Tsuihō stared at the cracked ceiling of his ramshackle apartment, each hairline fracture a map of his own broken life. He hated mornings, hated the sun that dared to peek through the grime-coated window, a mocking reminder of another day to endure. "Don't give up! Keep moving!" The saccharine platitudes of motivational speakers echoed in his mind, snippets he'd caught on street corner TVs or blaring from passing cars. A tide of bitterness rose within him, choking him with the utter disconnect between those hollow words and the brutal reality of his existence. They were nothing but grating noise, a constant barrage of hypocrisy against the backdrop of his own personal hell.
He, Tsuihō, was living proof that optimism was a fool's game.
Even his name was a curse. Tsuihō. Exile. A label branded on him from the moment he entered the world. His parents, with what could only be described as calculated cruelty, had chosen it. They'd said it was a "family tradition," a way to honor some long-forgotten ancestor who'd been banished for some unnamed crime. But Tsuihō knew the truth. It was a pre-emptive strike, a declaration of their own disdain.
He remembered the childhood whispers, the sidelong glances from his siblings, the way his mother's smile would falter and fade whenever he was in the room. The food always seemed less plentiful when he was at the table. The hand-me-down clothes were always the most threadbare, the most stained. It wasn't blatant abuse, not in the physical sense, but a constant, subtle erosion of his self-worth, a persistent message that he was unwanted, unloved, and, ultimately, unworthy.
School was no better. The other children sensed it, the invisible aura of rejection that clung to him like a shroud. He was the target of their taunts, the recipient of their shoves. They'd tripped him in the hallways, stolen his lunch money, and whispered "Tsuihō!" with a sneer that dripped with contempt. The teachers, the supposed bastions of fairness, turned a blind eye. They seemed to see him as a problem child, a disruption, even though he was the one being tormented. He was a ghost in their classroom, easily ignored.
College offered a brief glimmer of hope. Maybe, he'd naively thought, a fresh start would change things. But the pattern repeated itself. He remained an outsider, a background character in someone else's story. Study groups formed without him, invitations were never extended, and conversations died the moment he approached. He watched from the periphery as others forged friendships, relationships, built lives. He was a spectator, forever separated from the main event.
He clung to the belief that adulthood would bring respite. He envisioned a life where he worked hard, climbed the corporate ladder, and finally earned the respect and admiration he craved. He'd pictured wealth, a beautiful home, a loving family. But the reality was a brutal awakening.
The world outside his childhood home was even harsher than he'd imagined. Employers saw something in him - perhaps it was the name, or something in his defeated stance. The jobs he could get were menial, soul-crushing, and the pay was barely enough to keep him alive. He was treated like a lesser being, a disposable cog in the machinery of capitalism. Landlords cheated him, customers berated him, and strangers ignored him as if he were invisible.
He was a faceless entity, a shadow flitting through the margins of society. It would've been different if he were disabled. It would have been horrible and wrong but at least he would understand the reason for the maltreatment but he wasn't disabled he was perfectly healthy both in body and mind so he couldn't help but hate the world that treated him unfairly .He wasn't asking for pity, but a shred of human decency, was too much to ask for.
He had considered it many times ending his miserable life. But he felt it was an insult to himself he would be an even bigger loser , the world wants to get rid of him, if he kills himself he is essentially fulfilling there wishes he would never let them win.
That's when he decided, lying here close to death, that he would not let this be his end. If death was not the end but a transition to another life, he would seize it, command it and mould it in his image. He would shed the skin of the victim and emerge as something…else.
He would embrace selfishness, indulge in every desire, and shatter the chains of societal expectations that had bound him for so long. He would forge his own path, by his own damn rules. Let the motivational speakers spout their empty promises. He was done with their lies. He would become the architect of his own destiny, a force to be reckoned with, a nightmare for anyone who dared to underestimate him. Tsuihō, the exile, would become a king in his own right. He just had to survive. He had to find out what came next. Because whatever it was, he would own it.