He was a profanity: something society agreed to despise but openly utilized. His name was said by daring children, yelled by rebellious teenagers, and murmured by bitter adults. However, nobody except drunken folks felt comfortable discussing him. Emil, ultimately, was the greatest tragedy the city witnessed.

He was the son of a God, the chosen one. Emil wielded power and a guaranteed future, but a tainted prophecy ruined everything. His prosperous fate withered when the message arrived; it predicted he would become a crazed deity. It devastated him, but the city was the one who cried. Emil was swiftly locked in a firm cell far away from citizens he could endanger, and he grew dejected and resorted to drastic measures to preserve his faith.

Litanies of rumors and insults failed to crush his hope, and he didn't stray from the yearning consuming him. Bars were the sole obstacle preventing Emil's escape. The harsh truth never fled his mind, and he became dedicated to changing it. Emil worked tirelessly to appeal his lifelong sentence of imprisonment. No results came, and he grew discouraged.

Droplets of polluted water dripped from the high ceilings to his face. He didn't flinch anymore; the uncomfortable sensation was routine. Emil's neck ached from his position on his cell's bench, but he didn't bother to move. Irritating echoes of arguing echoed in the hallways. He was familiar with the frequent yelling. After all, no guards wanted to come within miles of his cell. When he heard a new guard's voice, he didn't bother looking towards it. Offering visible attention made things worse.

Emil rolled over, mumbling, "I'm not eating today, so leave..."