Hello.
I don't know who will end up reading this, but my name is Lucien.
First, let me apologize—because if you're reading this, then you probably found me. Or what's left of me. I'm sorry it had to be you. But if you're here, then you deserve to know how I got to this point.
A friend once told me to write when things got bad. Said it would help clear my head. Give the thoughts somewhere to go instead of bouncing around inside me. I didn't listen to him back then. I thought it was a waste of time. But now I don't have anyone else, and I don't have anything else to try. So this is it.
I'm fifteen. Doesn't matter much anymore, but I guess it's worth saying. I used to live with my mom and my stepdad. We had a normal life. Not perfect, but it was ours. I was a good kid. Did what I was told. Got good grades. Tried to be what everyone needed me to be.
People always said I acted older than I was. That I was smart. Calm. Thoughtful. Maybe I was. I don't know anymore. But I believed it. And once I believed it, I started thinking I was better than other people. I looked at the kids in my class and thought they were soft. That they didn't get it. I told them their dreams were pointless. That the world doesn't care what you want.
Then the war started.
At first, it was something happening in the background. On the news. Something far away. I thought it would pass. I said it over and over:
"It's not our problem."
"It won't get this far."
"They'll figure it out."
But it didn't pass. It kept spreading. Towns fell. Cities went dark. People disappeared. Everything started shutting down. Stores. Schools. Whole neighborhoods.
Then they came for us.
At first, it was volunteers. Then it was teenagers. Then kids. They didn't care anymore. They needed bodies. The younger we were, the more useful we became. Easier to train. Easier to break.
I remember saying, "They can't make us go."
"We're just kids."
"They wouldn't do that."
But they did.
They pulled us from our homes, gave us guns, taught us how to use them, and sent us out. I fought like a dog I survived. Most sadly didn't.
I've done things I don't want to remember. Things I still see in my sleep. And when I wake up, I don't feel anything.
Not sadness. Not guilt. Just emptiness.
Now the fighting's over—at least for me. My unit's gone. My family's gone. The friend who told me to write this? He's gone too.
There's nothing left.
And the worst part?
I don't care.
Lucien stood up from where he had been sitting.
He was thin. Pale. Black hair falling just over his eyes. His face was blank—no pain, no fear, no anger. Just nothing.
He stepped outside into the night. The sky was dull. No stars. No moon. Just clouds and silence. That was fine with him. He didn't want to see anything anyway.
In front of him was the ocean. Cold. Wide. Endless. The kind of dark that doesn't feel empty—it feels full. Full of things you can't see, and probably don't want to.
He walked toward it.
Each step was heavy. Not just emotionally—his clothes were weighed down on purpose. Layers. Pockets full of rocks and metal. He didn't want to risk floating.
When the water reached his ankles, he paused. The chill hit him like a warning. He ignored it.
He kept walking.
The ocean rose past his knees, then his waist. The wind was picking up. The waves pushed back against him. He didn't stop.
His mind was quiet, mostly. But part of him was talking.
So this is how it ends?
After everything I did to stay alive? Everything I had to forget
Was it all for nothing?
He looked out into the dark and said it out loud.
"I don't think it was."
His voice was steady, but low.
"I know other people would say it was. I know they'd hate me for what I did. For surviving when others didn't. For what I became."
He shouted, louder this time:
"Is this what you wanted?!"
His voice echoed, but there was no answer.
He kept walking. The water reached his chest. His arms were starting to go numb. The cold was deeper now. He was losing feeling. His body knew what was coming even if his mind didn't care.
He could barely see. His breathing was short. He wasn't thinking anymore—just moving.
"Mom… Dad…"
He said the names like he was listing ghosts.
"I'm sorry."
He tried to scream, but the sound got lost in the wind.
The waves crashed against him. His knees buckled. The weight did the rest.
He sank.
The cold was immediate. Blinding. The pressure squeezed his lungs. He tried to hold his breath, but his chest burned. His eyes stung. His body started to panic, even if his mind still didn't care.
He wanted to let go. He almost did.
But then—something happened.
A sound. No, not a sound. A voice.
It didn't come from outside. It was inside his head. Clear. Calm. Real.
"Do you want to live?"
Lucien didn't answer. He didn't know how. But something deep inside him screamed. A survival instinct that had kept him going this long clawed its way back to the surface as he began to think as he asked how... Hello! tell me how are you gonna give me a second chance
The voice responded.
"You'll become mine. A piece of what I am. A pawn, maybe. Don't worry about the details."
Lucien's thoughts flickered. Can this really be considered as a second chance?
Then everything went dark.
---
When Lucien opened his eyes, he was still in the water—but he wasn't drowning.
He was floating in black sea. No land. No shore. No wind. Just stillness.
Above him was a sky the same shade as the ocean. A black moon hung motionless overhead. No stars. No sound.
He looked down at his own body—whole, unbroken, but cold. Pale. Something felt off.
He was alive.
Or something close to it.
And that voice—the one from before—was still there.
"Welcome back, Lucien. Your story isn't over yet