refugee isabel

"A mere hunting dog," he mocked aloud. That bitch fate had done her job. A life lived not for himself, but to satisfy his god’s will—an inquisitor—the thing he saw as his purpose. His only purpose. From fairy tales narrated by parents to sleepy children, such beings are spoken of with reverence and awe. A person of incomparable noble deed, one who lived with altruism and selfless nobility, without vice. The riotous storybook protagonist. Ironic. No... It was hilarious. Because that same “noble” bastard was nothing but the same pathetic shit-headed boy he’d always been... he’d just gotten better at hiding it behind the facade of indifference forced upon him. Naïve, he was. Shunned from society, born between a backstreet whore’s thighs, raised with the patronage of others, growing used to condescending looks. Hunger, fear, self-hate, and strife—all of it became the norm, all to forge the man he’d become. And now? He was isolated from the world, forced into a cell behind four impossibly thick walls of concrete and steel. Stolen from his sun, his purpose gone. He waited. Idle. Rotting. Waiting for anything. Anything... ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ANYTHING! And 'anything' finally came. In the form of [Terminus]." ----------------------------- [Disclaimer!]: I don't write anything related to harem or romance.