There had been few occasions in which he had been so certain he was about to die. But he hadn't been wrong this time. This time the pounding ache in his head would not be soothed, nor would the poison running through his veins pass through. This time when his heart stopped, it stopped for good.

How does one tell a well structured story, when life is absolute chaos? How can one gather their broken fragments and call it a life? That's not what this is. This is no story. This is not a life. It is survival. Stumbling day by day desperate to follow the sun into tomorrow. Following the light as to not be engulfed by darkness. The Darkness. It's in everyone nowadays, nobody is born from the light anymore. No matter how many times one prays to the Demiurges or the Adepts, their core is still from The Darkness. There are those who don't even try hiding it. Those people are the reason my world is chaos.