CW: suicide / dead parents
Would it hurt much? A sixteen-year-old boy sat on the floor of a dingy room, a knife resting in his hand. He brought it close to his face. His sunken blue eyes stared back from the steel.
"Look, just open up, Gale," a man said, pounding on the door, rattling its cheap hinges. "We won't beat you, promise."
"Don’t make us break it down," another man added. "The cost of a new door's coming straight out of your kidneys."
The boy, Gale, did not reply. Only a small smile crept across his face. They're right. I should open it.
He put the knife on his throat. The cold steel felt strangely satisfying. His smile widened. Right? Mom? Dad?
A chuckle escaped his lips, echoing through the room, heard by no one but his father hanging from the ceiling fan, his legs swaying inches above the floor, and his mother slumped in a pooling halo of her own blood, her wrist slit open as flies gathered in the red.
Gale looked at them.
For a heartbeat, his father, who once tied his laces, who once tossed balls for him to catch, was with him again. For a heartbeat, his mother's gentle wrist, once cupping his cheek, lifting his chin, brushing the hair from his eyes, was there once more.
Then the heartbeat passed. Only the sweet rot of flesh and the bitter reek of blood remained in the air.
Gale's jaw tightened. Mom, Dad, you made your choice. Now, I make mine.
They say the voice of the Operator gives people worth. Never heard it say my name. Then again, why would it? My parents didn't get one either. Can't blame them for quitting early. Guess the joke runs in the family.
"You’ll pay what you owe," a debt collector said from outside. "I'll sell you piece by piece if I have to, boy."
Suddenly, the knocking intensified. People kicked the door. The door shuddered, opening and closing a few inches with every strike.
Six figures crowded outside the door. Through a widening crack near the handle, an eyeball peered inside. Two corpses, and Gale, sitting with a blade to his throat.
"They’re dead—shit! Stop him!"
The creditors rammed the door. The hinges tore free. The door buckled, slamming against the floorboards and kicking up a dust cloud. They barged inside.
Gale spared a glance toward his parents. Time to end this joke.
The creditors dashed to seize Gale, but before a single hand could touch him, the blade flashed.
Schhhk.
A thick, hot spray of crimson painted the collectors as blood gushed out and Gale fell, feeling lighter than he had ever been.
His vision faded as the burn of the cut gave way to a strange, floating warmth.
Above him, the creditors screamed. They slammed their fists into the walls and shattered the furniture, howling over their lost prize.
Gale didn't mind the noise. His pulse slowed, his shoulders eased, and the crushing weight of his debt finally bled out onto the floor.
The screaming above him grew distant, then stopped mattering, then stopped. This was what he'd wanted. Just this. Quiet.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, nothing hurt. But it didn't last. The darkness brought a sound:
[Trigger: Self-Chosen Recognized.]
And a sensation of being hooked behind the navel and yanked. The world seemed to fracture and everything went white.
Then the voice spoke again:
[Searching eligible realms... 1 of ? matches found.]
[Initiating Transfer to Draco Realm.]
