by Vortrefflicher
The suburban sun was too bright, the air in the room too still, and the silence of the Saturday afternoon too loud. Moritz lay sprawled across his bed, his legs dangling off the edge. He was seventeen, and he felt as though he had already seen everything the world had to offer—which, in his opinion, wasn't much. He was the kind of student who did just enough to get by, relying on a quick wit to mask a profound lack of effort. He ignored his mother’s calls to help with the groceries, let his father’s advice about "building a future" slide off him like rain, and spent most of his time looking for a shortcut to a life he hadn't yet defined. "Boring," he muttered, tossing a tennis ball against the wall. Thump. Catch. Thump. Catch. He reached for his phone. He needed a distraction—a new game, a new scroll, anything to kill the hours. That’s when he saw it. A black icon with a gold character: 神 "God?" Moritz smirked. "Bold marketing."
