He remembered laughter that didn’t hurt, the kind that rattled through his chest until he couldn’t breathe, the kind that made living feel effortless.

  He remembered William’s dumb dream of diving into the ocean to find Atlantis, a childish fantasy Daniel used to laugh at, because William believed in things that didn’t exist and somehow made them feel possible.

  He remembered his mother’s voice drifting through the apartment, soft and steady, like a lullaby humming through the walls.I

  It was a song he had never valued, the kind you take for granted until silence arrives and you realize it was the only music that ever mattered.

  He remembered the last time the world still made sense.

  Before the cracks tore open in a single afternoon. Before the building collapsed. Before the sirens never came.

  Before he learned that some people only cared when cameras were watching.

  It happened fast. Too fast for prayers or goodbyes.

  A terrorist group called Cobra bombed a residential block in broad daylight. No motive. No warning.

  Just fire. Collapse. Screams swallowed by dust. Dozens of families buried in seconds. Daniel’s was one of them.

  His little sister’s hands, so small and fragile, clawed desperately at the rubble, her breath hitching through the dust.

  His mother never even had the chance to scream. One moment she was there. The next she was gone, a warmth erased, a song cut short.

  His father, broken yet unyielding, forced a smile through cracked teeth as if to say, You’ll live.

  With one final surge of strength, he hurled Daniel clear of the collapsing building.

  No heroes came.

  No S-ranks. No A-ranks. Not even B-ranks.

  The cameras were elsewhere. Louder tragedies. Flashier deaths.

  And Daniel…

  Daniel lived. Sort of.

  He woke in a white room that reeked of antiseptic, the silence so sharp it felt like it was carving into him.

  Machines hummed faintly, the only reminder that he hadn’t been buried with his family.

  A doctor entered, pity already written across her face.

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes, as if looking directly at him might turn her guilt into something real.

  “…I’m sorry,” she said softly. “The damage was too severe. Your leg…” Her voice faltered. “…was destroyed in the collapse.”

  The word destroyed hung in the air, heavy, clinical, and final.

  “There may be a way,” she added, her voice thin with hesitation. “A high-tier healer, maybe an S-rank… but it’s far beyond what most people can afford.”

  “Even heroes struggle to pay for something like that.”

  Her sigh sounded like a door quietly closing.

  Daniel didn’t react. Couldn’t. His mind was still buried beneath the rubble with his family.

  As the days crawled past, reality slowly seeped in.

  Cold.

  Heavy.

  A chain wrapped around his chest, each breath a struggle against iron links he couldn’t break.

  No leg. No family. No justice.

  Just a hospital bed and a world that kept moving as if he had never existed.

  A week later, an official from the Hero Association arrived. His suit was sharp, pressed to perfection, his tie brighter than his eyes.

  But his face…

  was empty.

  As if empathy were a script he had practiced in the mirror and still couldn’t perform.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “We’ve reviewed the incident,” he said, flipping through a folder as if Daniel’s life were just another line item.

  “Standard compensation for civilian casualties is eighty thousand credits.”

  He slid an envelope across the bed like he was closing out a bar tab.

  No apology. No hesitation.

  Not even his own words, just the monotone of policy being read from a page.

  Daniel stared at the envelope.

  His family, his mother’s voice, his father’s smile, his sister’s small hands all reduced to a number stamped on cheap paper.

  The man checked his watch, impatience bleeding through the polite mask on his face. “Please sign the receipt. We need it for record-keeping.”

  It wasn’t compensation. It was a bribe.

  A payment for silence.

  A way to erase the failure that no one came.

  Daniel’s lips trembled, but no words escaped.

  They’re dead. My family is dead. The sentence burned in his chest, but when he tried to speak it, his throat betrayed him.

  His hand shook as he gripped the envelope until it crumpled in his fist.

  Two years had passed, long enough for every visit to blur together.

  That room had learned his silence better than anyone had ever learned his name.

  Elena had visited often, carrying hope as if it were enough to heal him.

  But this time… her hands shook as she held out the flowers.

  Their colors were too bright for the dim room, sharp against the gray walls, almost mocking.

  He lifted his hand to catch their scent, but the air was sterile. The petals gave nothing back, only silence, fragile beauty without life, like a memory worn thin.

  She forced a smile. “Remember the pier? You swore we’d run away and live off fishing.”

  The words pressed hard against his ribs, desperate to escape, but they drowned before reaching his tongue.

  All he could do was stare.

  Her smile quivered, then broke, her voice a whisper collapsing on itself. “…I’m sorry.” She sank into the chair, the flowers trembling in her hands until the stems bent and the petals bruised and fell.

  The silence swelled.

  It pressed against the walls, thick and suffocating, filling every corner of the room.

  Her restless fingers scraped along the edge of the chair, a nervous rhythm that sounded far louder than it should in the hollow quiet.

  His breath rasped, shallow and uneven.

  Between them hung something larger than words, something heavy, nameless, impossible to bridge.

  Her voice cracked when it finally broke the silence. “I think we want different things now. I wish it wasn’t true, but…I can’t see us being happy anymore. I’m sorry. I am really sorry.”

  He turned his face toward the window, where the sinking sun painted the rooftops in orange fire.

  It was easier to watch the light bleed out of the sky than to watch her walk away.

  She lingered in the doorway, her shadow stretched long across the floor.

  Waiting. Hoping.

  His silence was the only answer he had left.

  He had nothing more to give.

  And then she was gone.

  The echo of her footsteps faded down the hall, and by the time the last of the sunlight disappeared, she was gone too.

  But William… William stayed.

  He was the only one who never left.

  They had grown up side by side, neighbors, brothers in all but blood.

  When Daniel scraped his knees, William carried him home.

  When bullies circled, William planted himself in their path.

  He wasn’t loud, but he was immovable, like a wall built just for Daniel.

  When other kids asked why Daniel hadn’t awakened at eighteen, William cracked jokes and changed the subject.

  When whispers turned harsh, William answered with his fists. But it wasn’t just the fists that made people back off.

  Because William had awakened something terrifying.

  Ability: [Stop Watch].

  A legendary gift that allowed him to stop time itself, for as long as his mana lasted.

  A power whispered about in guild halls and recorded in the Association’s archives as one in millions.

  A clear sign of a future S-rank hero.

  People stopped bullying Daniel not just because of William’s fists, but because no one wanted to anger a boy who could erase moments from their lives.

  William never explained why he suddenly wanted to become a hero.

  But Daniel knew.

  He saw it in the way William looked at him, the silent vow behind his tired eyes.

  William had given up the sea.

  Given up the dream of diving into the deep-blue silence.

  Because he believed becoming an S-rank was the only way to fix Daniel.

  To pay for a healer.

  To bring back what had been stolen.

  To give him something… anything.

  On Daniel’s twenty-second birthday, the world was still gray.

  No cake. No candles. No family to sing.

  Just a sterile bed and a body that felt like it belonged to someone else.

  William arrived late, carrying something lumpy and awkward wrapped in newspaper.

  “I didn’t have time to find wrapping paper,” he muttered, embarrassed.

  Daniel arched a brow. “You remembered?”

  William paused for a second, then scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Open it.”

  Inside was a book. A real one. Printed. Bound.

  The Demonic Disciple Will Save the Sect.

  The first of the eight novels Daniel had written before everything shattered.

  William had read them all, cover to cover, quietly, without ever saying a word.

  “I figured this one deserved to exist outside your hard drive,” William said softly. “You poured your heart into it.”

  Daniel’s hands trembled as he traced the cover. He wanted to thank him, but the words stuck. They always stuck.

  Their time together was brief. A dungeon breach called William back to duty. Nothing unusual. Just another fight on another day.

  “Stay alive,” Daniel whispered as he waved goodbye.

  William’s step faltered. He paused for only a heartbeat, a brief hitch in his stride, before finding his rhythm again.

  “You too,” William smiled.

  The door clicked shut. Silence reclaimed the room.

  Then it happened.

  A faint chime. A pulse in the air, subtle but undeniable.

  A screen appeared before his eyes, blue and digital, sharp against the white sterility of the hospital room.

  [You have awakened]

  Name: Daniel Lee

  Ability: [Writer’s View]

  [Would you like to see what it can do?]

  He stared, breath caught, heart stuttering. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

  “…Now?”

  Tears welled, quick and hot, sliding down before he could stop them.

  “Now you show up?”

  His fist slammed against the mattress. “Where were you when it mattered?!”

  His voice cracked into a shout. “You gave me an ability, but you took everything else! My leg. My family. My dream. You let me rot while other people got powers that actually helped!”

  His gaze dropped to the ruin where his leg had been.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with this now?”

  The screen offered no answer.

  It only glowed.

  Bright.

  Still.

  Indifferent.

  Just like the heroes who never came.