Fate

It’s cruel, really. How rarely reality aligns with our desires.

You can work yourself to the bone, sacrifice sleep, and sell your soul for a goal, only to watch it crumble. Perhaps success isn't earned. Perhaps it’s just written in the stars—a destiny you can neither fight nor negotiate with.

That was the thought echoing in the hollow chamber of Yuriy’s mind as he stared at his mother’s corpse.

She was gone. The last shot she received had shattered her immune system, draining the last of her life force while he was out chasing a digital rank. He had wanted to be a pro streamer to stay by her side, to support her. In the end, he had achieved the rank, but lost the reason for having it.

"Yuriy... where have you been?"

The voice belonged to an older neighbor, her face twisted in grief. She wept as if she had lost her own daughter, her hands wringing a handkerchief.

Yuriy tried to answer. He tried to say, *I was buying a future for us.*

But his voice failed him. The world tilted. The colors of the room bled into a gray haze. His brain, protecting itself from the sheer trauma, pulled the plug on his consciousness. He crumpled to the floor like a marionette with cut strings.

***

When he woke, the world had not ended. It had just become quieter.

Days blurred into a gray sludge. Yuriy didn’t leave the house. He didn’t shower. He sat in the dark, the glow of a monitor illuminating his sunken face.

He wasn’t playing games anymore. He couldn't. The passion he once felt—the thrill of the outplay, the strategy—had died with his mother. Instead, he mindlessly consumed anime, watching fictional characters live lives he no longer wanted.

He ate cold canned food. Beans. Soup. Tuna. He chewed mechanically, not tasting a thing.

His blue eyes, once sharp and calculating, were now dull and rimmed with red. His body grew frail, his clothes hanging loosely off his frame. He was a ghost haunting his own home, waiting for the end.

*‘My destiny is to join them,’* he thought, staring at the empty can in his hand. *‘There is no escape.’*

He lay back on his bed, closing his eyes. He was ready. He had nothing left to offer the world, and the world had nothing left for him.

*BOOM. BOOM. BOOM!*

The front door shook on its hinges. The sound was violent, shattering the silence of the tomb he had built for himself.

"Open up!"

The voice was muffled but commanding.

Yuriy didn’t move. Let them come. Let it be looters. Let it be death.

"We know you’re inside! Open the door!"

The wood splintered. With a sickening crash, the door was forced open. Heavy boots thudded against the floorboards.

Yuriy forced his eyes open. He saw shadows moving in the hallway. He tried to sit up, but his body was too weak.

"You there. Are you Yuriy Kozlov?"

He lifted his head. Through his blurred vision, he saw uniforms. Military green. Camouflage patterns.

Soldiers.

When he didn't answer, one of them stepped forward—a broad man with a mask covering his face. He grabbed Yuriy by the arm, hauling him up roughly.

"Let me check if he's on drugs," the soldier grunted.

"Idiot, Vasyl," another soldier snapped, this one sounding younger. "Did you skip the briefing? The man just lost his mother. He’s in shock, not high."

Vasyl scoffed. "Yeah, well. Shock looks a lot like withdrawal to me."

The grip on his arm ignited a spark of adrenaline in Yuriy’s veins.

"I’m not on drugs!" Yuriy shoved Vasyl back, his voice raspy from disuse. "And why the hell are you in my house?"

The soldiers stepped back, surprised by the sudden resistance. They exchanged glances, a mix of guilt and duty on their faces. They hadn't wanted to intrude, but orders were orders.

A soldier with a rifle slung over his shoulder stepped forward. He reached up and slowly removed his mask, revealing a boyish, kind face.

"Yuriy," he said gently, his voice softening the harsh room. "I’m Vladyslav Novikov. We’re with the army. We’re here to help civilians—people like you who need safety."

Vladyslav reached out, placing a hand on Yuriy’s trembling shoulder. "We know about your father. He died a hero. And we know about your mother. The pain... it must be unbearable. But you can't lose hope. The world hasn't ended."

Yuriy flinched at the touch. He didn't want comfort from strangers.

"Listen to me," Vladyslav continued, his eyes earnest. "Life isn't just about family. You can form new bonds—connections that are just as strong, maybe even stronger. There are people out there waiting to meet you. Don't you want a new reason to live?"

"Shut up..." Yuriy whispered.

"What?"

"I said, cut it out!" Yuriy yelled, knocking Vladyslav’s hand away. "What are you babbling about? A bond stronger than family? That’s nonsense. No one can replace a mother. No one can be trusted like a father. Just get out! Leave me alone!"

He slumped back against the wall, exhausted. "I’m useless. I have nothing to give you."

The soldiers looked at him with pity. They knew that look. They had seen it in the mirror. But Vladyslav shook his head slowly, opening his mouth to speak again.

*Clack. Clack. Clack.*

The sharp sound of high heels against the wooden floor cut through the tension.

Everyone turned toward the hallway.

A woman stepped into the room. She stopped, her silhouette framed by the light from the broken door.

"You," she said.

Yuriy squinted. As his vision focused, his breath hitched.

She was stunning. Long, silky blonde hair cascaded down her back like liquid gold. The scent of expensive perfume wafted off her, cutting through the stale smell of the room. Her skin was pale as porcelain, and her blue eyes were as cold and deep as a frozen lake.

For a second, the despair in Yuriy’s chest wavered, replaced by a strange, confused spark.

"Miss Romanova?" one of the soldiers stammered. "Why did you come? We told you we’d handle the recruitment."

The woman ignored him. Her eyes were locked solely on Yuriy. She saw through the filth, the hunger, and the despair. She saw a target.

She took a step forward, her hand moving with practiced speed.

*Click.*

A gun was now pointed directly at Yuriy’s forehead.

The soldiers tensed. "Miss Anastasia, please! He’s unstable. We promised to be gentle!"

Anastasia Romanova didn’t blink. Her expression was carved from ice.

"Listen closely, you disoriented piece of trash," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Whether your mother is dead or not, it doesn't change the fact that I have every right to end your existence right now."

Yuriy stared down the barrel of the gun. The cold metal looked invitingly final. He pressed his back against the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"What... what do you mean?" he choked out.

Anastasia’s lips curled into a cruel, knowing smile.

"Citizen Yuriy Kozlov. We know about your betrayal."

She took a step closer, the gun never wavering. "For the past few months, you’ve been climbing the ranks in a popular online game. Playing alongside players from the enemy nation. You’ve been teaming up with them, helping *them* win, using them as a crutch to get to the top."

She leaned in, her voice dripping with venom. "Imagine if you started that streaming career of yours. Imagine your countrymen finding out their 'hero' is fraternizing with the enemy online. How would that look? Do you feel no remorse?"

Yuriy’s confusion morphed into indignation. He clenched his fists.

"What are you talking about?" he shouted. "Those people... they never cared who I was. It was just a game! They were kind to me. They never treated me like an enemy. I can’t just—"

"Is that so?" Anastasia interrupted, her eyes narrowing.

She cocked the gun. The metallic click echoed like a thunderclap in the small room.

"If you’re so confident," she whispered, "then accept your fate."

Yuriy looked into her eyes. She wasn't bluffing. The sheer killing intent rolling off her was suffocating. The defiance drained out of him, replaced by the primal fear of death.

He lowered his head.

Destiny, it seemed, wasn't done toying with him yet.