Alexander Carson woke to the dull hum of his alarm, dragging himself from bed with the weight of yesterday pressing on his shoulders like a physical force. Outside, the morning light fought to pierce through the grimy blinds, but it did little to lighten the mood inside the Carson household.
He could already hear the familiar voices of Noah and Oliver echoing down the hallway, their laughter sharp, cruel, like a knife scraping against metal. "Bet Carson's still sulking," Noah jeered. "Probably can't even tie his own shoes."
Oliver added, "Maybe he'll trip on his way to school again. That'd be hilarious."
Alexander's stomach tightened. For as long as he could remember, the house had been a battlefield where he was always the first target. The first time he had tried to fight back, he ended up with bruises that lasted weeks and a lecture from his uncle about being "ungrateful." Since then, he had learned the hard truth: survival meant endurance, not confrontation.
Elara's soft voice drifted from her room next door. "Alexander… are you okay?"
He forced a grin, one that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine," he whispered. "Go get ready for school. Don't let them see you're worried."
Elara, three years younger and impossibly gentle, was his anchor in the storm. She didn't deserve any of this, and he had made a vow long ago to shield her from it—whatever it took.
Breakfast was tense. His uncle, Richard Carson, sat at the head of the table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. The two older boys shoved Alexander's plate toward him without a word, laughing under their breath at small, petty jokes only they understood.
"Eat faster, Alexander," Richard barked suddenly, glancing over the top of his glasses. "You don't want to waste time. Your father's business didn't just fall into your lap. Remember that."
Alexander nodded silently, forcing himself to swallow the lump of anger and sadness that always rose at these words. It was a familiar story: gratitude for abuse, loyalty demanded but never returned.
Noah leaned back, smirking. "You know, Alex, if you spent half as much time actually doing something instead of whining, maybe life wouldn't be so miserable for you."
Oliver snorted. "Yeah. And maybe one day, Uncle Richard will stop yelling at you for being useless."
Alexander clenched his fists under the table, his knuckles white, but he didn't speak. Words were weapons he couldn't wield here. Actions—quiet endurance—were all he had.
School was no reprieve. Teachers often looked the other way when he was bullied, either assuming he had brought it upon himself or simply not caring. Every day was a careful balancing act: avoid trouble, shield Elara when possible, survive the verbal and physical assaults of Noah, Oliver, and their friends.
Yet, amid all the cruelty, Alexander had small comforts. His grades were excellent, a private rebellion against a world that underestimated him. He found solace in books, in fantasy worlds where heroes wielded swords, magic, and power without fear. In those pages, he wasn't the weak, cowardly boy everyone saw in the halls. He was strong, clever, unbreakable.
One afternoon, after a particularly grueling session of Noah and Oliver's torment in the school courtyard—where he had been shoved into a muddy puddle, laughed at, and left to clean himself—he retreated to the only place that felt like his own: the local library.
Books lined the shelves in comforting rows. Fantasy novels, tales of heroes, and worlds where the powerless found strength—here, Alexander could breathe. He picked up a thick tome about ancient kingdoms, flipping through pages filled with magic and legends. He could almost see himself there, standing beside sword-wielding warriors, facing monsters without fear.
A librarian cleared her throat, and he looked up, startled. "Can I help you find anything?"
"No… I'm fine," he muttered, though the warm smile from the older woman made him feel like someone actually saw him, even if just for a moment.
On the way home, Alexander noticed a small shop tucked between two larger buildings—a store he had never seen before. Its window glowed faintly, and inside, among shelves of trinkets and curious objects, a small display caught his eye: a sealed game disk, unlike any he had ever seen.
There was no label, no box art, just intricate symbols etched along the edges. A tiny card sat in front: "For those who seek more than the world allows."
Alexander paused. Something about it called to him. He wasn't usually impulsive, but tonight, curiosity outweighed caution. He stepped inside.
The shop smelled of old paper, incense, and something faintly metallic. The shopkeeper, an old man with sharp eyes and a crooked smile, didn't speak at first. He simply nodded toward the disk.
"You're looking for change," the man said finally, his voice low and deliberate. "Something in your world doesn't satisfy you, does it?"
Alexander swallowed. "I… I guess not."
The man chuckled softly. "Take it. But remember… not all changes are easy. Some come at a price."
Alexander left the shop with the disk in his bag, heart pounding. He didn't understand why he felt drawn to it, why the pull was so strong. But for the first time in a long while, there was a flicker of hope, a tiny spark that maybe, just maybe, something different was coming.
Back at home, Noah and Oliver were waiting, smirking at him. "Where have you been, loser?" Oliver sneered. But Alexander ignored them. He closed his bedroom door and examined the disk again. Strange symbols glimmered faintly under the dim light of his desk lamp.
Somewhere deep down, he felt it: this was more than a game. Something about it felt alive… watching. Waiting.
And Alexander Carson, despite every bruise, every insult, every moment of helplessness, couldn't help but feel… ready.