The Dark Bane

Chapter One: Titus

    In my experience, the flicker of hope can be deceptive. It's a fragile light, often casting illusions that make the shadows feel safe. It has a way of twisting reality—suddenly, the monsters don't seem so menacing, and those who should be feared begin to look like saviors. Hope is strange like that. There's always someone standing in front of it, claiming to hold the key, with honeyed words and clever manipulation. I fell for it once... I believed in their big talk and followed their false promises. But I made a vow after that: never again. 

     Everything I've endured has left its mark, but it's also made me stronger, sharper. This story begins not with atypical new beginning, but in the midst of the end—something far more ominous. The fall of mankind was nothing short of apocalyptic, a hellish inferno that raged for seventy-two days. I was trapped at its center, caught in the storm of its wrath. My hands weren't clean amidst the chaos, and if I'm being honest, my darkness had a role to play. People whisper things about me—say that everything I touch is consumed, swallowed by the void, sinking reality into shadow. They think I'm special, but not in the way anyone would want to be. This "gift" of mine is more of a curse, a ticking bomb ready to detonate. It's as if everything that makes me who I am is nothing but disaster waiting to unfold.

     But I suppose I should start with an introduction: My name is Roman Bane, and I am the reason darkness exists. Before all this—before the destruction—life was as ordinary as a page from an old book or an episode of a forgotten TV show. Looking back now, I realize how much I miss the simplicity, the innocence, the unspoken grace of a world that no longer exists. More than anything, I miss my mother. The passage of time has blurred the memories I have of her, faded the details of her laugh and the way she would smile. I was only twelve years old when my world came crashing down, when everything I knew ended. 

     What I remember most about the time before is the sunlight on my skin and the sting of the saltwater from the ocean. I remember my mother's laughter and the taste of raindrops on my tongue. Life was simple then, ordinary—but beautiful in its simplicity. Sometimes, if I close my eyes long enough, I can almost feel it again—the warmth, the safety, the happiness that once was. But time is a slippery thing. Innocence fades as the years stretch on, and the truth is twisted in countless versions. Darkness comes too fast, too soon. 

     My mother used to tell me, "Whenever you feel lost, look for the sunflowers—they always turn toward the light." I've been searching for those sunflowers ever since, hoping that somewhere, she's still waiting for me, or maybe even looking for me, too. But to truly tell you this story, we must go back to where it all began—back to the days leading up to the end. As I mentioned before, I was twelve when the virus hit. It was wintertime in the city, and Christmas lights filled the streets, casting a warm glow over everything. Back then, it felt like the world was lit up in celebration, like we were on the edge of something magical. I can't recall much about my day-to-day life before everything fell apart, but I do remember the day it all changed. I remember the moment the world unraveled, the chaos that followed, and the wave of pain that swept over us all like wildfire.

     The virus—no one knew at the time how deliberate its creation had been. We discovered later it wasn't a natural disaster but an intentional release, a method of population control by the government. At first, it was whispered that the plan was only to eliminate a hundred thousand people—mostly the elderly or those with weak immune systems. That alone would have been horrific, but things spiraled out of control far quicker than anyone could have anticipated.

     It began quietly, through the water supply, slowly poisoning those who drank it. What should have been a controlled and manageable outbreak became something monstrous, something unimaginable. Within hours, the virus had mutated, becoming airborne. Suddenly, half the population of the United States was either gravely ill, awaiting death, or had already perished. It didn't spare anyone. The virus attacked with a precision that was horrifying—it was engineered to target the lungs, suffocating its victims from the inside out. Death wasn't quick or merciful. It was a slow, excruciating process, choking the life out of you as your organs shut down, one by one.