Scott Wren was twenty-seven years old. Average in the ways that didn't seem to matter until you stopped and took a hard look at your life.
He lived in a small apartment on the third floor of an aging building that groaned when the wind picked up.
No girlfriend. No real social life.
Just a quiet existence revolving around numbers on a screen, reports sent to managers he never met, and evenings lost in the glowing worlds of anime, fanfiction, and RPG games.
He was a dreamer—though life hadn't given him much room to dream. And so, his imagination lived where it was safest: in stories.
That night had started like any other.
Overtime again.
Office lights flickering overhead while most of his coworkers had already left.
He locked his computer, zipped up his jacket, and stepped out into a world soaked in rain and silence.
Cold clung to his skin. It was nearly midnight.
He drove through the city on muscle memory, down streets too familiar to notice.
His mind wandered—not to traffic lights or other cars—but to the story he'd been writing.
A fantasy world, one where the hero had died and awakened with powers, meaning, purpose...
He liked that story. He saw himself in it.
That's probably why he didn't notice the light turning red.
Then suddenly, he crashed.
The impact was immediate.
Violent.
A truck slammed into the side of his car, spinning it off the road like a child's toy.
Metal screamed, glass shattered.
His body was flung against the interior like a ragdoll.
The car hit a guardrail and folded in on itself with a sickening crunch.
Time fractured.
The sound of the world faded.
Scott lay there, twisted beneath the dashboard.
His body broken in too many places to count.
Blood painted the seats, pooled on the floor, and dripped slowly from the corners of his mouth.
A gash across his neck pulsed faintly. His legs no longer moved.
And yet… he was calm.
There was no panic.
No terror.
Just a stillness that sank into his bones.
His gaze drifted upward through the cracked windshield, past the smeared streaks of rain, toward the night sky.
Stars stared down in silence.
One of them twinkled brighter than the rest, as if watching him.
The sirens came minutes later.
Tires screeched.
Voices barked orders.
Flashlights beamed into the wreckage.
"His pupils are unresponsive," said a voice, sharp and urgent.
"He's got five penetrations," another replied.
"One in the throat, two in the abdomen, and two in the legs. Major blood loss."
"He's bleeding out. We have to help—"
"No... I don't think we can," the second voice whispered.
As they argued over his fate, Scott's thoughts flickered like dying embers.
There was no fear left—only irony.
A car crash? That's how it ended?
Not in a blaze of glory. Not in some noble act.
Just another statistic.
Another forgotten name in the late-night news.
It wasn't fair. But then again, when had life ever been?
His eyes lost focus.
The world darkened.
The last spark of thought in his mind whispered something bitter and soft: 'When I said I wanted to rest… I didn't mean this.
And then, silence.
His heart gave its final beat.
The world let go.
And death took him. Or did it?