Damien Cord had always believed he was born on the wrong side of luck.
As he sat in the corner of his darkened room—knees to his chest, eyes vacant—his thoughts circled like vultures above a carcass. His own mind, a battlefield of indecision. The dull glint of a broken bottle in his hand didn't threaten anyone. Not anymore. It just... reflected.
Should I end it now?
He didn't know what to call this feeling anymore. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't fear. It was heavier than either. The kind of weight that made the air hard to breathe. The kind that made the world feel silent, even when it wasn't.
No one in the game knew his story. No one cared. They only saw the thief. The liar. The rat scurrying between shadows.
But once, Damien Cord was just a boy with hope.
He was born in a crumbling tenement on the edge of a forgotten town. His mother, a waitress working double shifts just to afford stale bread. His father, a man who disappeared when Damien was four. Some said he skipped town. Others whispered darker things.
Damien never asked. Because by then, he already learned: questions never brought good answers.
By eight, he was stealing scraps from the back of restaurants. Not for thrill. For survival.
By ten, he was running messages for small-time fixers. Men who wore suits two sizes too big and smelled of ash and beer. They didn't see him as a kid. Just a shadow with legs.
One night, he came home and found his mother on the floor. Not dead—yet. Just too tired. Too empty. Her eyes didn't move anymore when he called her name.
The doctor at the clinic looked at him with pity. Said her heart was failing. Said they needed money for treatment.
Damien remembered walking out that night and making a decision.
He didn't pray. He didn't cry.
He just stole.
He got good at it. Too good. Sleight of hand, silent steps, nerves like ice. He learned to walk through crowds like a ghost. To talk his way out of cuffs. To vanish before they realized they'd been robbed.
But it was never enough. Because the world demanded more than he could ever take.
At sixteen, his mother died in her sleep. He found her with a smile on her face. That's what crushed him the most. Not the death. The smile.
Like she was finally free.
And Damien? He just kept walking.
He drifted city to city, changing names, faces, stories. He lived in alleys, motels, stolen rooms. His heart beat not from hope—but from habit.
Then he woke up in Noirhaven.
No explanation. No rules. Just a card in his pocket and a voice in his head saying:
Play the game.
He didn't trust anyone. Why would he?
Trust was a luxury for the rich. For the innocent. He was neither.
But now... it was different.
Now, he stood on the edge again. The knife of the Mafia hanging close to his throat. The rules tightening. The shadows getting darker. He watched people die—not just physically, but inside. He saw the fear in their eyes. The hopelessness.
And it mirrored his own.
He had tried. He really had.
To help. To matter. To be something more than a whisper in the dark.
But maybe people like him weren't meant to survive games like this.
He gripped the bottle tighter, the edge digging into his palm. Blood welled up. Not deep. Just enough to remind him he was still real.
A knock at the door snapped him out of the spiral.
A second chance.
Home.
But home doesn't exist for people like him.
He thought maybe he could help the MC.
Maybe he could matter.
But even when he tried to walk toward the light, all he ever did was crawl deeper into shadow.
He stood up.
Walked to the sink.
Washed the blood off his palm. It didn't sting.
Then he stared at himself in the mirror.
The same eyes. The same hollow stare. The same silence.
He looked behind him one more time. No pictures. No belongings. No goodbyes.
Just an empty room.
He sat back down on the floor, cross-legged, bottle in hand.
The silence crept in again, gentle like an old friend.
He closed his eyes.
He didn't pray.
He didn't cry.
He just whispered to the dark, the only words he still believed in:
"…I'm sorry."
Then he pressed the shard against his neck.
One long breathe in.
No hesitation.
And Damien Cord—The Thief—bled out quietly, alone, just like he had always lived.
A final steal.
He took himself out of the game…