The paint is all peeled. Windows so dusty, the glass looks frosted. No one bothers. Grey clouds engulf the sun, soaking the air with depressing over-hydration. The fiery will instilled in him is now slowly deteriorating. Not a soul. He observes them. Among the warm metallic pillars, they loathe. Across the wet tar floor, they drag. Under the humid shade, they wait... Waiting for it to end. The time. Scorning at their sloth, he refuses to lend a hand. Comments. Not all ears, however, our hero is. Contemplation crosses his mind, on whether or not to save the few who fell into the pits of slavery. Kindhearted assistance has been taken for granted, offerings turned into demands. The captives' eyes still shine. Have they been blinded by an illusion of acceptance through contribution? Have they not seen a life more fortunate than this? Pity.
It's coming. The moment. Now, he is alone. He thinks to himself, seeing how that he's presently the odd one out. Could the saying be true? That if all you have is opposition, you must be at fault? Trying to reason. Trying to rationalise. He does so as his heart and mind are fair.
Evaluated. At times, his reflection portrays a stubborn boy. At times, The One to open their eyes once again.
Looking upon the dilatory beings approaching him with sudden hostility, he knows it's too late. Pun intended. Letting out a chuckle at the thought while they label their witness as someone... Bad. Judgement. Something that miraculously spurs effort. Effort to execute another psychological attack.
His fiery will.
It bursts and burns the contamination, like fuel to a flame. It gets colder though. Freezing him faster than he can sublime their contact. Being overcome, this protagonist would rather defect himself than convert to their cause. Would it have been so hard as to just associate? The fallen ones compell. Once again, his principles reject.
The moment is near. Patience. It will all soon be over. Soon, these dread-possessing entities will be rid.
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