POV
The night wind blew cold against my skin, as if the world itself was trying to remind me of how everything had gone wrong. The streets were nearly empty, except for the occasional car passing by, its headlights cutting through the darkness like silent blades. The sound of my footsteps echoed against the damp asphalt, blending with the distant hum of flickering streetlights.
I was exhausted.
Not just physically, but mentally. Each day dragged on like a weight chained to my ankles, and today was no different.
My life had been thrown into chaos ever since he came back.
My brother.
After years away, after simply leaving and abandoning us, he returned as if nothing had happened. And worse—he didn't come back empty-handed. He came back to take what little was left.
The house. Our house.
He sold it. Without warning. Without even asking. One day, I left for school, and when I came back, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table, eyes red, sale papers scattered in front of her. The place where we grew up, where we built memories, where the marks of our childhood still remained—gone. Sold. And for what? To pay off debts he created.
And in the end, after burning through the money and realizing life wasn't as easy as he thought, he came back. Tail between his legs.
And took my room.
The irony was suffocating. He destroyed our lives, vanished when we needed him most, and in the end, I was the one shoved onto the living room couch while he slept in my bed. And my mother...? She just accepted it. As if she was grateful to have him back. As if that erased everything he had done.
And me?
I had no choice but to deal with it.
The little money my mother earned barely covered the bills, so I had to find a job. And what a joke of a job it was.
I ended up in a tiny office, working for a boss who thought he owned my soul. An arrogant son of a #### who loved reminding me how replaceable I was, how I should be grateful just to have a job, how he could toss me aside the moment I stopped being useful.
And that's exactly what he did.
The moment I refused to work late for free, the moment I dared to raise my voice and say I wasn't a slave, he kicked me out without hesitation.
Well, what did I expect?
Bosses don't care about anything but results.
And now, here I am, heading home once again—no job, no money, no room to sleep in, and not a shred of dignity left.
The streets felt emptier than usual. The silence of the city pressed down on me, interrupted only by the distant sound of a radio playing from some forgotten apartment. The yellow glow of the streetlights cast long shadows on the asphalt, and I felt like one of them.
Invisible.
Disposable.
But deep down, there was something inside me—a faint flame refusing to go out.
A part of me that wouldn't accept this fate without a fight.
I just didn't know that fight was about to begin.
And that my world would never be the same again.
---
My steps slowed until, without realizing it, I stopped.
A dim streetlight flickered above me, its unsteady glow casting shifting shadows on the pavement. The wind blew cold, slipping past the collar of my worn-out jacket and grazing my skin, but I barely felt it. I just stood there, staring at the empty street ahead.
Why?
Why was I still going?
The truth was cruel but undeniable: I was no one.
Not a genius, not talented, not someone with any special skills that set me apart. I wasn't attractive—the kind of person who turned heads or drew admiration. I wasn't strong, wasn't exceptional at anything.
I was... ordinary.
The kind of person who blends into the crowd, who disappears without leaving a trace. The kind of person who doesn't make a difference in the world.
If I disappeared tomorrow, how many people would really notice?
My mother? Maybe. But she already carried the weight of my brother's disappointment, and deep down, I felt like she'd be fine without me. She was always strong. Always endured everything without complaint.
Friends? I had none. I was never the kind of person who could maintain close relationships. Not because I didn't try, but because, in the end, people always drifted away. Or maybe... maybe I was the one who pushed them away.
And the world out there...?
It would keep turning as if nothing had happened.
The truth was, I was just another cog in the machine. Just another disposable piece in a system that never stops. Workers like me are born and die every day without anyone caring. Without anyone even noticing.
And if that was the case... then what was the point?
The thought surfaced before I could stop it.
Maybe... just maybe... ending it all wouldn't be such a bad idea.
The idea felt distant, like a whisper in the deepest part of my mind. Something I had always ignored, always pushed away, but now... now it seemed logical. Rational.
No money. No future. No place in the world.
And above all, no hope.
I lifted my head, staring up at the dark sky. Thick clouds hid most of the stars, leaving only a few faint glimmers in the endless black. Even they seemed so far away... so unreachable.
I closed my eyes.
If I disappeared right now...
Would anyone care?
For a moment, just a brief moment, a profound silence took over my mind.
As if everything had stopped.
As if there was nothing left but this moment, this feeling.
Then, something shattered the silence.
A sound.
Faint, distant, almost imperceptible.
But it was there.
Something was about to happen.
A pair of headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the street for a brief moment before disappearing around the bend ahead. The hum of the engine faded as the car drove away, its tires gliding smoothly over the wet asphalt.
I blinked, as if waking from a trance.
That was all. Just a passing car.
I sighed, feeling the weight of the moment dissipate, but leaving behind something even heavier—an exhaustion that ran deeper than just my body. It was in my bones, in my thoughts, in the very core of who I was.
What a stupid thing.
Shaking my head, I ran a hand over my face, trying to brush away the lingering traces of my previous thoughts. My heart, which for a brief second had seemed to stop, resumed its normal rhythm, and the world around me returned to its usual, unremarkable form.
"Stop daydreaming..." I muttered under my breath, my voice barely carrying over the wind.
I was sixteen. Almost seventeen.
Childhood had been left behind long ago. There was no more space for illusions, for daydreams, or for impossible wishes. In the end, I was just going to be another one.
Nothing less.
Nothing more.
My hands were cold. Maybe it was the wind, maybe it was just my imagination, but as I looked at them, they seemed almost too pale under the dim streetlights. As if they belonged to someone else.
I clenched them into fists and shoved them into my pockets.
The air smelled of rain, and the sky—heavy with clouds—felt even more distant than before. The streets remained empty, and the only sound besides my own footsteps was the muffled hum of the city breathing in the background.
With no other choice, I kept walking.
After all, what else could I do?
---
The pale glow of the apartment complex lights reflected in the puddles scattered across the asphalt, remnants of the rain that had fallen earlier. The building loomed before me, its walls worn by time, standing in near silence—broken only by the faint murmur of a television from some distant apartment.
As I approached the front gate, frustration twisted my stomach.
"Again...?" I muttered, staring at the sorry state of the entrance.
The metal structure was half-open, leaning forward as if waiting for the right moment to collapse entirely. The electronic lock flickered red, a sign that the system was failing—again. It was nothing new. The gate was always breaking down, and the building management did little to fix it.
With a tired sigh, I made my way around to the garage entrance. At least the larger gate still worked, for now. I waited for a car to pull out before slipping inside, the smell of oil and damp concrete filling my lungs. The place was dark, with only a few working lights casting long shadows across the floor.
My footsteps echoed through the empty parking lot as I walked toward my building. The space felt lifeless at this hour, the cars parked like abandoned metal husks. For a brief moment, I wondered how easy it would be to just lie down there, between the concrete pillars, and disappear into the darkness.
But that thought vanished as quickly as it came.
After all, disappearing wasn't an option.
Not yet.
I reached the entrance to my building and typed in the code on the small digital keypad beside the door. The cold buttons under my fingers felt the same as always, yet somehow, today, they felt heavier—like each one carried the weight of another aimless day dragging on.
A sharp beep sounded, and the door unlocked with a dry click. I pushed it open with my shoulder and stepped inside, feeling the stale, warm air of the building settle over me.
The hallway was empty.
Of course it was.
No one wandered around at this hour. Everyone had somewhere to go. Everyone had someone waiting for them behind some door.
And me?
I simply started climbing the stairs, one step at a time, listening to the monotonous rhythm of my own footsteps against the concrete.
Climbing stairs always made me think. Maybe it was the effort, the slow, repetitive motion, or maybe it was just the fact that there was nothing else to do but face my own thoughts.
And lately, those thoughts weren't exactly great.
I knew what I was.
I knew what I would never be.
And more than anything, I knew that the world wouldn't change because of me.
I wasn't a hero.
I wasn't the protagonist of some grand story.
I was just me.
An ordinary kid.
Nothing less.
Nothing more.
My footsteps echoed against the concrete steps, each sound rhythmic like the ticking of an invisible clock—a constant reminder of time moving forward, dragging itself like a slow, inevitable current.
And if I had powers?
If, somehow, I woke up tomorrow and found out I could bend reality at will, that there were no more limits to what I could do… what would change?
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the stagnant heat of the building pressing against my skin.
In the end, I wouldn't be a hero.
I never liked that role. People who sacrifice themselves for complete strangers, who bleed for a society that barely acknowledges their existence—all in the name of some abstract concept like "hope." And for what? To become martyrs? To hear empty words of gratitude? To fill some internal void, hoping the world would see them as something more than what they really were?
Heroes destroy themselves so others can continue their mediocre lives.
And villains?
Ah, they're even worse.
The other extreme of the spectrum. So egotistical they believe themselves to be the true protagonists of the world. Completely blinded by their own vanity, their own greed, thinking they can shape everything around them just because they have the power to do so.
They are exactly what they claim to despise.
In the end, both are just two sides of the same coin.
And me?
I never liked coins.
I never wanted to be one or the other.
But then, if I had power... what would I be?
Would I still be myself?
Would I still be Rodrigo Raphael?
Or would my name lose all meaning in the face of what I could become?
My hand slid along the worn-out railing as I continued climbing the stairs.
If I could destroy an entire country with a single finger, what would be left of morality?
What would right and wrong even mean when everything bent to my will?
Would laws still matter...?
I let out a dry, humorless chuckle, a sound that faded into the empty hallway.
Laws. As if those held any real weight for people like me.
Rules were made to keep people like me locked in. To keep the sheep in line while the wolves feast without consequence.
If I had the power of a god...
Would those same laws still try to hold me back?
I doubt it.
Maybe, deep down, I already knew the answer to that question.
But it wasn't time to answer it.
Not yet.
In the end, none of this mattered.
None of these thoughts, none of these ideas.
I could philosophize all I wanted, think about power, morality, justice, but the truth remained the same: I would die like every other pig that spent their life turning the gears of this filthy, rusted machine called society.
I knew that.
And it's not like I cared.
For what? So my name could be written somewhere? So I could be remembered? People die and are forgotten all the time. Even those who leave marks in history eventually disappear. Time erases everything. A name might last years, decades, even centuries… but so what? What does being remembered matter when you're already dead?
Flowers on a grave?
Empty words of gratitude?
None of it has any value when you're not there to see it.
Death makes everything irrelevant.
And love...?
Hah.
If there's anything more ridiculous than the idea of being remembered, it's this farce called love.
People romanticize it as if it's eternal, but I know it isn't. I could love someone, but what guarantees they'd feel the same? What guarantees that feeling wouldn't fade?
People get tired of each other.
It's inevitable.
And I know that's a truth no one likes to hear.
No one wants to face the fact that, in the end, everything we feel is temporary. That relationships fall apart, promises are broken, bonds weaken until they disappear completely.
The sweet lie will always be preferred over the bitter truth.
And that was one of the first lessons I ever learned in life.
A lesson that came from my father.
I reached the last flight of stairs and stopped in front of the apartment door.
The dim hallway light flickered above me, casting uneven shadows against the wooden surface. The number beside the door was slightly worn, but I didn't need to look. My fingers already knew exactly where to go, pulling the key from my jacket pocket without hesitation.
The lock clicked open with a dry sound, and I pushed the door inward, met with the familiar scent of the apartment: a mix of dust, cheap cleaning products, and something slightly sour, probably from the kitchen.
Darkness.
Everything was off.
I shut the door behind me without making a sound, letting the apartment sink into absolute silence. Only the muffled hum of the fridge and the distant ticking of a clock broke the stillness of the house.
They were already asleep.
Of course, they were.
Without turning on any lights, I walked through the apartment, my feet knowing every inch of that worn-out floor. The old couch was exactly where it always was, with some clothes tossed over it. A forgotten glass on the table reflected a faint glow from the window.
I passed by the kitchen, ignoring the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and headed straight for the bathroom.
Without thinking much, I closed the door behind me and turned on the shower. The water hit the tiles hard, breaking the suffocating silence around me.
A shower.
The only thing I really wanted right now.
Steam started to fill the bathroom, forming a thin mist that covered the mirror above the sink. The sound of water hitting the ceramic floor filled the space, drowning out any other noise in the apartment.
Slowly, I pulled off my shirt and tossed it into a corner, followed by the rest of my clothes. The cold air of the bathroom met my skin, sending a brief shiver through me before I finally stepped under the shower.
The hot water ran down my body, washing away the tension built up throughout the day.
I stood there, letting the warmth spread, trying to ignore the exhaustion that clung to my bones.
I closed my eyes.
The sound of the water was hypnotic. A constant curtain of noise that isolated me from the rest of the world, as if, for a few minutes, nothing else existed beyond this small space.
My hands slid over my face, pushing away the wet strands of hair, and for a moment, I just stood there, head lowered, letting the water pour over me.
I was tired.
Not just physically.
It wasn't a tiredness that a simple shower could wash away.
But for now, it would have to be enough.
At least for a few more minutes, while the steam filled the bathroom and the world outside seemed distant.
The hot water kept running down my face, sliding down my neck, mixing with the exhaustion buried deep in my muscles. My shoulders loosened slightly, but the weariness remained, settled too deep to be rinsed away.
I stayed still for a while, unhurried, feeling the water hit my skin as if trying to pull me away from reality, even if just for a moment.
But nothing changed.
Nothing ever changed.
I slid my hands over my face, feeling the roughness of my own skin beneath my fingers. My eyes were heavy, and the shower's steam was making the air thick and stifling.
I let out a low sigh.
I wasn't sure how long I had been standing there, but it didn't matter. Eventually, I turned off the shower, letting the silence take over the bathroom once more.
Only the persistent dripping of water against the tiles remained, echoing in the small space.
I reached for the towel hanging on the hook and quickly ran it over my face and arms before wrapping it around my waist. The mirror in front of me was completely fogged up, obscuring my reflection beneath a cloudy layer of steam.
Maybe that was for the best.
I didn't need to see my own face right now.
The rough fabric slid over my skin as I dried myself, absorbing the excess water dripping from my hair. The air in the apartment felt colder now that I was out of the bathroom, making my skin prickle slightly as the warmth of the shower began to fade.
I tossed the towel over my shoulders and walked to my room in silence, my bare feet pressing against the cold floor. The door creaked softly as I pushed it open.
That wasn't my space anymore.
The bed that had once been mine now belonged to someone else. My things had been pushed into the corners, rearranged as if I were just a guest in my own home.
I didn't waste any time there. I went straight to the wardrobe, sliding the door open as quietly as possible.
I grabbed a few blankets, carelessly folded on the shelf, and pulled them out. The slightly dusty smell told me they weren't used often, but that didn't matter.
I shut the wardrobe and left the room as quickly as I had entered.
The dark hallway welcomed me back as I walked toward the living room. The couch was exactly as I had left it, with some clothes tossed over one side and a remote control buried between the cushions.
I dropped the blankets onto the couch and sat down for a moment, feeling the cushion sink slightly under my weight.
I took a deep breath.
The apartment was drowned in heavy silence, broken only by the distant hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
It was a silence I was already used to.
I pulled one of the blankets over myself before lying down, adjusting to the narrow space of the couch.
It wasn't comfortable.
But I hadn't expected it to be.
The music started playing in my ears the moment I pressed play.
I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the couch as the first verses echoed through my mind.
"And when you betray me, you never promised you wouldn't..."
Lies. Empty promises. How many times had I heard words like these? How many times had I seen smiling faces, hiding a knife behind their backs?
"Pinocchio, your nose has grown..."
Hypocrisy. That's what drives the world.
"So what's the price required to betray the one by your side?"
Everyone has a price. Some sell themselves for money. Others for power. Some even betray themselves for a little validation.
"Become a traitor for thirty coins."
Judas. The most famous traitor in history. But was he the only one?
Of course not.
Everyone betrays.
Everyone.
"Can you hear this choir? Are they angels or demons?"
The melody continued, filling the suffocating silence of the room. The couch was uncomfortable, the air was heavy. But this song...
It made sense.
"If I forgave before, I will forgive again."
I let out a long sigh.
Forgiveness.
Nice to say. But meaningless.
"Drink of my blood, eat of my body..."
The song kept repeating in my ears, and little by little, my mind began to sink into exhaustion.
"Oh, Judas..."
And then, finally, sleep took me.
.
.
.
.
.
My eyes opened.
But nothing changed.
It was still dark.
More than that... it was absolute, suffocating blackness.
By reflex, I tried blinking a few times, expecting my vision to adjust. But there was nothing to see. No shadows, no faint outlines, not even the smallest sliver of light. Just darkness, dense and infinite.
My fingers twitched instinctively, but I couldn't see them.
The strange sensation of not even being able to perceive myself sent a chill down my spine.
Was I awake...?
My breathing sounded too loud in the emptiness.
I tried looking around, turning my head, searching for any point of reference... But it was as if there was no direction, as if I were surrounded by absolute nothingness.
Was I dreaming?
A lucid dream, maybe?
It wouldn't be the first time I had strange dreams, but this... this felt different.
Strangely real.
And then, I tried to speak.
My mouth opened, my throat prepared to form a sound—any sound... but nothing came out.
The absolute silence swallowed me whole, like a living entity.
The absence of my own voice made something twist inside me. The urge to scream surged, desperate, irrational—but again... nothing.
It was as if my very existence was being smothered by that darkness.
And then, I realized something else.
I wasn't standing still.
I was floating.
I didn't know when I had started feeling it, but now it was impossible to ignore. My body drifted gently, effortlessly, as if being carried by something unseen.
It was an ocean.
But not just any ocean.
The water wasn't cold. It wasn't warm. It wasn't even lukewarm.
It was a strange sensation—familiar and unsettling at the same time. Like that feeling after spending hours in a pool or the sea, when you lie down and still feel as if you're floating, even though you're not.
But I knew.
I was in the water.
Or at least... something like it.
I tried moving my arms, feeling for resistance around me.
Nothing.
It was as if there was no substance at all, yet at the same time, I was being held there, floating, unable to sink or swim.
Time passed.
Seconds? Minutes? Hours?
Hard to say.
It was just me and this infinite void.
And, for some reason, an unsettling feeling began to grow in the back of my mind.
I wasn't alone here.
I tried to think. To rationalize.
Was I dreaming?
A lucid nightmare, maybe?
I had read about them before. It wasn't impossible. Some people went through experiences like this—where they knew they were dreaming but couldn't wake up.
But it was rare.
And even among the accounts I remembered, none described anything so... absolute.
The darkness wasn't just the absence of light. It was something else. Something that wrapped around me, that isolated me, as if it were trying to erase any last sense of reality I had left.
The sensation of floating remained, but there were no waves, no currents, no scent of saltwater—nothing that indicated I was truly in an ocean. Just that endless void, holding my body effortlessly.
If this wasn't a dream...
Where was I?
My mind started considering other possibilities.
Something spiritual?
An astral plane?
Lost souls trapped in limbo?
No.
That was nonsense.
I had never really believed in those things. I had always seen the world as something practical, physical. People invented those ideas to comfort themselves, to make sense of what they didn't understand.
I wasn't like that.
What existed was what could be seen, touched, proven.
And so far, none of this fit into anything I could explain.
The unease inside me grew.
I needed to understand.
I...
The moment that thought crossed my mind—"I need to get out of here."—something changed.
The sensation of floating disappeared in an instant, as if it had been ripped away from me.
Suddenly, I was standing.
There was no transition, no warning. One second ago, my body was drifting in that absolute nothingness, and the next, my feet were planted firmly on something I couldn't see.
The impact was so sudden that it made me stagger. My balance adjusted instinctively, but the discomfort remained.
What the hell was that?
I hadn't moved a muscle. I hadn't done anything to change my position.
It was as if...
As if this place had heard my thoughts.
A shiver ran down my spine.
The darkness around me remained dense and impenetrable, but now, there was something solid beneath my feet.
Floor? Ground? Some invisible surface?
I slowly lowered my head, trying to see something, but it was as if my eyes simply weren't capable of perceiving whatever was there.
Even without seeing, I knew I was standing.
The question echoed in my mind once again.
What is this place?
My thoughts raced as I tried to process what had just happened.
Was it a coincidence?
Or had this place... responded to me?
What disturbed me the most was the lack of a transition. There had been no moment of movement, no instant where I felt my body shifting from floating to standing. It had been immediate.
As if this unknown space had simply decided to change my position.
My first instinct was to dismiss the idea. Places don't listen. Empty spaces don't react. That didn't make sense.
But then... what did?
I had thought about leaving that floating state. And immediately afterward, I was standing.
It could be a coincidence, of course.
But what if it wasn't?
The darkness around me remained unchanged, dense and suffocating. I still couldn't see anything—not even my own body—but the invisible ground beneath me was real.
I slowly moved one foot forward, testing the surface. Still solid.
The sensation was strange.
Like I was in a space that only existed because I was here.
If this place really did respond to my thoughts...
That meant I could test it.
But test what, exactly?
The first thought that came to mind was simple.
Light.
Nothing elaborate. Just a passing idea, a stray suggestion. I didn't even take it seriously.
But then—
The darkness exploded into light.
My eyes were flooded with a brightness so intense that I had to squeeze them shut, an immediate reflex to avoid blindness.
One second ago, I had been drowning in absolute blackness. Now, it was like staring straight into the sun.
My heart pounded.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This place had answered me.
I blinked several times, forcing my eyes to adjust. Slowly, the overwhelming brightness began to soften, dimming until it became bearable.
When I was finally able to open my eyes fully, I saw where I was.
And what I saw… made no sense.
I had expected a space, a location, something. But there were no walls, no ceiling, no horizon.
It was an endless white void stretching in every direction.
The ground beneath my feet had no texture. It wasn't stone, wood, or metal. It was just... white. As if I were standing on light itself.
My breathing was heavy.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't normal.
My experiment had worked.
This place was listening to my thoughts.
And now, I needed to understand what the hell this place was.
What the hell any of this meant.
My mind spun in search of a logical explanation, but nothing I knew fit this.
My hands were sweaty.
It wasn't exactly fear, but something close—an unease, a growing discomfort that made my mind race faster than it should.
Why me?
What did I do to be here?
I was just an ordinary person. No special talent, no great intelligence, no extraordinary achievements. Just one among billions, a speck of dust in the machinery of the world.
If there was a purpose to this, it was beyond my understanding.
I tried to recall my last memories.
I remembered lying on the couch… listening to music…
And then, nothing.
No transition. No warning.
Just the void.
The idea that this was just a dream was starting to unravel quickly.
Dreams had their own logic—fragmented, erratic. But this place…
This place responded to me.
And that was the scariest part.
If it reacted to my thoughts… then how far could this go?
My mind was a mess.
I needed to think.
I needed to organize everything, but it was difficult.
Confusion took over, thoughts clashed, logic slipped through my fingers. I had always been a rational person, someone who tried to understand the world in a practical way, but now…
Now, nothing made sense.
Maybe—if this place really responded to my thoughts—I could at least try to think more clearly.
The moment that idea crossed my mind, something changed.
A presence.
Out of nowhere, without a sound, without warning, a shadow appeared in front of me.
My heart jumped in my chest.
My muscles tensed.
It wasn't the shadow of something cast on the ground or a wall. No. It was something much worse.
It was standing there, with form, with volume—but no face, no details. Just a dark silhouette, contrasting against the infinite white surrounding us.
Fear gripped me before I could react rationally.
My body moved on instinct.
I stepped back.
And fell.
The impact didn't hurt, but it made me realize something even stranger—the ground was still there, invisible and solid, holding me up.
My chest rose and fell too fast.
And then—
The shadow moved.
Calm.
Controlled.
It leaned slightly toward me and, without hesitation, extended a hand.
And when it spoke…
It was in my voice.
— Need some help?
Fear tightened around my chest like an invisible hand.
My mind screamed that this wasn't normal.
It wasn't possible.
The dark silhouette remained there, hand outstretched toward me. The gesture seemed… friendly?
But how could I trust it?
Especially when, as I opened my mouth to say something—anything—nothing came out.
My throat locked up, suffocated by a mix of terror and confusion.
But the shadow…
It just stood there, patient.
And then, with my own voice, it said:
— You don't need to be afraid.
My fingers clenched against the invisible floor, my breathing still too rapid.
But it was the next sentence that made my body freeze.
— After all… why would you be afraid of yourself?
My stomach twisted.
The words latched onto my mind like sharp claws, forcing me to process them.
"Of myself"?
The meaning of that phrase hit me like a punch to the gut.
That…
That thing was me?
The shadow kept its hand extended, motionless, as if it knew exactly what I was feeling.
And maybe… it did.
It tilted its head slightly to the side.
The gesture was almost human, but the absence of features made it all the more unsettling. No eyes, no mouth, no sign of expression. Just that dark, distorted outline of a shape that was supposed to be me.
And then, in my own voice, it spoke again:
— You wanted to think more clearly, didn't you? Well… here I am for that.
Something clicked in my mind.
It… or he… was saying it was a manifestation of my own desire?
I had thought about wanting clarity. And then, out of nowhere, this thing appeared before me.
The connection was obvious.
But that didn't make it any less terrifying.
My chest rose and fell rapidly, my breath still unsteady. My senses were on high alert, my skin tingling.
The shadow remained there, hand outstretched, waiting.
So I had two choices.
I could take a deep breath and try to regain control.
Or…
I could let panic consume me.
I felt fear rooting itself inside me, growing like thorns ready to suffocate me.
But if this shadow was a part of me, then giving in to fear would be like fearing my own reflection.
The question echoed in my head.
Would I think more calmly… or spiral into panic?
I took a deep breath, trying to gather some shred of control over the chaos in my mind. Each breath, slow and deep, was an attempt to bring order to the storm.
My thoughts were still tangled, but I knew I couldn't let myself be completely lost. This was a test. I didn't know how, but it was. And I had to face it.
With effort, I lifted my eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. The shadow was still there, unmoving, with that hand extended. Trying to help, it said.
I tried to make my expression serious, though I knew it wasn't. There was something strangely inhuman about this, a weight in the air, as if the entire situation was some grand joke I had yet to understand.
With a voice that came out low and controlled but filled with uncertainty, I asked:
— How can you be me? And more importantly, how do I know that's true? You're nothing more than a shadow… an… illusion. How can I believe that? How do I know I'm not just lost in my own delirium?
I tried to look directly at where I imagined its "eyes" would be—if it had any. The emptiness on its face was unsettling, as if it were nothing more than a reflection of what I feared becoming. But the words still came out.
— Why should I trust you?
Doubts flooded my mind, one after another. The shadow was my reflection, yet it was difficult to believe in something so contradictory. I saw it as a distortion, a part of me I didn't understand, something I had never wanted to accept. How could it be true? How could I, Rodrigo Raphael, trust what I could not comprehend?
I stood there, waiting for an answer, but deep down, I felt that any words it spoke would only be another piece of an unsolvable puzzle.
The shadow remained still, not moving an inch. The silence that followed felt heavy, as if the very air around me was holding its breath, waiting for something—something even I didn't know.
Then, in my own voice—now softer but carrying an inhuman confidence—it began to speak. The words came out cold, almost as if they were reading directly from my soul.
— Do you remember that day? The day you promised yourself you would never again tell anyone what you truly thought? Because if you did, you'd be labeled as crazy. When you sat in the back row of the classroom and decided that none of it mattered anymore. Do you remember? You stared at that board on the wall and felt a quiet rage, for no reason at all, just because you felt trapped in that place.
I froze.
The shadow knew. It knew that.
What was even more terrifying was how I had never consciously admitted it to myself, let alone to anyone else. And yet, there it was. The memory. Alive. Like a sharp blade slicing through my confidence.
And the shadow continued, unhurried, as if merely reciting facts from my life.
— Or how about the time you locked yourself in the bathroom, too afraid to look in the mirror? You didn't want to see your reflection, didn't want to admit who you were. The fear of facing the face of someone you no longer recognized. The fear that if you looked too closely, all you'd see was the same loneliness staring back at you. You cried in there, didn't you? And yet, you told yourself it was just a phase.
Those words cut deeper than I could have imagined. My chest tightened, and a suffocating sensation crept up my throat.
I had never told anyone about that. I couldn't have.
How? How did it know every thought, every weakness I had never dared to confront?
The shadow paused, and the darkness around me seemed to swallow the last traces of light. But it didn't stop.
— And in your last job… You refused to work more than ten hours, even when your boss demanded it. You knew what would happen, didn't you? You knew that if you refused, he would fire you. But what you didn't realize was that you didn't care. Whether it was courage or just exhaustion from being treated like a tool, you never figured it out. But the truth is—you didn't care.
My stomach turned.
The shadow was right.
Every word it spoke came from a place deeper than I could control. It was as if it had invaded the darkest corners of my mind, the places I had never explored, not even within myself.
— And finally, I remember the night you stared out of the window and thought life had lost all meaning. You spent hours there, looking at the empty streets, wondering if it would all be easier if you just... disappeared. You never spoke about it, but that memory remains. Only you know it. But I know it too.
The shadow fell silent, and an icy sensation spread through my body. I was trembling, though I wasn't sure if it was from fear or from something deeper, something darker, now laid bare.
I had never revealed those secrets.
How did it know?
This wasn't just a shadow. It was something that reflected the parts of me I wanted to forget. It wasn't just a physical reflection. It was… something more. Something I couldn't understand.
I stood there, unable to speak, unable to process what I had just heard.
The shadow remained still for a moment, its presence filling the void around me as if the darkness itself were made from its essence. And then, slowly, it took a step forward.
The movement was gentle, but the sensation of its approach was overwhelming. There was no rush, no urgency. It was as if time itself held no meaning in that space. Every movement it made felt deliberate, as if it was trying to reach me in a way I couldn't fully comprehend.
The shadow, its hand still outstretched, finally spoke again.
Its voice—my voice, but distorted, emotionless—was softer now, as if trying to ease the weight of its previous words.
— I'm not here to throw your mistakes or secrets in your face, Rodrigo. That doesn't interest me.
Its words were calm, almost gentle, but its presence was still heavy, still pressing against me like an unseen force. It took another step toward me, its hand still extended, and by instinct, I took a step back.
— I didn't come to make you feel guiltier, more confused, or more... lost. You already do that well enough on your own.
The shadow tilted its head slightly, as if studying my every reaction.
— What I am here to do is help you think more clearly. To help you understand this place and the reason why you are here. Why you are here, Rodrigo. Why you are here, now.
The feeling of being seen—truly seen—through every layer of my mind, every intimate thought I had, intensified. Every word it spoke carried an existential weight, as if simply hearing them could rip me away from something I didn't even understand yet.
The shadow took another step closer to me.
— You are not here by chance. This place, this feeling… this is only the beginning. It is merely the first door of many. And I am the key to finding the answers—if you truly want them.
The outstretched hand was no longer a threat. It was… an offering. The hand of someone who seemed to want to lead me toward something I couldn't see. Something that might be greater than me, greater than my entire existence up to this moment.
I looked at the shadow. At myself, reflected in it.
— I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want from me. — My voice came out shakier than I wanted, but it was all I could muster. I was, without a doubt, losing control.
It remained there, waiting. It didn't respond immediately. The shadow simply stood there, its hand still extended, without pressing me.
— What do you feel, Rodrigo? — It asked softly, almost as if it were taunting me. — Fear? Confusion? Anger? Or something even deeper? What do you truly want, deep inside?
I wanted to know. I wanted to understand.
But I was still trapped.
Trapped in the uncertainty of how far I could trust this… thing.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my mind, but nothing seemed to help me control the storm inside. The presence of the shadow, the way it spoke, felt so… natural. Almost as if it knew more about me than I did myself.
Its hand was still extended—an invitation or a silent command—but what truly tormented me was what it had just said. I was here. I was trapped in this place without knowing how or why. And yet, it seemed to understand me in a way I didn't want it to.
With a sudden urgency I couldn't control, I looked at the shadow and, almost without thinking, asked:
— Are you… really a part of me? Because the way you're speaking… it sounds like you know more about me than I do! How do you know all of this? How do you know what I felt, what I thought, what I want?
The shadow didn't move, but its presence grew denser, as if its words carried an even greater weight. It seemed to be observing my every movement, every breath, as if absorbing every fragment of my doubt and fear.
It didn't answer right away. Silence settled between us, but instead of unsettling me, it felt as though that silence was pulling me deeper into myself. The wait, the tension—it was as if it was giving me the space to process everything it had said, with no rush to hand me the answers.
When it finally spoke again, its voice was calm, serene—yet somehow still carrying an eerie truth.
— I am a part of you, Rodrigo. But not in the way you imagine. I am what you refuse to see. What you try to bury. You don't have to believe me—not yet—but everything I've said so far… you know it's true. You feel it, don't you? The anger, the frustration, the fear… all of it, weighing on you, without you even understanding why.
The shadow paused, and a cold shiver ran down my spine.
— I am the reflection of what you avoid. The part of you that you try to bury. The part of you that you don't want to face.
A lump formed in my throat. The way it spoke… it was as if it were tearing through everything I wanted to keep hidden—effortlessly. The sheer vulnerability it forced upon me left me frozen, unable to think, unable to act.
Then, the shadow took another step toward me, still perfectly composed.
— I am you, and you are me. But don't be mistaken, Rodrigo. I am not here to destroy you. I am here to help you see who you truly are. And when you finally accept that, then whatever happens next… will be your choice.
My hands were sweating, and the fear I had felt was starting to give way to confusion. I was lost. I didn't know what any of this meant, or what I was supposed to do with it.
But somehow, I knew something important was happening—something I couldn't avoid.
I stood there in silence, trying to process everything that had just unfolded. Each word the shadow had spoken echoed in my mind like a lingering whisper. I looked at its hand, still extended toward me, feeling the weight of its presence. But now, something else was settling inside me—an unsettling loss of control, as if I was teetering on the edge of reality and madness.
Am I really losing my mind?
It was the only thought I could grasp. But I couldn't just ignore what was happening.
I wasn't dreaming.
This wasn't a lucid nightmare—because I was fully aware.
This was real.
I was standing here, face to face with my own shadow—one that now spoke as if it were the only thing that truly knew me.
I took a step back, trying to break eye contact, but my gaze kept drifting back to that figure. It wasn't just its appearance that unsettled me—it was something deeper. It was reaching into my very soul.
It was right. Every word, every sentence it spoke resonated within me. How did it know all that? How did it know what I was hiding? The anger I tried to ignore, the frustration with life, the things I kept locked away—even from myself.
I stepped back again, struggling to process, to understand… but the more I tried to escape this truth, the closer it came. Silence stretched between us, and deep down, I knew the shadow's words made sense—even if I didn't want to accept them. It was a part of me, a part I refused to acknowledge.
I looked at it again, finally deciding to face what I could no longer ignore. Who was I fooling?
— So… you are me, aren't you? — The question came out weaker than I intended, like I was searching for some kind of confirmation—or maybe just a sign that this was all a delusion, a trick of my exhausted mind. — But why now? Why all of this, now?
I didn't know if I wanted an answer or if I just needed to say it out loud, as if that would somehow ease the pressure. But nothing eased. I was standing here, confronting the part of myself I never wanted to see—and yet, I couldn't look away.
The shadow remained silent for a moment, watching me with what felt like even greater intensity. There was no rush, no impatience. It simply existed, as if waiting for something. Or maybe… waiting for me to finally understand.
I felt small before it. Like everything I thought was true about myself, about the world, was crumbling. This was no longer about fearing I was losing control—I had already lost it. And the shadow knew that better than anyone.
I shut my eyes, trying to block it out, but its presence only pressed deeper into my mind. Whatever was happening, I had no control anymore. The rational part of me—the part that still tried to deny this—was slipping away. Then, slowly, with heavy breaths and clouded thoughts, I reached out toward the shadow.
I didn't know why I was doing it. I didn't know what I expected from taking that hand. But the helplessness was so overwhelming that any action seemed better than standing there, directionless.
The moment my hand touched its own, the sensation of being in a cold, empty void vanished—replaced by an overwhelming force lifting me from the ground, as if I were finally rising from that endless darkness. The shadow pulled me up effortlessly, without strain. The touch wasn't physical—it was more like a presence invading my body, a force shaping the space around me.
I was still in shock, struggling to process what was happening, but the words left my mouth before I could stop them, a quiet kind of desperation.
— Why am I here? — The question echoed in my mind before I spoke it aloud. — Why me, exactly? Out of billions of possibilities… why me?
The shadow remained silent for a few moments, and I felt as though it was waiting for a response I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. I didn't even know what I expected from myself.
When it finally spoke, its voice was soft but laced with irony, as if the answer itself was… almost a joke.
— I have no idea. — The reply was simple but sharp. — In fact, I only know what you know, Rodrigo.
It paused, a faint, almost harmless chuckle escaping, as if it found amusement in its own words.
— I know what you know… and that's all. — It continued with an unsettling lightness. — I am you, and you are me. Nothing more, nothing less.
My mind stalled for a moment. Its words only confused me further. I couldn't fully grasp what it meant by I only know what you know. I had no clue how that explained why I was here, in a place that made no sense.
And yet, there was something deeper in that response. Something that suggested I hadn't arrived here by accident. Something that tied me to this place, even if I didn't yet understand how.
I stood in silence, absorbing the idea that the shadow had no answers to my questions—or at least not the ones I wanted. It seemed to be an extension of me, nothing more, nothing less. I still didn't know what that meant, but the feeling that I was being pulled into something bigger was only growing stronger.
I remained still, the shadow's words echoing in my mind. The sensation of being drawn into the unknown filled me with rising unease. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to think. Every thought slipped away before it could fully form.
Was I really here without a purpose?
It was a question I couldn't ignore. I found myself questioning my very existence in this place… yet, at the same time, something inside me whispered that there was more to this than I could see.
If I was here, then there had to be a reason.
Right?
The idea that I might be trapped in some kind of... mental prison, or perhaps a parallel reality, started to take shape in my mind. But the question that kept hammering at me was: Who—or what—was responsible for this?
The shadow, the part of me that seemed to know more than I did, was leading me through an experience I couldn't understand but couldn't deny. Yet, I was beginning to wonder if there was more I could do here.
Can I control this place? The thought crossed my mind almost like a challenge. I had manifested light, I had controlled the darkness around me… but was that all? Could I do more? Maybe I wasn't just limited to shaping my surroundings—maybe I could mold reality itself. Or even myself, in ways I hadn't imagined.
I looked at the shadow again, searching for some kind of clue about what I could do in this place. It didn't move, didn't react to my thoughts, but in some way, its very presence was a reflection of my questioning.
— I… I can do more than this, can't I? — The words slipped out before I could stop them, but somehow, they didn't sound irrational. I was trying to understand if there was something beyond creating light or manipulating my own thoughts. Maybe… maybe I could change reality. Or change myself. Who knew what else this place would allow me to do?
I stood there, waiting for the shadow's response, but at the same time, part of me was already searching for ways to explore this unknown power. What else could I create? What else could I become?
I felt like a puppet, a floating being lost in the darkness, trying to grasp what else this place could offer—or perhaps, what I could do with it. The shadow beside me, its presence unchanging, seemed like the key to all the answers, but I didn't know if I could trust something so undefined. Or was it just me? The questions kept piling up, and with them, the growing urge to find meaning in this nightmare.
I turned to the shadow, my mind still buzzing with uncertainty, and then, more firmly than I expected, I asked:
— What should I do? — The words came out filled with an urgent need for answers. — I can do more than just manifest light or materialize my thoughts, can't I?
I paused, feeling the weight of my own words, as if I were searching for something beyond the limits of this darkness.
— If I can truly create something from nothing, then what are the limits? How do I find out how far this goes?
The shadow, as always, didn't respond immediately. I could almost swear it was watching me, waiting for me to understand on my own. It always spoke as if it knew more than it was willing to reveal at once—as if I had to go through something, uncover a truth by myself, for it to truly become mine.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, it finally spoke, its voice soft but cutting.
— What do you want to create, Rodrigo?
The question seemed simple, but the way it was asked sent my mind spiraling.
— You have no limits, yet you keep limiting yourself. You think you can only create light or shape your thoughts, but that's just your perception.
It paused, its voice deepening, as if wanting me to truly hear what it was saying.
— What do you want to create?
It repeated.
I remained silent, processing its words.
There was a difference between being able to do something and wanting to do it. I had the power to create—but what did I truly want to do with that power? What could I do?
I looked at the darkness around me, at the emptiness, and something inside me ignited.
I didn't just want to light up this place anymore. I wanted to change everything. I wanted to see how far my thoughts could go, to push the limits of this reality that, until now, had only felt like a prison.
Then, without another word, I began to imagine something new.
Something beyond just light and shadow.
I wanted to know the true extent of this power.
What could I create?
And how far could this go?
I can create anything…
I waited for the shadow's response, watching the space around me, trying to mold it, to make something take shape. Something real. Something mine.
I stood there, absorbing the shadow's words, but at the same time, my mind was racing in all directions. Everything felt possible now. The idea that I could create anything filled me with excitement—but also with uncertainty. How far can this go?
I started testing the limits of my imagination.
Something simple, maybe? A sphere of light, just to start?
No… that was too easy. I had done that before. I needed something more. Something real. Something more than just a manifestation of light or shadow.
Then the thought struck me.
What if I created something complex—like a car?
That could be a good way to test the boundaries of this power. I could shape it however I wanted. Maybe even make it function properly, with all its parts, all its details… It seemed like a good starting point.
But before I even began, another question surfaced.
Why stop there?
I could create something even more intricate, more meaningful.
What else could I bring into existence, just by thinking?
What if I could have the abilities of characters? Heroes, villains, or any fictional being? What more could I be beyond Rodrigo? I was no longer just an ordinary person. If I had the power to create realities, to bring fantasy to life, why not try something like having abilities that didn't exist in my world?
What if I could have the power of... — The idea formed quickly in my mind. Why not start with something classic? Something like the speed of the Flash, or maybe the strength of the Hulk? Or perhaps the ability to manipulate time, like Doctor Strange, or even something as simple as controlling fire, like the Avatar?
I was excited, my heart racing as the possibilities opened before me. The ideas seemed endless. Maybe I could be more than anyone. Maybe I could be anyone. I could have powers that no normal human could ever dream of.
But there was still a doubt. Was there a cost to all of this?
I looked at the shadow again, trying to understand what it might think of that, how it would respond to my growing desire to explore this reality to the fullest. It was the only connection I had to what was happening. And somehow, it seemed to guide me, or at least allow me to find my own path.
I had a choice in front of me, a choice that could define how I used this power: Create something simple? Something complex? Or try something completely out of the ordinary, something that would make me more than I am?
The answer was in my hands—or rather, in my mind. I was the creator. I was the only one who could limit what I could do.
Without hesitation, I closed my eyes, focused on the darkness around me, and began to concentrate all my energy on what I was about to create. I didn't want to just be an observer anymore. I wanted to be whatever I wished. Whatever I could.
There I was, floating in the void, surrounded by darkness, yet at the same time, fully immersed in my own mind, in my own thoughts. And with that, something began to happen. Images started to form. A hidden power, something not physically present, but which I felt manifesting around me.
It was as if my mind connected with an ancient moment, a memory that seemed so distant but still clear. A sword, one that an old friend had shown me long ago, a sword he considered legendary. I remember how he spoke of it, his eyes gleaming with excitement and reverence. A weapon of immeasurable power, a weapon that carried the history of a king. Something I never imagined I would see up close, but here I was, about to create it.
With a single thought, I began to shape the sword. First, I imagined its long, straight blade, a silver color that seemed to shine with its own light, as if the blade reflected the very essence of strength. I saw it taking form, like an extension of my desire to create something grand, something beyond what I could imagine.
The blade grew, the double edge becoming sharp, almost as if it were cutting the very air. The inscriptions appeared along the base of the blade, complex and stylized, like a language I didn't recognize but felt was something deep and ancient. The words seemed to whisper secrets that only true warriors, those worthy of the sword, could understand.
I then imagined the guard. It formed with a golden glow, elegant but strong, with dark blue geometric details, almost like a royal crest. The design was symmetrical, imposing, giving the sword a noble, unbeatable appearance. Every line, every curve seemed to speak of a heritage of power and leadership.
The hilt, long and covered in blue, appeared in my hands, and I gripped it firmly, feeling the leather or material that coated its surface, providing a solid and secure hold. The end of the hilt was crowned with a small golden detail, a touch of refinement that completed the perfect design of the sword.
And there it was, in all its glory, shining before me. A sword that represented more than just a sharp blade. It carried history, nobility, power, and perhaps even destiny.
Excalibur.
I looked at the shadow beside me, feeling the weight of creation before me. A weapon with so much symbolism, so filled with power. I had created something that, for a moment, had seemed out of reach, but now it stood before me, a manifestation of my desire and imagination.
The shadow, which had until now seemed like a silent presence, shifted slightly, as if observing the sword with renewed attention.
— You did it... — Its voice came softly but with a tone of approval. — Now you know what you're capable of creating.
I looked at the sword, feeling the weight of its implications. I really could create anything, I thought, and then the truth began to settle in: There were no limits. What more could I create? What more could I be? I had brought to life something that had once only existed in a story... and now, I was just beginning to understand what it meant to hold this power.
But one question still lingered in my mind. What would I do with it now?
Before I could do anything, a strange sensation took over me. A sudden dizziness, as if the world was spinning, and my vision began to blur. I looked at the sword, still in my hands, but it seemed to be fading slowly, as if it were being pulled by something invisible.
The shadow, which had until then remained silent and still beside me, seemed to notice my change. It moved closer, as if paying attention to my condition. I tried to focus, but the feeling of vertigo only intensified.
Then, the shadow, with its deep and steady voice, broke the silence:
— You're waking up.
I tried to process its words, but everything was distorting. Waking up? What did it mean by that? Wasn't I here? Wasn't I somewhere different? My mind spun in search of an answer, but nothing made sense.
With difficulty, I forced my voice to speak:
— Is... is all of this really a dream?
The shadow, without hesitation, responded in a tone that carried no certainty, just an odd calm.
— I don't know. But you'll find out once you wake up.
Those words lingered in my mind, repeating like an echo. Wake up? I didn't know what that meant, whether it was a metaphor or pure reality. How could I wake up if I was so aware of everything? How could I be dreaming when everything felt so real, so vivid? I had created a sword, I had felt its blade, held its hilt... How could this possibly be just a dream?
The dizziness worsened, and I felt the darkness around me slowly consume my perception. I no longer knew if I was in control or if everything was slipping away from me.
But before I could process anything else, one last sensation made itself known. I was being pulled out of this place, away from the shadow, away from the sword, and away from this space. It was as if the real world was calling me back.
Whatever that place was, I didn't know. But the shadow was right. I would have to wake up to discover what really happened, and what it meant for me.