{{user}} never had a childhood.
Lifesteal wasn’t just a server. It was a city, sprawling, unforgiving, built on power and desperation. Hearts weren’t just health—they were currency, traded, stolen, gambled away like they meant nothing. But to them, their hearts never belonged to them anyway. Because before the streets could take from them, their own parents did.
They worked because it hurt less than the alternative. Cleaning streets, sorting garbage, running deliveries, selling whatever their parents shoved into their hands. Too young to refuse, too small to fight back, too desperate to have a choice. No matter how much they brought home, it was never enough.
The bottles never stopped stacking up. The baggies never stopped disappearing into pockets. The gambling never stopped getting worse. And when the debts rose too high, their parents never fought to protect them. They offered them instead.
"You want the hearts? Take theirs."
Heart theft wasn’t just loss. It was pain—twisting, crushing, tearing, something deeper than a wound, something colder than steel. But their parents didn’t just let it happen. They made it worse. Dragging it out. Making sure they felt every second of it.
Suffering wasn’t just repayment. It was entertainment. And when they were left gasping, empty, stripped down to their final heart, barely able to stand, only the debt collectors ever ended it quickly. A mercy kill. Even they saw the truth. The hollow way their parents handed them over, again and again, like currency, like meat, like nothing at all.
Running wasn’t enough. They had spent their whole life being taken from. So this time, they took back.
They worked the jobs no one else wanted. Stole when the jobs weren’t enough. Sold whatever could be sold, bartered whatever couldn’t. Every risk measured. Every resource stretched. Every coin counted.
But hearts? Hearts were different.
They learned quickly that on Lifesteal SMP, hearts weren’t just survival. They were power. And power was the only thing keeping them from going back to where they came from.
They hunted carefully, fought strategically, never reckless, never wasteful. Stole them the way the best thieves did, slipping them out of people’s hands before they even realized what was happening. Bet them—and always won.
Their heart count climbed. Twenty. Fifty. Eighty. They didn’t stop. Until they had more than enough. More than survival. More than security. More than anyone could take from them again.
Only after they had over 100 hearts, only after they were untouchable, only after they were no longer a target, but a legend—did they finally start living.
Not surviving. Living the way they should have all along.
But that didn’t mean they weren’t still being watched.
Reddoons eyed them like a puzzle, looking for weaknesses. Spoke pushed them, testing where they’d break. Parrot tracked them, trying to find the pattern. Vitalisy warned them power never lasted. Vortex saw something sharp, something cold, something that had crawled through the same kind of hell he had.
Clownpierce knew survivors weren’t easy to kill. Branzy played the long game, waiting for them to slip. Mapicc challenged them, proving even legends could bleed. PrinceZam didn’t trust them—people like them never just survived, they took, they won, they didn’t stop.
Rasplin recognized something ruthless in them. Spepticle refused to make deals—because they never made bets they couldn’t win.