William Jones stood alone in the dimly lit corner of his apartment, his thoughts swirling like a storm in his mind. His gaze was fixed on the world outside the window, the city lights flickering like tiny, distant stars, oblivious to the darkness within him. His life was built on pragmatism, on logic, and yet, it had always felt like something was missing—something he could never quite grasp.
He had always seen the world through a lens of Pragmatic Nihilism, a philosophy that echoed in the very core of his being. It wasn't something he had learned from books or teachings. It was something he had built for himself, out of necessity, born from the painful understanding that life was devoid of inherent meaning. It was a philosophy forged from the chaos and emptiness that defined his existence. The universe, in his eyes, had no grand purpose. It was indifferent, a vast and uncaring force that did not offer solace or hope. People, too, were meaningless. The concept of higher powers or an ultimate truth was laughable, a comforting illusion for those too afraid to confront the harsh reality of life.
In his world, there was no divine plan. No fate. No destiny to guide him. He wasn't special, nor was he cursed—he was just another speck in an infinite void. Everything, from his violent actions to his inner turmoil, was a result of choices and circumstances. The universe had no grand meaning, and neither did he. But he wasn't helpless. In this vast emptiness, he had the ability to shape his own path, to carve out his own meaning, even if it was temporary, fleeting.
His mind wandered back to the times when he had questioned his very existence. He remembered the early years of his life—before he embraced this philosophy—when he was lost in the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to life than just survival. But each time he searched for meaning, it only led him deeper into despair. The world wasn't kind, and the people in it were driven by their own selfish desires. He had learned that the hard way, over the years, in the cold streets and the ruthless underworld.
It was during his darkest moments that he had realized the painful truth: life itself had no purpose unless he gave it one. No one was coming to save him. No grand force would reveal itself to offer him guidance. It was up to him to navigate this bleak existence, to carve out meaning where there was none. And in that realization, Pragmatic Nihilism was born—a personal code that allowed him to survive in a world that seemed indifferent to his pain.
The essence of Pragmatic Nihilism was simple: Life was meaningless, and so was everything in it. But instead of succumbing to the void, he would create his own purpose. He would not look to the world for answers because there were none. He would not search for salvation or hope, because such things didn't exist. In a world that was indifferent to human suffering, the only thing he could control was his own actions, his own choices. He had to make those choices for himself, based on what he valued in the moment, without relying on the illusion of greater meaning.
For William, that meant embracing the harsh realities of his existence. His actions, however brutal, were his choices alone, driven by his own set of values. His code didn't come from any moral or philosophical school of thought—it came from the necessity to survive. He killed not because he was a monster, but because, in a world that cared little for the lives of others, it was the most effective way for him to assert his own existence. He could not wait for the world to change. He could not wait for others to validate his actions. He had to take control, to shape his own destiny, even if it meant walking a path that others would never understand.
His belief in Pragmatic Nihilism also meant that he didn't cling to any illusions about love, fate, or justice. He didn't look for meaning in relationships or search for some grand, universal truth. He didn't believe in the comforting lies that society peddled—like the idea of a better future or the hope of redemption. His path was defined by his own choices, and those choices were guided not by some external force, but by his own understanding of reality. If he wanted to survive, to succeed in the world he had created for himself, he had to accept the fact that the only meaning he would ever find was the meaning he gave to his own life.
But there was a contradiction. Despite his belief in the meaninglessness of life, William could not escape the haunting emptiness that followed him wherever he went. In his solitary existence, the philosophy he had built to protect himself from despair sometimes felt like a cage. The idea that everything was meaningless was both liberating and suffocating. He could make his own choices, but at the same time, he was bound to the same hollow existence that had brought him to this point. No matter how many missions he completed, no matter how many lives he took, it never seemed to quell the gnawing sense of loneliness inside him.
And yet, in the silence of his apartment, William could see the logic in it all. The pain he felt wasn't a result of some failure of the world—it was simply the consequence of living in a world without meaning. The emptiness he experienced was a natural part of existence, something that he could not escape. It wasn't a flaw or a punishment—it was just the way things were. And in that sense, Pragmatic Nihilism became his armor. It shielded him from the crushing weight of existential despair. It gave him a reason to keep moving, to keep fighting, even when everything around him seemed pointless.
In this worldview, he was both the creator and the destroyer of his own meaning. He shaped his life, his actions, and his purpose based on his own values. He was not bound by the expectations of society or the constraints of traditional morality. He was free, in a sense—but that freedom was lonely. It was a freedom that came with a cost, a cost that could never truly be paid.
As he looked out at the city below, William reflected on the choices he had made. Each decision had been his own. Each kill, each mission—everything he had done had been driven by his own philosophy. And while it had kept him alive, it had also kept him isolated. He could never truly escape the loneliness that came with the path he had chosen.
But there was no going back now. In a world where nothing mattered, the only thing that could keep him going was his own will to continue. He had built his life on the foundation of Pragmatic Nihilism, and it was the only thing that made sense in a world that had no meaning.
As the night fell over the city, William sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. The emptiness was still there, but it no longer felt as suffocating. He had learned to live with it, to accept it as part of who he was. And in that acceptance, there was a strange kind of peace.
The sharp click of the gun’s safety echoed in the silence of his apartment as William’s fingers moved with a practiced grace, disassembling and cleaning his weapon. Each part was meticulously handled, wiped down, and set aside with purpose. To William, this ritual was more than just a necessity. It was a symbolic act—a way to impose order in a chaotic world. Like his philosophy, the disassembly of his gun reflected the idea that everything, in the end, could be reduced to its most fundamental components. Life, too, was just a series of choices and actions, free from the constraints of imposed meaning.
As he wiped down the final piece, a small sense of satisfaction washed over him. It was fleeting—like everything else in his life—but it was enough to push back the weight of existential uncertainty, if only for a moment. It reminded him that he could, at least, control the smallest details of his existence. His actions, precise and deliberate, were the only thing that anchored him to reality. No matter how brutal, how bloody, those actions were his choices, and that autonomy gave him a sense of purpose—however transient.
But then, as always, his mind drifted back to the same gnawing question: Why? Why keep going? He could feel the emptiness clawing at him again, threatening to swallow him whole. The night outside seemed to mock him—so alive, yet so meaningless. He had no attachments, no connections to anyone or anything. Even the routine of his violent work was beginning to lose its edge. Each mission, each kill, was beginning to blur together. They were just actions, just movements, dictated by his own code—his own desire for control. But even control felt hollow.
He reached for the small bottle of whiskey on the table, his hands steady despite the internal turmoil. The sharp burn of the alcohol slid down his throat, momentarily dulling the ache in his chest. For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to sink into the feeling of numbness, as if the liquid could wash away the emptiness. He stared into the half-empty glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. It was as if he were looking into the abyss itself, and the abyss was staring back.
The faint buzz of his phone broke the stillness, and William’s eyes flickered toward it. A message, no doubt another mission, another person to kill. His life was defined by this relentless cycle of bloodshed, each task another fleeting moment of supposed purpose in a world that would never offer him a genuine reason to exist. It was a strange kind of stability—death as a constant, an ever-present companion. But no matter how many times he answered its call, it never filled the void.
He stood up, grabbing the phone and reading the message. Another target. Another face, another soul to be snuffed out. But this time, something stirred in him. A flicker of doubt. A strange sensation of hesitation.
It wasn’t fear. Fear was something William had long since discarded. It was more like an unexpected tug at the edge of his conscience. He dismissed it quickly. It wasn’t like him to indulge in such trivialities. But the nagging feeling remained, hovering just beneath the surface of his mind. His choices were his own—he knew this. But what was the point of making a choice when there was nothing left to choose from? What was the point of continuing when everything had already been decided by the absence of meaning?
His phone vibrated again, breaking his reverie. The message was from an unknown contact this time. A simple line of text that chilled him more than any assassination order ever had: "They know about you."
William’s grip tightened around the phone, the weight of the message settling like lead in his stomach. Who knew? Who had found him? His mind raced, trying to calculate the implications. But there was no time for that now. The philosophy that had guided him for so long—his pragmatic nihilism—suddenly felt flimsy. In a world where nothing mattered, why should he fear being discovered? Wasn't the very concept of fear just another illusion, another chain? And yet, in this moment, the feeling crept back into his chest—this haunting, terrifying sensation that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something more than the hollow existence he had built for himself.
He threw the phone onto the table, pacing back and forth. The silence of his apartment felt suffocating now, as if the very walls were closing in on him. He had always thought of himself as a master of his fate, a man who lived by his own code. But the message—they know about you—was a reminder that even in his carefully constructed world of detachment and nihilism, he was not immune to the forces of the world. There were those who could reach him, who could see past the walls he had built. The realization sent a shiver down his spine.
He turned to face the window again, the lights of the city casting an eerie glow on his face. There were no answers, no guiding lights. Just a city filled with people living in their own illusions, clinging to the idea that life had some grand meaning, some purpose. But to him, it was all just noise. The only truth he had ever known was that nothing mattered.
Yet now, with the weight of the message pressing down on him, that truth felt less like a shield and more like a prison. He had carved his own path, but now it seemed that path was leading him into a corner, one from which there might be no escape.
Was this the moment when the meaninglessness of it all would truly consume him? Or was it a test—a challenge to see if his philosophy could withstand the pressure of real consequences?
With a resigned sigh, William moved to the door. His actions would speak for him now. The only thing he could do was continue on the path he had chosen—whether it led to further isolation, deeper despair, or an unexpected reckoning.
His mind, however, was already starting to form a plan. Pragmatic nihilism or not, he was not going to let the world control him. He would adapt, he would survive, and he would carve meaning from the chaos once again. But as he stepped into the night, one thought lingered in the back of his mind: Could his own existence, this relentless cycle of violence and survival, be the meaning he was searching for all along?
William stood at the threshold of his apartment, his mind a battlefield between two opposing forces: the relentless logic of his Pragmatic Nihilism, which demanded action, adaptation, and control over his own destiny, and the dark, suffocating void that had always followed him—an abyss that clung to his soul, whispering that none of it mattered, that no matter what choices he made, he was still trapped in the same cycle of emptiness.
Pragmatically, he knew the answer. He could turn his life around. He could make different choices, choose to adapt to a new set of rules, perhaps even find a semblance of peace or purpose. He wasn’t bound by some external force or cosmic order. His philosophy, as harsh as it was, gave him the ability to shape his own path. He could reinvent himself, leave behind the world of violence and darkness if he so chose. The choice was his.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
But as his hand lingered on the door handle, the weight of darkness settled around him like a heavy cloak. It was a presence, one that had followed him for as long as he could remember, lurking in the corners of his thoughts, feeding on his doubts and fears. It was the shadow of his past, the years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness that had carved their marks into him. The violence he had committed, the relationships he had destroyed, the void of connection—it was all tied to this darkness, this hollow space that had long ago replaced any desire for anything resembling hope.
The logic of his Pragmatic Nihilism screamed for him to break free from it—to leave behind the suffocating grip of despair and take charge of his life. But the darkness… it whispered something else. It told him that he was nothing but a product of his choices, a creature born of his own pain and suffering. No matter what he did, the darkness was always there, always waiting to pull him back into the abyss. It was his origin, his reality. How could he escape it when it was so deeply woven into the fabric of who he was?
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, allowing the weight of his thoughts to crash down on him. The past wasn’t something that could be easily shaken off. It had shaped him, bent him to its will. The choices he had made, the people he had hurt—none of it could be erased. Not even by Pragmatic Nihilism, which had promised him control, the illusion of power over a meaningless universe. There was no real escape. Every step he took forward only led him deeper into the labyrinth of his own mind, a place where he could never truly escape himself.
He could see it now, clearer than ever before. The darkness wasn’t just a part of him; it was him. It was the scar tissue of a life lived in survival mode, the remnants of a philosophy born not of rational thought, but of pain. His belief in Pragmatic Nihilism was born out of necessity, a way to cope with the unrelenting void. But now, that same belief was becoming a chain, a justification for staying stuck in this miserable loop. There was a part of him, a deep part, that didn’t want to change. The darkness had become too familiar, too comfortable. The thought of breaking free felt almost alien, a betrayal of the only truth he had ever known.
His hand trembled slightly as he grasped the door handle. He could leave, step into the unknown, and try to find some sense of purpose outside of his self-imposed cage. He had the power to change, to walk away from the life he had built with blood and violence. But the thought of it filled him with a strange, deep unease. What was he without the darkness? What was he if he let go of the very thing that had defined him for so long? His philosophy, the cold detachment, the nihilism—was it all just a defense mechanism? A shield against the overwhelming despair of an indifferent universe?
The darkness was more than just a void. It was a reflection of his own weakness, his inability to confront the truth of his existence. It was a reminder that, despite all the logic and rationale of Pragmatic Nihilism, he was still human. He still feared, still felt the sting of loss and regret. He wasn’t as invulnerable as he liked to believe. And that realization made the darkness feel even more suffocating.
But there was a small part of him that refused to accept this. A part of him that understood, on some primal level, that he had to face the darkness head-on if he was ever going to break free from it. He couldn’t keep hiding behind his philosophy, using it as an excuse for the emptiness that defined his life. He had created his own meaning, but perhaps it was time to acknowledge that this meaning wasn’t enough. He could make different choices—choices that weren’t dictated by the fear of what might happen if he stepped into the unknown.
With a deep breath, he stepped back from the door. The darkness would always be with him, but he no longer had to let it control him. He could turn his life around, but it would take more than just rational thought. It would require him to confront the part of himself that he had long ignored, the part that was capable of feeling, of changing. He had always believed that meaning had to be constructed from nothing, but maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than the bleak world he had built for himself.
The phone buzzed again, a reminder that the world outside still existed, still demanded his attention. He glanced at the screen, the message flashing across it: "They know about you."
For the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of something—something beyond the darkness. A spark of defiance, maybe, or even hope. It was small, faint, and easily snuffed out by the overwhelming weight of nihilism. But it was there, nonetheless. And in that fleeting moment, William realized that while the darkness had shaped him, it did not have to define him forever. He had the power to shape his future, to create meaning where there was none.
Pragmatically, he understood that the journey would be difficult. The darkness would fight him at every step, pulling him back into its suffocating embrace. But it no longer had to be his prison. It was time to confront the darkness—not with resignation, but with the understanding that he could carve a new path, one that was his to create.
He reached for the door handle again. This time, when he opened it, he stepped out into the night with a sense of determination, not just to survive—but to finally live.
William’s hand hovered over the door handle, his breath steady but his mind racing. The sound from within Kuri’s apartment had stopped, leaving behind a charged stillness. William’s instincts screamed at him to act swiftly, but the uncertainty gnawed at him. He had trained himself for years to operate on pure calculation, but tonight was different.
The faintest click of the lock turning from within sent a chill through him. He pushed it aside, focusing on the moment. His grip tightened on the handle, the cool metal feeling like the pulse of the night itself. He twisted it slowly, the door creaking open just enough for him to slip inside.
The apartment was dimly lit, a single light in the far corner casting long shadows on the furniture. It was as if Kuri had been waiting for something—waiting for him. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, the lingering trace of cigarette smoke, and something else. It was a quiet tension, as though the room itself was holding its breath.
William moved silently across the room, his shoes barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. His eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, looking for the faintest sign of Kuri’s presence. Then, he saw him—a figure seated at a desk, facing away from the door.
Kuri was exactly where William had expected him to be, but the detective wasn’t alone.
The figure sitting across from Kuri in the dim light shifted slightly, their face obscured by the angle. William’s mind raced, a thousand calculations flashing through his thoughts as he tried to make sense of the scene. Who was this? An ally? A target?
Kuri's voice broke the silence, calm but with an underlying tension that William couldn’t place.
“I knew you’d come.” Kuri’s words were not a statement, but an understanding, a certainty that sent a cold shiver down William’s spine.
A flicker of doubt flashed through him, but he quickly quashed it. This was not the time for hesitation. There was no more room for second-guessing. He had a job to do.
The detective stood up slowly, his body language deliberate, as if he had been preparing for this confrontation. William stepped forward, eyes locked onto Kuri, but his gaze flickered briefly to the figure across from him—an unknown entity, a shadow that would no longer be a mystery.
Before William could make another move, the figure stood as well, stepping out from the shadows. Kuri’s gaze never left William, but there was something different in his eyes—an understanding, an acceptance of what was about to happen.
Then, without warning, the figure lunged.
William was quick, his body moving in perfect sync with his sharpened instincts. He spun to the side, just narrowly avoiding the blow from the figure, who now had a blade in hand. The sound of metal cutting through air was sharp, too close for comfort. William was already on the defensive, but in his mind, there was only one priority—Kuri.
His pulse quickened, but his movements remained calculated, the pragmatism of his training taking over. He had to finish this, and fast. Kuri was still standing, unmoving, as the battle unfolded.
The stranger was fast, but William was faster. He dodged another strike, closing the distance between him and Kuri in a matter of seconds. With a swift motion, he reached for his weapon—a silenced pistol tucked at his side. The moment his fingers brushed against the cold metal, the figure took another swing, aiming for his neck.
William wasn’t there to block. Instead, he twisted and dropped, using his lower center of gravity to avoid the strike completely. In one fluid motion, he raised his pistol, aimed it at Kuri, and fired.
The shot rang out with an eerie finality.
Kuri’s eyes widened, just a flicker of surprise before the pain set in. The bullet struck him square in the chest. He didn’t collapse immediately—he stood there for a moment, his breath catching in his throat as his body processed the shock of the wound.
Time slowed down.
William could feel the heavy weight of the moment settling on him. The detective’s death was not like the others. It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t clean. Kuri didn’t just drop to the ground as expected; instead, he staggered back a few steps, his hand clutching at the blood that soaked through his shirt.
The world outside seemed to pause as Kuri’s eyes locked onto his, a flash of realization crossing his face.
“You… You really believe this is it?” Kuri’s voice was strained, but there was no fear in it. Only the quiet acceptance of the inevitable.
William’s heart didn’t race. There was no thrill of victory, no moment of triumph. There was nothing but cold detachment. His eyes remained steady, but inside, something stirred. Something unfamiliar.
Kuri’s blood slowly pooled at his feet, and he collapsed onto his knees, still holding that unshakable stare, as if daring William to feel something—anything. But William didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He had already made his peace with it. This was the way of the world: lives ended, and for all of Kuri’s ideals, his quest for truth, he was no different than the rest. All were expendable. All were temporary.
But as Kuri’s final breath left him, a small part of William’s resolve cracked. It was imperceptible, but it was there.
The detective’s eyes slowly glazed over, his body slumping to the floor with the finality of a death well earned. William took a breath, his finger loosening from the trigger. The mission was complete.
The figure who had tried to intervene lay silent now as well, crumpled on the floor, no longer a concern. William didn’t even spare a second glance. He didn’t need to. His mission had always been Kuri, and Kuri was gone.
Still, as he turned and left the apartment, the weight of it settled deeper within him. He didn’t feel relief. He didn’t feel free. He just felt... nothing.
The world would move on. People would forget. Life would continue.
And yet, the shadow of Kuri’s unwavering gaze lingered in the back of his mind, a question he didn’t have the answer to.
The rain fell steadily, a soft but unrelenting drizzle that soaked through William’s coat and plastered his hair to his forehead. It wasn’t the kind of rain that poured down in torrents, but rather a constant, steady downpour—a mirror to the storm inside him. The city around him blurred, its towering structures softened by the mist and the wet sheen of the night.
William stood on the edge of a rooftop, looking down at the streets below. The familiar hum of distant traffic and the occasional flicker of streetlights were the only sounds that punctuated the silence, but it felt as though the whole world had been drowned in the rain. The sky above was a dark, brooding gray, the clouds heavy with sorrow that seemed to bleed into the very air he breathed.
A chill ran through him, though the cold didn’t seem to matter anymore. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the weight pressing down on his chest, the emptiness in his soul that had once been filled with cold, ruthless pragmatism. Tonight’s mission had brought something to the surface that he’d been burying for years—the creeping, dangerous thought of redemption.
He had never allowed himself to entertain such a notion before. Redemption was for the weak, for those who clung to the illusion that they could make up for their past sins. It was a lie. A futile, naive fantasy that kept people chained to their guilt, to the idea that they could somehow turn back time and undo what was done.
But now, as the rain splattered against his face, it felt different.
William closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rain wash over him. It wasn’t just the sting of the water against his skin—it was the way it seemed to cleanse him, to strip away the layers of self-deception he had carefully built around himself. He thought of Kuri, of the detective who had died at his hands. Kuri had been a reflection of the person William used to be—the person who believed in justice, who believed that truth mattered, that people could be saved. Kuri’s unflinching belief in right and wrong had been a contrast to William’s nihilism, but it was also a reminder of the conviction he had once had.
Had Kuri been right? Was there a chance that people could truly change?
The thought gnawed at him like a persistent ache, something that refused to be ignored.
William’s mind drifted back to the early days, the days before he had lost everything. Before the world had taught him that life was a meaningless game, a series of calculated moves in an unforgiving game of survival. He had once believed that his actions could be justified—that the world was full of contradictions, and the only way to make sense of it was to remove emotion and embrace the cold, logical truth. The idea of redemption had seemed laughable to him—he had no need for it, not when he saw the futility of human existence. He was pragmatic, efficient, detached.
But now, standing in the rain, it felt as if something was shifting within him.
Could redemption be possible, even for someone like him? Or was it too late? Was he too far gone to even consider the idea that he could make amends?
The thought twisted in his gut, a question that felt both foreign and familiar. Could he ever find his way back from the darkness?
He remembered the first time he had killed. The coldness of the act, the way he had been able to detach himself from it, to view it not as a life lost but as a problem solved. It had been easy then—simple, clean. And each time after that, it had become easier. The faces of the people he had eliminated had blurred into the same nothingness, their lives no more significant than the fleeting moments they existed in.
But Kuri had been different. The detective’s face, the way he had looked at him with that quiet understanding, had haunted him even as he pulled the trigger. Kuri hadn’t fought back—not physically, at least. Instead, he had accepted his fate, a man who had long known the darkness of the world, yet still clung to the hope that something could be done, that he could make a difference. It was that look—one of defiance, of belief—that had shaken William to his core.
William closed his eyes again, feeling the weight of it all. He had spent so long convincing himself that he was beyond saving, that redemption was a myth for those who hadn’t yet seen the truth of the world. But now, standing in the rain, he was forced to confront the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late.
His fingers clenched at his sides, the familiar coldness settling in again as he tried to push the thought away. Redemption was a trap. It would only lead him back into the same cycle of guilt, the same tangled web of ideals that had once doomed him to this life. There was no escaping it. The world was cold, indifferent. Life was meaningless. People, all of them, were expendable.
But as the rain soaked him through, William couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness wasn’t the only thing in this world. Maybe it was time to stop running from the light, from the possibility that even someone like him could change.
As the rain fell harder, a part of him—small but undeniable—began to wonder if redemption wasn’t just about fixing the past. Maybe it was about changing the future.
Maybe it was time to stop being the man who operated from the shadows and start becoming someone who could step into the light, however fleeting it might be.
