Is it wrong to live steadily!

In the dimly lit streets of a Crept city, the clock struck midnight, casting an eerie shadow over the worn pavement.

A solitary figure, shrouded in the night's darkness, wandered the deserted streets with a purposeful stride.

The hood of their tattered and dirty coat concealed their features, while a cap pulled low shielded their face from the world. They were a silhouette of anonymity, barely noticed by the few scattered souls still awake at this hour.

As the young figure approached the flickering neon lights of the "Convenience 24" store, a tired cashier glanced up from the counter, his gaze sliding over the figure's nondescript attire.

'Sigh, why did I even volunteer for the night shift anyway, this is so boring...' The teenage cashier with a horrible case of face acne thought as he played on his phone, not paying any attention at all to the customer in the store.

That is, until the figure stood before him, reaching for their chosen items. In that moment, their eyes met, and a shiver of unease rippled down the cashier's spine.

The young one's eyes were like twin voids, windows into a world devoid of emotion, as if life had drained away from within.

His initial indifference transformed into sheer terror, an instinctive reaction to something beyond his understanding.

The cashier faltered, his hands trembling as he rang up the items, avoiding the unnerving gaze that seemed to bore into his soul.

The transaction completed, the figure turned away and departed, their steps silent.

The door chimed softly as it swung shut, leaving the cashier bewildered and shaken in the wake of their encounter.

His thoughts raced, trying to grasp the inexplicable terror that had gripped him when he had looked into those lifeless eyes.

.....

Meanwhile, the enigmatic child continued their journey through the city's labyrinthine-like streets.

The expressions of those he passed told a story of their own. Locals recognized the figure instantly, a mixture of repulsion and fear etched onto their faces.

As if the air itself was tainted, people hurriedly moved away, casting glances of disgust as they passed.

Yet, the child remained unaffected, their features locked in an unsettling void of emotion, untouched by the world's judgments.

With each step, the child retreated into the depths of the night, an enigma wrapped in a shroud of anonymity.

The world around them seemed to react to their presence, a silent chorus of unease and trepidation that echoed in their wake.

Though as if used to it all, the child did not whine nor did he pay them any heed...

But...that didn't mean he was completely oblivious to his surroundings.

.....

In the shadowed corners of the boy's memory, a tale unfolded that would forever brand the child as an outcast among the hearts that knew him.

The whispers of the past carried with them a truth that seeped into the souls of those who encountered him, a truth that etched the names "waste", "trash" and "Demon" onto his fragile existence.

The boy's life began in the same detachment with which he would traverse life's trials.

From his earliest moments, his emotions seemed like distant stars, forever broken.

He was a puzzle of indifference, the embodiment of a vacant canvas where feelings should have blossomed.

When his parents left this world, their departure yielded no tears, no mournful cries. His heart, if one could even call it that, remained silent and unmoved.

At the age of seven, his world crumbled once more, but still, no storms of grief or sorrow shook his essence.

The orphanage that had taken him in, a brief respite from the abyss, was consumed by flames, reducing memories and dreams to ashes.

Yet, the child walked through the smouldering ruins without a trace of despair on his face, his heart untouched by the agony that should have clawed at his soul.

Curious it was, that those who reached out to help him, guided by an instinct to mend what was broken, often met with untimely misfortune.

Accidents, tragedies, and inexplicable events seemed to dog their footsteps, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. The boy's presence was an enigma, a harbinger of misfortune that defied explanation.

But it wasn't fear that his presence inspired; it was something darker, more visceral. The people who crossed his path did not recoil in sadness for his plight; instead, they felt an overwhelming repulsion, a primal instinct to distance themselves from the void that he seemed to embody.

They spoke of curses and omens, labelling him as a cursed child, a living embodiment of brokenness that should be erased from existence.

Yet, through it all, the child remained unaffected, a vessel devoid of emotion.

His eyes, as lifeless as ever, betrayed nothing of the world's scorn or his own isolation. There was no bitterness, no yearning for connection—just a resolute emptiness, an existence defined by the void within.

Through the stillness of the night, as the child continued his path, his senses picked up on a subtle shift in the area that surrounded him.

Figures, cloaked in black, masks and clothes melded with the darkness, their intent inscrutable yet undeniable.

But fear was absent from the child's heart; fear was an emotion foreign to him, much like the rest.

As he walked, more of those shadows took shape, morphing into people. People with faces twisted by anger, despair, and the intoxicating aroma of vengeance.

Their eyes bore into him like daggers, and their presence radiated a malevolence that should have incited alarm.

Yet, the child remained untouched by their animosity, his gaze sweeping over their expressions with that same blank detachment.

Among them, a figure stepped forward, a weapon clutched in their hand, a tool of retribution chosen with intent.

The assemblage was not one borne of goodwill, but rather a congregation of bitterness and hatred. They encircled him, closing the gap between victim and tormentors, sealing his fate...

Still, the child did not falter. He halted in his tracks, observing their faces with an impassive curiosity.

Their twisted expressions baffled him, puzzling him in a world where his own existence held no sentiment. He sought an understanding, a logic behind their malevolence, yet it remained elusive.

And then, the revelation struck him, the truth like a jolt of lightning. Their anger was directed at him, their gazes searing into his being with intent to harm.

In a rare moment of clarity, he comprehended that this encounter would mark the end of his life. His own lifeless eyes met the burning rage in theirs, and for once, a hint of something unfamiliar stirred within him.

Not fear, nor anger, but a quiet acceptance—a serene surrender to the inevitable.