Tom stared at the pen on his desk.He had made up his mind — he would defeat The Who.
But as his fingers brushed the pen, he froze.A thought slipped into his mind.
Why should I even try?
Even if I defeat him, who will care?There's no one waiting for me. There never was.
He sat there in silence, his eyes blank, his chest heavy.Since childhood, he had always been alone. People came when they needed him — and vanished once they were done.
Even those he called friends eventually left — new schools, new people, new priorities.He was only useful when there was no one else around.
So why should I fight for a world that doesn't even want me in it?
He remembered the farewell party his classmates were planning.No one had invited him. Not a single message.
He hadn't done anything wrong. He was just quiet.He just… hesitated to talk.
But that was enough for them to treat him like air.
Whenever there were games or group projects, he was always the leftover.Always the extra piece no one wanted.
He clenched his fists.It's not my fault.
Maybe it was The Who's doing — forcing authors to write miserable stories like his.If that were true, then every moment of his loneliness was scripted suffering.
But then again… if The Who hadn't forced authors to write, Tom himself wouldn't exist.
A bitter laugh escaped him."What kind of life is this? Created only to suffer?"
He stared at the pen again.If The Who wanted to play god, then Tom would make him understand what hell truly felt like.
"Just you wait," he muttered. "I'll show you pain worse than the one you gave me."
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.It was time to enter the dreamspace.