles, and people surviving however they could.
Normality there was a luxury item.
In the house to the right lived Dona Stela, a little old lady with a loose bun and stubborn dentures, always in a flowered dress that had seen better days, rosary wrapped around her wrist. To any outsider: harmless grandma. To anyone who lived there: the best supplier of "special herbs" in the whole region.
Every time Lian came back from school with a backpack heavier than him, her voice would slice across the street:
— Want a little green, my boy? Discount for anyone who looks like hell!
He'd wave without slowing down.
— Only when I go sightseeing in hell, Dona Stela!
— Then I'll save you a pack for that trip! — she'd shout back, cackling. The smell of weed mixed with reheated coffee, making a weird cloud around her doorway.
The house on the left was less funny. Dona Raley dealt in weapons. Her husband, Tom, handled animals that shouldn't have been caged in that country. Through the gate slats, Lian had seen eyes too yellow in tight cages. A skinny shaking monkey. Bright feathers where no feathers should be.
That was the background scenery: an alcoholic father, an absent mother, criminal neighbors, and a town that looked ready-made for a Sunday sensationalist report.
On that local scale of disaster, the Rids barely stood out.
♦
At school, Lian wasn't a protagonist either.
A thin kid, narrow shoulders, crooked glasses, big nose, uniform always slightly wrinkled. Quiet. Too smart. That was enough to bother people.
— Hey, four-eyes, didn't see the floor? — Jones, the usual little king, shoulder-checked him on purpose in the hallway.
The nickname changed: nerd, little shit, toucan, faggot-boy. Plenty of creativity, zero humor.
Teachers pretended not to see. The administration pretended to be too busy. Day after day, it only got worse.
Until one day, Lian decided he was going to get beaten—again—but he wasn't going to stay quiet.
It was after school, in a side alley where the peeling wall had seen more fights than paint. Away from cameras and the "healthy school environment" façade, Jones slammed Lian against the wall with a shove that knocked the air out of him.
— So, your majesty of numbers — he mocked, surrounded by six other guys — heard you got a perfect score again. Congrats. Too bad good grades don't stop a punch to the face.
Laughter bounced around, waiting for him to fold.
Lian felt the usual script: cold fear crawling up his stomach, hands shaking, the instinct to curl up and apologize for existing. But there was exhaustion on top of it all—a thick layer of rage and burnout boiling like fever.
Before he could think twice, he lunged.
His fist met Jones's bony face with a dry crack. The skinny kid hit the ground. Silence hung for a full second.
Then chaos.
— Son of a— GET HIM!
The pack swarmed him. Lian landed another sloppy punch, a crooked kick, tried to cover up, but there were too many. Hands pinned his arms, another hit drove into his stomach.
— Come on, faggot, get up and fight! — one of the bigger ones roared after throwing him onto the wet ground.
Blood filled his mouth. His chest burned. His vision shook.
Still, he pushed himself up against a wall that reeked of mold and piss and stood again. His eyes were on fire.
— I'm going to kill you — he spat, voice breaking. — All of you. You bastards…
It sounded ridiculous even to him. But it was all he had.
The answer came as a kick, a punch, an elbow. The world turned into impacts, white flashes, pain spreading through every inch. Seven against one. Simple math.
Sounds drifted away—laughing, insults, sneakers scraping wet concrete. The smell of old rain. The metallic taste of his own blood.
It only stopped when an adult voice barked from the end of the alley:
— Hey! What the hell is this?!
A school guard. The boys scattered like roaches in light, leaving Lian on the ground half-awake, half-gone.
There was the hospital, exams, ice packs, ointment, a police report that would lead nowhere. Then home again, with one more "incident" on record and no real culprit.
The bruises would fade in a few weeks. The ones inside wouldn't.
That night, lying on his narrow bed, body aching everywhere, Bia turned with effort and looked at her brother.
— So, my big hero — she murmured, half-smiling. — You win?
— Won about ten fractures — he rasped. — That count?
She choked on a laugh that became a cough. She caught her breath, still smiling.
— One day you'll hit someone and you won't fall after — she said. — I want to be watching that from somewhere.
Lian didn't answer. But the sentence stuck somewhere inside his head.
He was never handsome. Or strong. Or memorable.
He was the kind of person you bump into on the street, say sorry to without looking, and forget two minutes later. Nothing about him felt built to be anyone's protagonist.
Maybe that's why it hurt so bad when, one day, he did the most normal thing in the world: he fell in love.
Camila was a freshman in the physics program. Big curls, open smile, loud laugh. When she walked into a room, the air felt lighter. She greeted everyone.
Even Lian.
That was enough.
He spent weeks rehearsing words, deleting messages, rewriting dialogues in his head that never happened. In the end, he chose the classic move: a handwritten letter, folded carefully.
"I like you. It doesn't have to be mutual. Just don't laugh at me."
Naive.
The next week, coming back from break, he found his own letter on top of his desk. Something heavy settled in his gut. When he opened it, the smell hit first.
On top of the wrinkled page, inside the envelope, was a chunk of dog shit.
Camila was two rows behind him, surrounded by friends, laughing out loud.
— That's what you are, Lian — she said without lowering her voice. — A big piece of shit.
The whole class laughed in waves.
Lian stood there holding the envelope, stomach turning, face burning. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to blow up the building. He wanted to erase every one of them with a giant rubber.
Instead, he put the letter back, dumped the contents in the bathroom trash, and washed his hands too long—as if he could scrub off anything besides the smell.
After that, he didn't try again. Not with her. Not with anyone.
♦
Lian's mother, Tâmia, existed in two modes.
At home, she was a hurried shadow: too much perfume, high heels, makeup smudged from long nights out. Red lipstick, streaked mascara, a practiced laugh. In the corners of the town, she had another name.
"Golden Lady."
His father never cared.
— I'm going out with the girls, Osvald. Watch the kids, okay? — she'd say, hooking her purse over her shoulder.
He, already halfway through a bottle, just grunted:
— Go. Just don't bother me.
She went. Came back at dawn with cash tucked in her bra, cheap motel stink stuck to her skin, glitter on her fingers. Sometimes she'd find Lian in the kitchen, drinking water in the fridge light.
— You understand Mommy, right? — she'd say, running a glitter-dirty hand through his hair. — Life isn't easy.
Sunday morning, she was on the front pew at church, veil on her head, hands clasped, tears in her eyes.
— Lord, forgive my sins — she repeated. — I'm weak.
Lian went because he had to. The pastor preached redemption, hell, grace. His mother cried, his father snored at home, and on Monday everything restarted the same.
In Tâmia's head, the equation was simple: sin, ask forgiveness, repeat.
In Lian's head, even simpler: none of it made sense.
♦
Bia was the first to go.
Cancer had been a silent visitor for months: appointments, tests, meds too expensive for a family that barely bought food. Lian stacked notebooks and scribbled notes on hard waiting-room chairs.
There was one night in the hospital when the IV beeped too slowly and the TV crackled through some tacky variety show. Bia looked at her brother, hollow-eyed, voice fading.
— If you manage to travel to Mars… don't forget to plant my flag there, okay? — she said, half laughing, half breathless. — Someone needs to know I existed.
He squeezed her hand hard.
— Stop it, Bia.
— What? — she shrugged. — Maybe you'll find a God on Mars.
In the end, there was no God, no Mars, no miracle.
In a room too white, full of soft beeps, Lian held his sister's hand for the last time.
— I wanted to see… — she whispered, almost gone. — You restarting your life, little brother…
— We still will— — he began.
She smiled—a small, tired smile, so familiar it hurt everywhere.
— Okay, liar.
Her heart slowed. A long, flat beep cut the air. The world shrank to fit inside that straight line.
After the funeral, the house felt bigger and emptier. Bia's bed stayed too neat. Her colorful scarves sat on the chair, still. The silence in that room was worse than any drunk scream from their father.
Lian discovered there were ways to hurt more than he already did.
♦
That was when he grabbed onto the last scrap of "home" that still existed outside his own.
Vani.
She'd been his babysitter when he was little. Not family by blood, but she filled the space nobody else wanted: real food, scolding at the right time, hugs when the world felt too big. She kept his ridiculous drawings on the fridge and said she'd sell them for millions when he got famous.
When money got tight and his father decided babysitters were "luxury," Vani took a job at a nursing home.
Lian grew up, got his physics degree, but kept visiting her.
After Bia died, he started going every day.
Vani was too old now. White hair in a loose bun, thin hands, veins raised. But her smile was the same—wide, welcoming, making the whole world feel lighter just by being there.
She'd greet him at her door with a long hug, smelling of simple soap and cheap talc.
— You're skinnier, boy. Are you eating? — she always asked, pinching his cheeks.
— Yeah, Grandma Vani.
Lie number thousand.
They played cards at a plastic table, watched TV low, gossiped about afternoon hosts. Lian talked about college, neighbors, grades, his mother, his father, the feeling of always being one step behind. Vani listened, shuffling the cards, tossing out simple, blunt comments that organized the mess in his head better than any therapist.
— Some people are born to hit — she once said, focused on a game of rummy. — And some people are born to get hit and keep standing. You look like the second kind.
— That's not very encouraging, Vani.
— It is, you idiot. — She tapped his arm. — People who hit get tired. People who get back up learn. In the end, the one still standing is the one who learned more.
She was the last piece of home that still made sense.
So when she died, it wasn't just another loss. It was the fuse.
It was her birthday. Lian went to the nursing home with a simple cake bought with the little money he had, imagining her face at the crooked candles.
He found frantic nurses and a white sheet pulled to her chest.
— Heart attack — they said. — It was fast. She didn't suffer.
Lian looked at the cake in his hands, cheap frosting already melting, and felt the physical urge to smash it into the wall, the floor, someone's face—anywhere that could hurt as much as he did.
"Of course it was today," he thought. "What other day would it be?"
Something inside him cracked cleanly.
♦
If someone wanted to sum up Lian Rid's life up to that point, it fit in one line:
A big, stinking pile of shit.
After Vani, he lived on autopilot.
Go to college. Come back. Take his father's abuse. Ignore his mother. Dodge the neighbors when he could. The world lost color. Things happened, but they didn't matter. Diploma? Future? Happiness? Empty words.
He wasn't afraid of dying anymore.
"Die from what? Lose what?"
One random night, taking a shorter route home—a narrow alley behind the market, poorly lit, smelling of trash and smoke—Lian heard fast steps closing in behind him.
— Hey, boss — a rough voice called. — Don't look back. Just hand over the backpack.
He stopped.
The guy wore a beaten hoodie, cap low, dirty sneakers. Cold eyes. Empty the way Lian recognized. His hand shook a little, holding a small revolver that was real enough to erase doubt.
The barrel aimed right between Lian's eyes.
— Come on, damn it. Give me everything. Phone, wallet, shoes if they're expensive. — The thief's finger danced near the trigger. — Don't waste my time.
A few years earlier, Lian would've frozen. Would've cried, begged, handed everything over, praying to live.
That night, he just felt tired. A deep tiredness built from years and losses.
Tired of getting beaten.
Tired of losing.
Tired of trying.
He took half a step forward. Didn't raise his hands. Didn't bargain.
— Shoot — he said simply. His voice was too calm even for him. — I don't have anything worth a damn anyway.
The thief frowned, genuinely confused for a split second.
— What?
— Kill me already — Lian repeated, staring into the gun. — Do your job. Don't waste time.
No bravado. No courage. Just pure, clean surrender.
In that instant, his life flashed in short bursts:
Bia laughing with her mouth full of cake.
Vani fixing his collar and nagging him about being too thin.
His father calling him a mistake.
His mother crying in church.
That shit-stained letter in the bathroom trash.
None of it felt like enough to hold him here.
The trigger pulled.
The alley exploded twice.
The impact hit like a giant fist in his chest. The world spun, streetlights stretched and shattered. The cold ground caught him like an old friend. The smell of hot blood mixed with old garbage, making a heavy fog.
— Holy shit, the psycho shot the kid! — someone distant screamed.
Running footsteps. People yelling. Someone calling an ambulance. Sirens blooming far too late.
To Lian, it all came muffled, like someone was turning the world's volume down.
Pain drowned in numbness. His vision darkened at the edges, a curtain being drawn slow.
"So that's it," he thought in his last thread of consciousness. "It's over…"
In the quietest place what was left of him could reach—where fists, cancer, filthy letters, and bullets couldn't touch—something refused to go out.
Something small.
Stubborn.
A spark clenched tight.
While Lian Rid's body lay still in that filthy alley, a part of him—the part that never got the chance to truly exist—lit up for the first time.
Lian's life ended there.
His story, though… was only beginning.