Capítulo 2: Crippling Hope
GASP.
I jolted awake—or at least I thought I had. My body refused to obey, moving only enough for my head to lift barely a finger's height off the bed. But even that tiny movement sent a surge of hope coursing through me. After thirty years of total stillness, this sliver of motion felt monumental.
I tried to take it in, but the effort overwhelmed me. My vision blurred, and the dull weight of exhaustion dragged me back down. Darkness overtook me again.
Voices. Rustling. Noise.
The muffled sounds of hurried movements brought me back. I couldn't see much, but I could hear the frantic shuffle of feet and the sharp clatter of metal instruments.
"PATIENT IS WAKING!"
The voice was loud, sharp, and urgent, cutting through the haze clouding my mind.
Another voice followed, calmer yet firm. "Hello, sir. You might feel disoriented, but you've just woken from a coma. It's been five days since—"
The words were cut short as a dry, strangled groan escaped my throat. The sound surprised me; it was raw, barely audible, but it was the first sound I had made in decades. My throat felt like sandpaper, parched and aching from disuse. The simple act of groaning sent a sharp pain shooting through my chest, and my body rebelled against the effort.
The voices blurred again as consciousness slipped from my grasp.
The third time I woke, the world was silent.
No voices. No rustling. No hurried footsteps.
Just silence.
I opened my eyes slowly, blinking away the haze. The building around me was eerily quiet, and it didn't take long to realize the truth: I had been abandoned. Again.
I let out a long, weary sigh. That small spark of hope I'd felt earlier dimmed but didn't extinguish entirely. If I could lift my head before, I could try again.
Gritting my teeth, I willed my body to move.
With a sudden burst of determination, I pushed harder than I intended.
Tumble.
I shot up faster than I'd expected, only to lose control and crash to the floor. Pain lanced through my body as I hit the cold, hard tiles. The impact jarred me, sending a sharp ache through my muscles—muscles that felt weak and alien after decades of disuse.
But I didn't care.
For the first time in thirty years, I was moving.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't coordinated. But it was real.
I flexed my fingers, marveling at the sensation of control returning to them. Slowly, shakily, I managed to roll over onto my stomach. My arms trembled as I pressed them against the floor, struggling to push myself upright.
Minutes felt like hours, but I eventually did it. I stood. My legs quaked under the unfamiliar strain, but I was standing.
A strange mix of emotions flooded me—relief, disbelief, and an almost overwhelming sense of accomplishment.
I glanced to the side and saw the life-support machine that had sustained me for decades. It was dark and lifeless, long since disconnected. That realization struck me: I had survived without it.
Turning to the window, I froze.
The world outside was unrecognizable.
Buildings lay in ruins, their skeletal remains reaching for a blood-red sky. Smoke curled upward in twisting, black tendrils, and the air seemed thick with despair. The horizon was jagged, littered with rubble and fire. It was chaos incarnate.
What had happened in those five days?
My thoughts raced as I scanned the destruction, searching for any sign of life. The streets below were empty, strewn with debris and eerily still. It felt as if the entire world had been abandoned.
Ding.
The sound was crisp, cutting through the silence like a knife.
A glowing message appeared before me, hovering in the air like an ethereal specter:
[Welcome, Host, to the Moonlit Hitman Agency.]
[You have been chosen to save this failed hitman agency from the ground up.]
The words lingered in the air, their meaning both ominous and tantalizing.
I stared at the message, my mind racing. Just days ago, I had been a man praying for death. Now, I was standing on unsteady legs, staring at a world gone mad, and being greeted by something that called itself a "system."
"What...?" The word came out as a raspy whisper, startling me. My voice. I could speak again.
I tried again, louder this time. "What is this?"
The sound of my voice was both foreign and familiar, like hearing an old friend after years apart. It cracked and wavered, but it was mine.
I wanted answers. I wanted to scream at this "system" for toying with me. But the effort drained me. My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor.
For a while, I sat there, staring at the glowing message. The words burned into my mind: Moonlit Hitman Agency. It sounded absurd, like something out of a twisted fantasy.
And yet, it wasn't the strangest thing I'd encountered. The world outside was proof enough of that.
Another message appeared, interrupting my thoughts:
[System Initialization Complete.]
[As the host, you are tasked with rebuilding the Moonlit Hitman Agency from its ashes.
Your journey begins now.]
The message disappeared, replaced by a faint glow that settled into my chest. I felt a strange warmth spread through my body, a sensation both comforting and unsettling.
I clenched my fists, testing the strength in my hands. Whatever this system was, it had done something to me. I could move again. I could speak again.
But why?
The questions piled up, each one more pressing than the last. What was the Moonlit Hitman Agency? Why had it chosen me? And what had happened to the world outside?
My gaze drifted back to the window, to the blood-red sky and the ruins below. The chaos outside mirrored the turmoil within me.
For decades, I had been a prisoner in my own body, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to live. Now, I was free—or as close to free as I could be in this broken world.
A flicker of determination sparked within me.
Whatever this system was, it had chosen me. And if it could give me the strength to move again, I would find a way to use it.
Even if it meant stepping into a world of blood and shadows.
This was no longer just about survival.
It was about reclaiming what I had lost.
About finding out why I had been chosen.
And perhaps, about becoming something more.
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