"Max?" Julius exclaimed, equal parts cautious and apprehensive. His mind raced with possibilities before he finally opened the message.

  It was a video, ominously titled: You Did This to Yourself.

  Overtaken by curiosity, he hit play. He would soon regret it.

  The video began—a slideshow of screenshots. A man messaging countless girls from their school.

  The words made Julius's stomach turn. Vile, degrading language no woman should ever have to read.

  As the images continued, the messages grew worse—threats of sexual violence, even promises of rape.

  By the time the video ended, Julius was trembling, a hand clamped over his mouth to keep from vomiting. He barely held himself together.

  Then came the realization that shattered him: the sender wasn't anonymous. Whoever made this video had used a fake name.

  His name.

  Julius J. Bianchi.

  He broke.

  Bolting to the bathroom, he collapsed in front of the toilet, tears and bile pouring out of him in equal measure.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Julius stood frozen, the final image from the video seared into his mind. He should have known—should've sensed something before it got this far.

  Without hesitation, he blocked Max and deleted every social media account he owned. His hands trembled as he gripped his phone. Then, with a sudden roar of grief, he hurled it against the wall. The case split open, the screen cracked on impact.

  He dropped to his knees, the weight of it all crashing down at once. Tears streamed down his face, hot and silent.

  Staggering to his feet, he stumbled outside, flinging the front door open. The cold air bit at his skin. He looked up to the sky—just like he did all those years ago, back when he still believed someone up there was listening.

  "Is this a game to you, God? Gods? Whatever your nature..." His voice shook, growing louder with every word. "I advise you to temper your bravado. You call me humanity's voice—you trick me into believing I was the chosen one!" His voice cracked. "So why? WHY!!"

  The sky, until now silent, suddenly growled with thunder. A low, distant rumble that seemed to answer him. The wind picked up, cold and unrelenting, whipping through the trees and around his body like unseen hands.

  "If a god exists who allows things like this," he shouted into the wind, "then I swear—I will march up the stairs of divinity myself and make you pay"

  The storm above flickered with faint lightning, and Julius, overwhelmed by rage, grief, and divine fury, finally collapsed. His knees hit the wet earth. He stayed there, trembling, until his voice was gone and the sky gave no further reply.

  Julius was no longer just furious at the gods—now his rage burned for humanity itself. No one was safe from his wrath.

  He bit his lip, rain dripping into his face, blending with his tears until they were indistinguishable.

  Defeated, he stepped back into the house, soaked and shivering, and clung to the only thing that had never betrayed him: his piano.

  He played.

  At first, the melody was steady—his fingers precise, mechanical, exact. The tempo rose. His hands struck the keys harder, faster, pouring everything—his grief, his rage, his helplessness—into the music.

  It was perfect.

  He was a human metronome.

  Until the piano disobeyed.

  The notes twisted. Bent. Warped.

  He played flawlessly—but the sound came out wrong. Distorted. Echoing with a tone that was almost... divine. Or inhuman.

  Something—someone—was listening.

  and answering.