SSS Unknown: Dark Knight's Legacy

Looking back at my life, it feels like a cruel joke—like a tragic play where I am both the protagonist and the punchline, condemned to bear all the weight of its pain and despair.

I've fought harder than anyone. I pushed myself beyond every conceivable limit, striving for strength, for something better. I sacrificed what was most dear to me, believing that in the end, it would all be worth it.

I worked tirelessly, again and again, convinced that every choice I made, every ounce of effort I gave, was the only way forward, the only hope for redemption.

But now, what remains? I stand amidst the wreckage of my shattered reality, haunted by a question that keeps echoing in my mind like a scream that will never fade: Why did it turn out like this?

This question claws at my thoughts, a relentless force that tears through the chaos of my already fractured mind. 

My emotions rage like a storm, growing fiercer with every heartbeat, drowning out the remnants of rational thought.

I try to hold on, but the flood of anger, regret, and despair sweeps me away, taking everything I thought I understood about myself with it.

The air stinks of blood, thick and foul, clinging to every breath I draw.

It fills my nostrils with the nauseating scent of death and misfortune, as if it has become a permanent companion, following me like a shadow I cannot escape. 

On that day, just as it is today, the world has only one smell—the smell of blood, of devastation. And I stand here, helpless, watching as it consumes everything I know, everything I have ever cared about.

I can't change any of it. I can only stand, paralyzed, as the decay slowly devours what's left. But deep down, I know the truth: this is all my doing.

I am the architect of this disaster. Everything that's happened—the lives lost, the destruction—it's all because of me.

Before me lies a scene I will never forget. A vision that will haunt me until my last breath.

Incomplete corpses litter the ground, their bodies mutilated, flesh torn asunder, organs spilling from their twisted forms. 

Blood flows like a river, staining the floor, mixing with the dust of ruined hopes. Limbs are shattered, heads crushed, the wreckage of lives extinguished in an instant, like broken dolls abandoned in a forgotten corner.

"...Sakura..."

The name escapes my lips, a whisper full of agony, as if saying it will somehow absolve me, but I know it won't. 

Among the carnage, there is one figure that stands apart—my sister. My beloved sister, the one I swore to protect with my life. But now, she is nothing but a cold, lifeless form, a twisted creation of my own hand.

I look at my own hands, trembling, stained with blood. The knife is still there, gripped tightly in my fingers, its cold steel pressing against my skin, a brutal reminder of the reality I can no longer escape. 

This blade… It was the instrument of my sins, the tool I used to paint this grotesque masterpiece of death. And I, the artist, am the one who created it.

I killed her. My sister. I am the one who took her life.

"Damned...!"

The scream rips through me, tearing at the raw, bleeding edges of my soul. The knife glints in my grip, reflecting the broken man I've become—black hair matted with blood, hollow silver eyes that no longer hold any trace of life or hope. 

I want to scream, to lash out, to do something, anything to make it stop, but all I can do is stand there, trembling.

Tears fall, mingling with the blood that stains my face, as my heart shatters. This feeling—it is worse than death itself. It is a pain that cuts deeper than any wound, a torment that has no end, no escape.

I think of death. In that fleeting moment, I feel a strange kind of relief, as if it's the only way to escape this nightmare, the only way to end the endless suffering. Only death could free me from the hell I've made.

But no... How can I die after this? After everything I've done? How can I escape the consequences of my actions? No, I must face it.

I must suffer the weight of this sin, this guilt, because a coward like me doesn't deserve forgiveness.

I think these things, but deep down, I know I am too weak. Too cowardly. I can't bring myself to end it, yet I can't live with this burden either.

A failure. In every way that matters.

I hate myself.