Chapter 1: The Rain That Soaks Only Me
The city was asleep, but the sky was awake.
The rain wasn't heavy. It wasn't the stormy kind that terrifies, but that slow, weary rain that keeps falling like an old, worn-out memory. It wasn't meant to soak the clothes, but to dampen the silence inside a human being.
The air carried the scent of wet earth and ozone, mixing with the city's pollution to create a strange aroma—a perfume of melancholy.
A streetlight flickered by the roadside. A yellow, sickly light. It blinked on and off repeatedly, as if it too was getting tired of fighting the battle for its existence. Under that light stood Arin.
He had kept his neck slightly bent. This wasn't to escape the rain. Who has ever escaped the rain? This was a way to escape the eyes of the world. A 'Defense Mechanism'.
Arin looked at his palms. His fingers had turned blue from the cold. But he wasn't feeling the chill. He was feeling a strange 'texture'—as if his body was here, but his soul was buffering somewhere else.
His eyelashes were wet. A heavy drop slid from his hair, hung onto his lashes, and then rolled down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
The silence in his mind broke, and words began to take shape. He wasn't looking at the world; he was reading it.
(Arin's Mind)
"This city is like an old hard drive,
Full of corrupt data and incomplete stories.
And this rain...
This rain is nature's 'refresh' button,
Trying every night,
Hoping that perhaps by morning, the screen will be clear.
But the stains... the stains are inside the screen."
Just then, a sound tore through the silence. Zoom!
The roar of a heavy engine. Tires sliced through the wet road, and dirty, black water splashed straight onto Arin's shoes and jeans.
He didn't flinch an inch. A tension rippled through his muscles, ready to run, but his brain pressed the 'pause' button.
Two boys on a sports bike. Helmets in hand. Expensive jackets, expensive watches, and even more expensive was their carelessness.
"Oy, look at him..." one boy said, revving the bike, his voice carrying an intoxication—the intoxication of power. "Standing like a statue. Looks like he's a part of this pole."
The other laughed. That laughter floated through the damp air and reached Arin's ears. Sharp. Like glass.
"He's an NPC, bro. Taking time to load," the other said and released the clutch.
Arin watched them go. The red tail-lights glowed like two demonic eyes in the darkness and then vanished into the mist.
He took a deep breath. With the breath, the cold air pricked his lungs. He clenched his fist and then slowly opened it. Nail marks were imprinted on his palm.
He looked down. Dirty water was seeping into his canvas shoes.
(Arin's Mind)
"They laugh because they think noise is music.
They don't know...
Emptiness has a weight of its own.
I am silent, it doesn't mean I am empty,
It means my noise,
Is imprisoned in the basement of my silence."
Water was pooling in a pothole on the road. A drop would fall from above, a circular ripple would form on the water's surface, expand, and then vanish. Arin's gaze fixed on that ripple.
Forming. Expanding. Vanishing. The loop of life.
Just then, there was a rustle near his wet shoes. A touch. Warm and rough.
Arin looked down. A dog. Brown, with ribs that could be counted. Its fur was plastered with rain, and it was shivering uncontrollably. There was a scar above one of its eyes.
The dog looked up. There was no question in its eyes, no demand. Just an acceptance—'I am here too, you are here too.'
Arin slowly crouched down. His knee joints made a 'crack' sound. He extended his hand. The hand was trembling, not from the cold, but from the fear of touching someone.
The dog didn't pull back. It rested its wet head on Arin's cold palm.
In that single moment, the entire world—those bikes, that rain, that streetlight—everything blurred out. Only that touch was real. One heartbeat was feeling another.
"Let's go, Nainu," Arin whispered. His voice was cracked, as if unused for days. "Tonight is long."
Nainu wagged his small tail. Once. Twice. That was his 'Okay'.
Arin stood up and turned towards the dark alley. There were no lights here. The air here smelled of dampness, old garbage, and wet walls. But Arin's steps didn't falter. He knew where the brick was dislodged and where the drain cover was missing.
This was his empire. Broken, scattered, but his.
At the far end of the alley stood a structure made of tin sheets and plastic. When the wind blew, the plastic curtain swelled and deflated like a sick lung—flap-flap... flap-flap.
He pushed the curtain aside. Inside was pitch darkness.
Arin took a matchbox from his pocket. The stick flared, and for a moment, yellow light spread across the room. Old iron dumbbells and rusted rods lay in the corner. There were no walls, just tin sheets on which rust had drawn maps.
He lit a candle. The flame flickered, but didn't go out.
He took off his wet T-shirt and wrung it out. Water dripped onto the floor—drip-drip. The cold had spread its web over his ribs. He picked up an old, dry shirt and put it on. The fabric was rough, but dry. That was enough.
He sat on the ground, leaning his back against the wall. Nainu came and curled up near his feet. Arin buried his fingers in Nainu's wet fur.
His gaze was fixed on the candle flame. The flame was rising straight up, unwavering.
(Arin's Mind)
"Every story has a hero,
For whom the sun rises.
And then there are people, who only add to the crowd in the background.
Who are there just to fill the scene.
Am I an extra?
Did the writer forget to write my lines?"
Suddenly, thunder rolled outside. The sound of rain on the tin roof intensified. It felt as if the sky was raining bullets.
Arin closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw a blurred face. A hand, stroking his hair. Mother? Or just an illusion? The memory came like a 'glitch' and scattered.
He opened his eyes. There was no moisture in his eyes now. There was a strange glint—cold and sharp.
He looked at a dumbbell lying nearby. Rusted, heavy. He picked it up. Its weight was felt on his wrist. It hurt, but this pain was good. It was reminding him that he is alive.
"In movies..." Arin talked to himself, his voice no longer trembling. "The hero is broken first. He is dragged through the mud. The audience thinks he has lost."
He gripped the dumbbell tightly. The flow of blood in his veins quickened.
"But that is not the end. That is just the beginning of the 'Character Development' arc."
Nainu lifted his head and looked at him, as if understanding his words.
Arin rested his head against the wall and looked at the roof, where a drop was about to drip.
"If this world is a game, and I was losing until now..."
The drop fell and shattered on the ground.
"...then it's time to use the cheat codes. Now I won't play by the rules. Now I will write my own rules."
The first ray of morning was about to break. The candle had burned out, but the fire in Arin's eyes was something no rainstorm could extinguish.
He stood up. He looked at Nainu, and a slight, crooked smile appeared on his face.
"Get ready, Nainu. Today we won't just survive..."
He pushed the plastic curtain aside and stepped out into the misty world outside.