Ethan stirred in the filth.
Barely conscious. Barely breathing.
His body was half-buried beneath soggy trash bags that squished under his weight. A cracked plastic lid reeking of curdled milk was pressed against his chest, pinning him in place.
Bits of moldy bread clung to his torn shirt like leeches.
Something sharp dug into his ribs—thin and jagged. He didn't know if it was broken glass or old chicken bones. He didn't care. The pain was everywhere.
His head throbbed with every heartbeat, like a war drum pounding against the inside of his skull. Each pulse was a fresh burst of agony.
Blood had dried on his cheek, flaking off in crusty smears.
His right arm lay twisted at the elbow, bent in a way arms weren't supposed to bend. Completely limp. Numb. Like it wasn't even part of him anymore.
Breathing was hard. Shallow and rough. Every inhale scraped down his throat, thick with the foul stench of rotting garbage and city decay.
The air inside the dumpster was warm and wet. The kind that made your stomach curl.
Rain tapped softly above him, slipping through a narrow crack in the dented metal lid. Cold droplets landed on his face and neck, mixing with the sweat and blood.
And yet…Even with all that noise—his breathing, the rain, the shifting of trash bags—
The silence screamed louder.
It wrapped around him. Pressed against his ears. Made the pain feel louder. The shame feels deeper.
How did I get here? The thought crawled into his head like a whisper. Quiet. Pathetic. Real.
How the hell did it get this bad?
He blinked slowly into the pitch-black space around him, eyes barely open, trying to see past the trash, past the lid, past the sky he couldn't reach.
He felt the crushed remains of his pride stuck to him like the slime on his skin.
Rotten food.Rotten memories.
Then—her face flashed in his mind.
Iris.
Laughing.Smiling at James.Smirking at him.
Mocking him.
And behind her…
Mr. Davis.
That smug, polished voice echoing like a curse:
"That's where trash like him belongs."
Ethan's jaw clenched. Pain tore through his face again.
But he didn't stop.
He gritted his teeth harder—biting down on pain, on memory, on shame.
Trash.
Was that what he was now?
Lying there in a metal box filled with rot and filth… was that what he'd become?
He'd been stepped on.
Humiliated.
Beaten bloody and thrown away like a piece of garbage—like he meant absolutely nothing.
And the worst part?
No one stopped it.
Not one voice. Not one hand. Not one look of concern.
He was just a poor kid with a loud mouth and nothing to back it up. That's what they saw.
But still... how was this fair?
How could he be treated like this—and the people who did it to him just walk away?
Untouched. Untouchable.
How?How could I be beaten half to death, and the ones who did it face nothing?
Ethan gritted his teeth, jaw trembling with pain and fury.
Even if he reported it, who would believe him?
No one.
Because it was his word—a nobody—against theirs.
The rich. The powerful.
Ten times out of ten, the world chose them.
The word of a peasant means nothing when money talks louder.
His left hand twitched, then clenched into a tight fist—the only hand he could still move.
Bones creaked under the strain. His muscles trembled.
Every nerve screamed in protest.
But rage?
Rage was louder.
He wanted out.
Out of the dumpster.
Out of this nightmare.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted revenge.
He wanted to tear them all down. James. Iris. Davis. Every smug bastard who looked down on him, so he swore to himself.
And on every single person who ever looked down on him like he was dirt.
He swore it, right there in the filth and shadows:
"I'll make them pay."
I don't care how long it takes.
I don't care what I have to do.
I'll crawl through hell if I have to.
And when I do…
Buzz! Buzz!
A sharp sound interrupted his monologue.
Buzz! Buzz!
Ethan blinked, his eyelids heavy like bricks.
What was that?
Buzz! Buzz!
The sound was coming… from his pocket?
"Is that… my phone?"
Somehow, through the savage beating, through the boots and fists and broken bones, his phone had survived.
Slowly—painfully—he moved his left arm.
Every motion was torture. His muscles burned. His ribs protested. But he kept going.
Bit by bit, inch by inch, his hand fumbled at his side, fingers brushing against the corner of the device buried in his pants pocket.
There. Got it.
With a shaky breath, he pulled it out.
The phone was a mess. The screen was cracked like shattered ice, glowing weakly through spiderweb fractures.
But it still worked.
The light on the screen pulsed softly in the darkness, just enough for him to see a message:
[Installing… Game to Reality System (GTR)]
His lips barely moved as he whispered:
System…?
His brain struggled to process it.
He was in too much pain—his thoughts coming slow and foggy, like he was underwater.
His thumb hovered near the glowing message, trembling.
He wanted to tap it.
But his strength finally gave out.
His hand dropped.
The phone slipped from his fingers and landed on his chest with a soft thud.
And just like that…
Ethan passed out.
But the phone didn't.
The phone screen didn't fade.
It got brighter.
The soft blue hue shifted into a warm, golden glow that shimmered through the shattered glass. The cracks caught the light like lightning bolts frozen in place.
Then the glow began to spread.
It poured over the edges of the phone like golden liquid, sliding down onto Ethan's chest.
The light moved slowly at first, calm, almost alive—creeping over his torn shirt, his bruised ribs, and up toward his battered face.
Then it touched his right arm.
The twisted one.
And the change began.
Everywhere the light passed, something happened.
Purple bruises faded into his normal skin tone.
Swollen, puffy flesh flattened and relaxed.
Cuts closed, sealing shut without even a scar.
His dislocated bones shifted with a faint crunch back into place.
Torn tendons began to stitch themselves together—thread by thread.
It didn't happen all at once. It wasn't flashy or loud.
It was gentle.
Like invisible hands were piecing him back together, taking care not to hurt him more than he already had been.
And all the while…
Ethan didn't move.
He just slept, deep and still, his breathing slowly becoming steady. The pain on his face eased as if a nightmare was finally letting him go.
Then the golden light pulsed one last time, brighter than before.
And just like that, it faded into the dark.
Now, only the phone remained lit, a black interface glowing with a strange loading bar stretching across the screen.
[100%… 99%… 98%…]
[GTR System Installation in Progress]
[Do not turn off your device]