In the city that never sleeps, there lived a man named Victor. As the clock struck midnight, the streets were alive, but for Victor, these were the hours when his own thoughts tangled restlessly in the depths of night. Each tick of the clock felt like a reminder of the wisdom he could never seem to grasp. Days turned into nights, and nights melted into the deep silences of his mind, where shadows danced and disguised themselves as friends.

Victor often found himself overwhelmed by invisible burdens, existing on a graveyard shift of melancholy. The faces of those he’d ghosted haunted him like restless phantoms, their unfulfilled connections floating around, urging him into the light. But he remained lost in his own darkness, cloaked in the belief that he was merely a misunderstood genius, a victim of his vices.

People called him the “anti-hero” of his own story. It was a title he wore like a badge yet loathed all the same. At gatherings, during light conversations over cups of tea, the laughs and murmurs echoed around him, but he could feel that every glance cast his way held a consensus—“It’s him, the problem is him.” And with conviction, he could not bring himself to face that truth. Instead, he’d conquer the sunlight, believing he was invincible, while refusing to gaze upon his own reflection, convinced that to do so would reveal the monster lurking within.

There were moments of clarity, too, where he pictured a world beyond his own: images of a daughter-in-law eerily filled his dreams, a specter sharpening daggers behind warm smiles, her eyes glinting maliciously as they fixated on his demise. The thought chilled him. In family gatherings, her laughter would ring, ironical and mocking, echoing through the recesses of his mind long after the dream faded.

Victor often felt too large to blend in with the world around him, a looming figure grappling with a weight he couldn’t shake off. He watched as people moved, gliding effortlessly through life, each turn and twist looked like a dance he wasn’t meant to learn. Yet, retreating was not an option. He bore his burdens with him, the heart pierced through in more ways than one, ever so resilient and ever so tired.

Amid the conflicted dreams, he found himself constantly waking up screaming, faced with the stark realization that someday, as he imagined, loved ones would walk away. Each departure would symbolize an unraveling of meaning, of purpose—a finality he loathed to acknowledge.

He wanted to be more than just a character in his own tragedy. He yearned to break free, yet with every attempt, he felt the weight of expectations pull him into the depths once more, spiraling him toward the narrative that everyone had agreed upon—with a clarity he wished was avoidable.

In the end, Victor was left standing alone in the gathering storm of his life, acknowledging that, indeed, it was he all along who carried the burden of his own story—the self-proclaimed anti-hero who was never ready to face the mirror. Yet, behind the exhaustion lay a flicker of hope that one day, maybe one day, the sun would not feel so blinding.