Chapter 2: The First Target
Morning came too soon.
I squinted at the light seeping through the broken blinds of my apartment, the heaviness of fatigue resting on me like an old affliction. My body throbbed from years of strenuous work, joints tight, muscles painful. For a brief instant, I thought about shutting my eyes again, drifting back into the blissful emptiness of slumber.
But then I remembered.
The system.
I sat up so fast my vision blurred. It wasn't a dream. The glowing interface still hovered in the corner of my vision, a faint pulse of energy that felt almost alive. My heart pounded. I forced myself to take a breath, grounding myself in reality. This was real.
I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and stood up, my bare feet touching the chilly, worn tiles of my inexpensive apartment. The soft murmur of morning traffic outside scarcely registered as I made my way to the tiny bathroom, my fingers gliding across the rough contours of the sink.
I turned the faucet. Rusty pipes groaned in protest before cold water finally splashed into my hands. I splashed it over my face, letting it chase away the remnants of sleep.
Then, I looked up.
A tired man looked back at me from the broken mirror.
I was in my late 30s—early 40s, maybe. I had stopped counting a long time ago. A thick, unkempt beard covered my jaw, streaks of premature gray hiding in the black. My cinnabar-colored eyes, once sharp and filled with ambition, were sunken, framed by dark bags that never seemed to fade.
This was the face of a man the world had beaten down.