[i will write a story in your name]

——xxx——

Words had power.

The power to come to life, to exist and create realities that originally didn't exist. Words and stories were the foundation of life, hiding within every person and thing. They were the base, the center, and the finishing.

And sometimes, it was easy to forget that every person had a story, as plain as it might be.

Click.

[For the end of this tale, no happy ending existed. In my heart I understood that, but there wasn't a person alive who wouldn't despise that.

Yet, even with my quiet desperation, any lingering hope faded away, struck dead by that figure on the throne. My mind was dizzy, but I understood—this story of mine was fated to be a tragedy.

Then through crimson stained tears, I closed my eyes.]

The hand typing at the night-black keys paused, seeming to hesitate for a moment, lingering over the buttons before decisively pressing on the 'Enter' key.

A beautiful image depicting a collapsed, handsome male stretching his bloodied joints towards a deserted throne was attached.

There was a fading determination in his sharp eyes, coloured by divine, snowy hope, as a collapsed world surrounded him. An odd loneliness carrying a sense of silence was felt from the tragically beautiful image.

The owner of the slender hand leaned back in the window's curve with a soft sigh.

Diiing—

Dooong—

A long hand twitched but didn't move, remaining on 11:42 in the large frame, as the inner gears shifted, but continued to rebel without moving. It had been broken for so long, but nobody bothered to fix it.

Rays of light filtered in the dim room, painting it in the day's orange hue as a slender man stared ahead, pale eyes fathomless. It was enclosed, and the outside world was far away in this secluded space, gears tinkering high above in steady movements.

With a click of a button, his story had come to an end.

The famous web novel he wrote in a year, finally completed. He wasn't sure how his readers would react, nor did he care.

It was the only ending he could see through the haze of melding ideas that wandered through his thoughts.

Sometimes, the ending could only be a tragedy.

Buuuzzzzzzz.

The man fumbled around in his dark jacket pockets that had been hastily placed in a pile on his lap, pulling out an old phone.

It took him a moment to turn it on, pressing several times on the power button before it finally decided to remain awake. He should probably get a new one, but he couldn't afford it.

"Hey Lucas, what the hell were you doing?"

Lucas paused, shuffling back more comfortably as he asked casually, "What?"

"What do you mean, what's up? What's up was the fact that you were supposed to show up today, and you didn't! Did I not remind you like, a dozen times? You keep doing this!"

"....." He glanced at the time absentmindedly and then quickly turned to reply. "Oh. Sorry."

There wasn't even a hint of apology in his tone. The man on the other side seemed to have expected the uncaring response, but was irritated all the same. Why did he even bother calling each time?

"Seriously? That's it?"

"Would you like me to go back in time?"

There was a long sigh, and then a strong hint of frustration. "Shit. You're always like this, but the leader hasn't kicked you to the curb yet. Ain't nobody knows why. I'd say it's about time though, really."

Lucas didn't hesitate to respond. "I'm charming."

"Don't you love yourself a little too much?"

"No. I love myself the most, and that'll never be enough."

There it was, that irritating trait of this mysterious delinquent. Cold and indifferent on the surface, but often shamelessly saying words without a care in the world.

The reason behind it was, in fact, intentional and done with purpose. 

Somebody, long forgotten in his memory, once told him that the easiest way to shut somebody up was to say something so ridiculous that they couldn't respond.

It was a pretty useful tactic, and Lucas had taken to it so frequently to shut people up that it was a natural, ingrained habit by now, words slipping from his mouth without a second thought.

Ah... it really made people want to hit him a few times. Maybe a few dozen.

The man on the other side resolutely ignored him (lest his sanity disappear). "...be there at the usual location at 6 o'clock sharp. Even the boss can't stop your punishment if you're late again."

"O—"

Click.

Without giving Lucas an opportunity to respond, the call hung up. Lucas stared at it, then pushed it back into his pocket as his gaze lingered on the chapter he just completed.

He wasn't really worried about the punishment—the last one ended with him being locked up and the guard crying about how annoying Lucas was.

Not that he thought it was his fault that time—he got bored sitting in the room after getting a beating, and decided to chat up the other person.

Was that his fault? No, it was theirs for locking him up.

He turned his attention back to the chapter. Honestly, from the perspective of a reader, these sorts of endings were the worst.

The sort where another cliffhanger was left, or the main character died for no particularly good reason after a long struggle. It really made a person annoyed, though Lucas was the one who wrote it.

Not that it mattered.

When he was younger, writing was one of the many things he wanted to do. After watching a cinematic masterpiece, he had wanted to be a film director or an actor. When he tasted a melting, sweet work of art at a cafe by chance, he had considered being a patissier.

It was a short-lived fantasy, one after the other, none of them succeeding. Of course, how could one succeed when their passion was only momentary?

Then, his most recent interest that had flickered on and off throughout the years came from a random book he found in the local library that seemed interesting.

Something about a boy and his adventures with a winged turtle?

Now, a year and a half later, he finally finished the story.

He didn't expect to finish it either, but the scenes left his mind like old memories flowing onto paper, and he wrote, and wrote until it finished.

No matter how he tried to think of another ending, he couldn't.

Well, he wasn't particularly attached to it, not when his hobbies never lasted for long to begin with. Of all the jobs he thought of doing as a child, he ended up with one that had only been a passing thought.

At five years old, after watching a person dressed from head-to-toe in black beat somebody up in a dark alleyway, he had wanted to become a gangster. 

Often, children at that age might feel fear and run, but the young child had peered into the scene with intrigue.

Although he never really thought that now, at the age of twenty-six, decorated in piercings and tattoos, would he become one of the many fighters in the largest group in America.

Of course, it wasn't really something any person would dream about seriously, though he wasn't complaining. In life, things went off path at times and all one could do was continue to walk.

 Walk to whatever ending awaited.