Here, In front of me... Lies my doom?

It was five in the morning, a time when the world outside slept, cocooned in dreams far more pleasant than my reality. The air hung heavy with the scent of stripped mahogany wood, a fragrance that should have evoked nostalgia, but for me, it served as a stark reminder of the stagnant rut my life had become.

If there was anything worse than my current situation, it would be toiling as an admin on some forgotten subreddit. I wasn't exactly obese, but neither was I strong—living on a diet of cup ramen for weeks tends to have that effect.

My days were consumed by scripts and illicit mods for video games, peddling digital keys to the unwary souls who dared purchase them. It was my bread and butter, the only skill that kept the roof over my dear old mother's head and a meager meal on the table.

The attic I called home was a relic from the 1940s, passed down through generations like a cursed heirloom. My mother inherited it from her father, and in the twisted irony of fate, I would inherit it from her when she passed on. With each passing day, I couldn't help but entertain the morbid thought that perhaps I was Hitler in a past life—such was the level of misery that engulfed me.

My workspace was a makeshift sanctuary in this decrepit attic, an old kitchen table halved and repurposed into a desk. It was cluttered with the tools of my trade: a worn keyboard, a battered mouse, and an antique microphone that had seen better days. There was a time I would have dismantled that microphone out of sheer curiosity; now, it stood as a relic of youthful ambition lost to the weight of reality.

Beside the computer setup, a mountain of empty Mountain Dew cans bore witness to my solitary existence. I knew I should clean up the mess, but apathy had taken root, and it seemed easier to let the empties accumulate.

The walls, painted over countless times, could not disguise the raw texture of ancient brick beneath. They whispered tales of bygone eras, secrets lost to time and neglect.

Despite the gloom that permeated my physical existence, there was one escape that brought a twisted sense of joy: "DawnLight," a solitary civilization simulation where I reigned as a virtual deity. Strategy had never been my forte, yet within the confines of this digital realm, I found solace in breaking rules rather than adhering to them. Coding allowed me to manipulate predetermined systems, bending them to my will and undermining the order of any digital realm that dared to confine me.

"DawnLight" became my canvas for digital mayhem. The game's NPC inhabitants, surprisingly lifelike in their programming, were unwitting subjects to my experimental cruelty. I reveled in crafting cheats and exploits that twisted the game's mechanics, pushing the boundaries of what was considered fair play. The few remaining players of "DawnLight," though scarce in number, viewed me as a god amongst mortals—a notion that both amused and fueled my ego.

What made it all the more delightful was the irony: as a hacker, I never needed to prove my prowess. The game's scoreboard displayed the top 100 players upon launch, a digital shrine where my name reigned supreme without needing validation from anyone.

Staring at the blue-lit screen of my monitor, my eyes bathed in the artificial glow, a malevolent grin spread across my face. In a moment of warped euphoria, I couldn't help but unleash a triumphant cry into the silence of my attic sanctuary:

"Worship me, you idiots! WOOORRRSSSSHIPPPP MEEEEEEE!!!!!"

The echo of my outburst hung in the air, reverberating through the emptiness of my existence. Then, as if on cue, everything plunged into darkness.

Complete silence descended, broken only by the rhythmic hum of my computer's cooling fan—a haunting reminder of the void that awaited beyond the glow of my monitor.