Cihangir sat alone in his room, the soft glow of the dying embers illuminating the dim space. His back was twisted, forcing him to lean heavily against the sturdy wooden chair, each breath he took filled with a painful hitch as his spine cried out against its unnatural curvature. Despite his afflictions, his mind was always sharp, far sharper than those around him who were blessed with bodies free from deformity. Tonight, though, even his razor-sharp intellect failed to distract him from the agony coursing through his body. As tears welled up in his weary eyes, he felt the weight of the world settle upon his slender shoulders.