Once, the world still meant something. People weren't hollow strangers, trust wasn't a cruel illusion, and freedom flowed as freely as water. Now drinkable water is scarce-and freedom even scarcer. Every step forward costs more than I can give, yet I keep moving, even when surrendering to the endless night would be easier. Why do I keep pressing on through these familiar alleys and shadowed corridors, where only death or desolation waits? Why am I carving these words into the crumbling face of an old concrete wall? When did my hand turn black? And how long ago did it become too late to turn back? ---------------------------- Yoooooo! What's up liminal lovers and clinical schizos! This is a rewrite of a story I made in the past that will likely have a different plot and generally be a thousand times better! Thanks to @_pepperleaf for being my amazing editor! Anyway enjoy the story, Love you guys! -LiminalOne