Chapter 1 — Too Kind for This World
Lately, every day had felt the same. Yet somehow, I had found a quiet kind of happiness in the repetition—something I hadn't even noticed at first.
Growing up in a family that only kept me alive to collect a government welfare check wasn't exactly ideal for a child's mental health. But surviving that kind of environment made me resilient in ways most people would never understand.
The values I was raised with were simple: "Hurt others before they hurt you." If you could even call them values. My so-called parents etched that philosophy into my skin—but never into my soul.
I never liked being selfish. Whenever I acted out of desperation, guilt would eat away at me. I'd hear that voice in my head whispering: "You're no better than them." Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw my father's smirk staring back at me, a cruel reminder that I was following in his footsteps.
Being kind always cost me something. But I never gave up. I refused to become like those who raised me. I wanted to be more—prove to myself that altruism wasn't weakness. No, only someone truly strong has the courage to put others before themselves.
Stealing, lying, cheating—those were my daily tools for survival as a kid. I gave what little food and money I had to others who needed it even more, and every time, I was betrayed in the end. Still, I never held a grudge. I believed they were only doing what the world had taught them to do. They didn't know any better… and I didn't want to poison myself with hate.
That's how I met my teacher.
An old, underground doctor working in the slums. The only one people around there could afford. Most of his patients were gang members, rats, and abandoned kids. I was in the last category.
After a failed attempt to steal a car stereo from a rising gang member, my "friends" pushed me to the ground to save themselves. I was caught and beaten so badly I thought I'd die. That's when the old doctor found me.
He treated me and fed me. In return, I helped out around his clinic—those were the "fees" for saving my life.
I learned so much from him. He had once graduated from a prestigious university and worked at a top hospital. Falsely accused of something he didn't do, he lost everything—but never stopped doing what he loved most: healing others.
With his help, I graduated with honors and became a doctor myself. As an adult, I finally found people who shared my beliefs—good people trying to be kind in a world that rewarded cruelty. Real friends.
I spent my days in hospitals, treating patients, and feeling fulfilled. Then I received an invitation to join a humanitarian medical organization. Without hesitation, I said yes, thinking it would help me grow professionally and continue my mission of doing good.
They sent me to a war-torn region.
The flood of wounded overwhelmed me. That's when I realized just how privileged my life had been.
Seeing so many injured children broke my heart. But being unable to help them—that shattered my soul. It reminded me of my own childhood, powerless in the face of life's cruelty.
And then it happened.
A paramilitary group stormed our field hospital. They lined us against the wall and took the children. They wanted to use them as suicide bombers.
I could do nothing. Once again, I was helpless—watching innocent lives I had saved being marched off to die for a cause they didn't even understand.
Days later, the mission failed. None of the children returned.
One of the paramilitaries I was forced to treat recognized me. He remembered how I had begged them not to take the children, how I pleaded for their lives.
He laughed in my face and said, "Kind people get eaten by this world."
I hated him. Because he was right.
But I had already chosen my path—and I wouldn't stray from it.
The war dragged on. More wounds. More hunger. More death. And still, I worked tirelessly, offering what little I could in this cruel world. I had found my purpose—my reason to keep living.
And then… I ruined it.
I'd been forced to treat the rebel leader several times. They trusted my skills. That's probably why they got careless. One day, I saw something I wasn't supposed to: crates of nerve gas.
I overheard their plan—another wave of child bombers. Only this time, they'd be trained, armed with lethal chemicals, and used to end the war in one final, horrific act.
Maybe they thought I was harmless. Maybe they believed the gas was useless without proper tools. Maybe they just didn't care.
But I knew one thing: I had a choice.
All the rebel leaders were in that same compound. I had just healed their commander.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.
I set off the gas.
Two kilometers vanished in agony—myself included.
But for the first time… I was stronger than those monsters. I had protected the innocent, even at the cost of my own life. I had no powers, no cape. Just a decision—to be kind, even when the world punished me for it.
In that moment, I felt like a Kryptonian.
And as death embraced me, I smiled.
Because for the first time in my life, I felt truly at peace.