The Art of Four - Dungeons and Dragoons Book 1

Kaiden closed his laptop and exhaled. His work was finally done. His hands trembled as they scrunched into fists, not out of frustration, but from excessive use. He sure missed his desktop computer with the extra-wide monitor, the one he'd spent years perfecting his setup around—adaptive controls, ergonomic design, the handicap-accessible keyboard he had once been so proud of. It was all gone now. He'd given it away earlier that morning.

"Won’t need it anymore," he muttered to himself, feeling a hollow sense of finality wash over him.

The laptop sitting in front of him was an old, temporary replacement, just enough to finish this last bit of work. His hands, though, had barely managed that. He flexed his fingers, watching them tremble with a mixture of overuse and weakness. "Some more medicine, I guess," he said, voice dry.

With effort, he wheeled himself away from the desk, rolling into the cluttered kitchen where pill bottles lay scattered across the counter like forgotten promises. He reached for the one that had become all too familiar, popping the cap off with a shaky hand. Two pills. It didn’t matter that he was supposed to take one. The pain didn’t care about prescriptions anymore.

His phone rang softly, breaking the silence. He squinted at the screen, the name of his driver flashing in the dim light. "On my way down," he said into his earbuds, using voice commands to answer.

He wheeled himself to the door where his crutches were. Slowly and painstakingly, he hoisted himself up from the chair, feeling the burn in his muscles as his legs protested. Strands of his messy brown hair fell into his eyes as he steadied himself. His fingers, weak and shaky moments ago, suddenly remembered how to work, albeit barely, as he brushed the hair out of his face. A brief victory.

The elevator ride felt longer than usual. The soft hum filled the empty silence around him, and for a moment, he let his mind go blank. It was easier that way. No more overthinking. No more hope. Just silence.

When the doors slid open, his driver was already waiting, smiling like nothing was wrong. "Where to first?" he asked, too cheerful for Kaiden’s mood.

"Haircut," Kaiden said, his voice flat but firm. He hadn’t had one in months. No point. But today was different.

The driver, Tim, according to the app nodded, oblivious to the weight of the day. "I know just the place."

Today, he would shed the last bit of what tethered him to this slow, painful existence. He didn’t need his computer anymore. He didn’t need the chair. And soon, he wouldn’t need the pills either.

If only the driver knew.

Kaiden slid back into the car, the cool air brushing against his freshly shaved skin. His hand instinctively moved to his face, fingertips grazing the unfamiliar smoothness where stubble once clung. His hair, cropped short, no longer fell into his eyes, and for the first time in ages, he felt the full weight of his features—the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollows of his cheeks.

“Looking sharp,” Tim said with an approving grin as he glanced in the rearview mirror.

Kaiden gave a small nod, running his hand over his head. It felt good—strangely refreshing, like he’d shed a part of his old self along with the unruly hair. Almost as if, for a brief moment, he could forget the prison his body had become.

The driver pulled up to their next stop, a modest shop tucked into the corner of a busy street. Kaiden hobbled inside, crutches clinking against the tile floor. The chime of the doorbell caught the attention of the shop clerk, who approached with a warm, practiced smile.

The salesman was tall and lean with neatly combed silver hair. He dressed in a tailored navy suit that looked as if it had never seen a wrinkle. His skin was pale and his glasses perched precisely on the bridge of his nose. Everything about him seemed to scream perfection, from the subtle sheen of his shoes to the crispness of his white pocket square.

"Good afternoon, sir," the salesman said, his voice smooth and professional. "How can I assist you today?"

Kaiden cleared his throat. "I need a suit. Something I can wear out."

The salesman smiled politely, his eyes sharp behind the glasses. "Of course, not a problem at all. However, if you prefer, we do offer same-day tailoring to ensure the perfect fit."

Kaiden shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I understand,” the salesman replied, giving a slight nod of acknowledgment. “In that case, may I ask what kind of suit you’re looking for? We have a variety on hand: your classic two-piece, three-piece, modern slim-fit, double-breasted for something a bit more formal, and of course tuxedos.”

Kaiden’s eyes widened at the list. Had suits always been this complicated? He opened his mouth, but words failed to come out. "I-uh..."

The salesman’s smile softened as he raised a hand. “If you’re unsure, may I ask what the occasion is? That can help narrow down the style.”

Kaiden hesitated. "Look, I just want something simple. Black," he said, his voice quieter now.

The salesman’s expression flickered briefly, a flash of understanding crossing his face. “Is this for a funeral or a—?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Kaiden cut him off, not wanting to dwell on the details.

The man studied him for a moment, his gaze neither probing nor intrusive, just calm and assessing. After a pause, he nodded. “I have just the thing. Allow me to take a few measurements.”

Kaiden nodded, and the salesman quickly pulled out a tape measure, doing his best to take accurate measurements despite Kaiden’s hunched over posture. Kaiden couldn’t stand straight, nor could he keep himself upright for more than a few moments without leaning heavily on the crutches.

"Sorry for the trouble," Kaiden muttered.

The salesman waved a dismissive hand, unfazed. “Nonsense. I’m happy to help.”

Kaiden looked slightly embarrassed, glancing away. “I’m also going to need some help actually putting the suit on… I—" He faltered, feeling exposed.

The salesman didn't miss a beat, his expression unchanged, professionalism never wavering. “It would be my pleasure. Not to worry, sir.”

He guided Kaiden over to a nearby bench and disappeared for a few moments, returning with a small selection of suits draped carefully over his arm. “I’ve got three options here, starting with the highest price down to the most affordable.”

The first suit, a sleek black number, was clearly the finest of the three. The fabric was rich and smooth, catching the light in subtle ways. “This is a wool blend, no pleats on the trousers for a clean, modern look,” the salesman explained, but Kaiden had no idea what that meant. Still, the suit looked good—better than anything he’d worn in years.

“I’ll take it,” Kaiden said suddenly, without hesitation.

The salesman blinked, not expecting the quick decision. “Then shall we?” he said, recovering smoothly, gesturing toward the changing rooms.

Kaiden nodded and allowed the man to help him into the changing area. Getting into the suit was no easy task, but the salesman guided him with care and precision, making the process as painless as possible. Soon enough, Kaiden stood with his crutches in front of the mirror, staring at himself in the crisp, black suit. The fabric looked perfect on him, smooth against his skin, and the way it framed his body, even if he didn’t stand unassisted, made him look dignified.

He left his old clothes behind without a second glance.

Outside, the driver watched Kaiden approach in his new suit, raising an eyebrow in admiration. “Well, if you were looking sharp before, now you’re downright deadly,” he quipped as Kaiden slid back into the car.

Kaiden smiled faintly. For the first time in a long time, he felt… present. Maybe even like himself again.

But deep down, he knew it was just an illusion—a fleeting glimpse of normalcy in a life that was far from it.

“Where to next?” Tim asked, pulling away from the curb.

Kaiden looked out the window, watching the city blur by. “One last stop, then home,” he said quietly, though the word felt heavier than it should. After all, this wasn’t just any day.

Today was the last.

The driver glanced at Kaiden, trying to gauge his reaction through the rearview mirror, his brows knitting together as they pulled into a rougher part of town. The buildings here seemed to lean in on themselves, graffiti scrawled across faded brick walls, and broken streetlights lined the alleyways.

"Here’s fine," Kaiden said, his voice steady despite the unease in the air. "I’ll be right back."

The driver hesitated, looking like he might say something, but Kaiden was already out of the car, shuffling toward the narrow alley. At the mouth of it, a figure stood, hood drawn low over his head, blending into the gloom.

“Yo,” the man said, voice low and gravelly. "The money came through. I got your piece, just like you asked." He handed Kaiden a brown paper bag, the corners of the bag wrinkling in the sun.

Kaiden's stomach twisted as he accepted it, his hands trembling as he opened the top. Inside, the dull weight of a revolver stared back at him, cold and indifferent. He’d seen plenty of guns on TV, in movies—but this was different. This was real.

"Look, I know you wanted a sixer," the man continued, glancing around the alley, "but trust me, a semi is better. I can hook you up for fifty more, good deal.”

Kaiden shook his head, closing the bag with shaky fingers. “No, this’ll do. But thanks.”

In truth, with his condition, he wasn’t even sure he could manage a semi-automatic. Could he cock it? Could he even hold it steady long enough to do anything? The revolver seemed simpler, like the decision itself had to be. No room for error.

The guy shrugged, indifferent. "Okay, you're the boss. So, what kinda ammo you need? I got hollow points, FMJ, wadcutters—whatever you’re after."

Kaiden blinked, his mind blank. For the second time today, he was in a world he knew nothing about. “Uh… just regular.”

The man gave him a weird look, then chuckled softly. "Alright, man. How much you need? I got a special going—three boxes for the price of two."

Kaiden shook his head again, his voice quiet. “Just one.”

The man paused, his eyebrows rising. "One box?"

“No," Kaiden swallowed. "One bullet.”

The man’s grin widened, a glint of something dark in his eyes. "Just one, huh? Alright, your call." He reached into his backpack, rummaging around before pulling out a single bullet between two fingers. "This one’s on the house."

He slid the bullet into the front pocket of Kaiden’s suit jacket, patting it once before stepping back. “Don’t miss.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the alley, whispering loudly without a care.

Kaiden stood still for a moment, feeling the outline of the bullet pressing against his chest. His heart pounded, but his mind felt disturbingly calm. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the thick silence.

He turned and made his way back to the car, his body feeling heavier than usual.

Back in his apartment, Kaiden threw a few essentials into an old backpack. His mind buzzed, but he kept himself focused—one step at a time as he stepped back into the elevator. This time, it was going up

The door creaked as he pushed it open, the evening air cool against his face. The roof was the same as it always was—quiet, forgotten by the rest of the building. A ratty chair and a few milk crates had been left there by some long-gone tenant, makeshift furniture that Kaiden now gratefully claimed. He sat down slowly, easing his body into the chair as if it might give way at any moment.

One by one, he took his supplies from the bag. His hands shook as he laid out his pill bottle, the revolver, a Bluetooth speaker, and a bottle of gin. The shaking—partly his condition, partly the dread—made each movement harder than the last. His breath quickened. He unscrewed the cap of the gin, carelessly, and watched it tumble across the roof. It rolled until it disappeared behind a vent.

"Well, I won’t be needing that," he muttered. With a humorless chuckle, he lifted the bottle and took a long, burning swig. The familiar sting hit the back of his throat, sharp but comforting. It stilled his hands, at least for the moment.

The doctors had warned him—no alcohol with his meds. Too dangerous, they'd said. But that felt like a long-forgotten rule, a warning for someone who still had a future. "Sorry, doc," Kaiden said aloud to no one. "I hope you’ll understand." He tipped the bottle again and chased the burn with a handful of pills.

As he swallowed, he watched the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and golds. The city below flickered to life, thousands of tiny lights blinking into existence like fireflies. It was beautiful in a way, even as the alcohol began to fuzz the edges of his vision. The world felt distant, and Kaiden welcomed the detachment, the blurring of sharp thoughts into dull haze.

For a moment, he thought he might be brave enough. He grabbed his crutches, pushing himself to stand. His legs wobbled as he hobbled toward the edge, his heart already pounding harder than it had in months. He looked down, twenty stories straight to the ground below. The sheer drop made his stomach churn.

Would a fall from this height even kill a person? His body was weak, brittle. Surely, it would him at the very least. But doubt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Was he really that brave?

His feet rooted to the spot, but his body wouldn't move any closer. Not yet. Defeated by his own hesitation, Kaiden let out a shaky breath and stumbled back to the chair. He collapsed into it, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a physical force. He reached into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the cold metal of the single bullet.

He pulled it out, turning it over in his hand as though it held some secret answer. Slowly, methodically, he loaded it into the revolver's cylinder, the bullet clicking into place. He spun it, the cylinder whirring almost too easily as it blurred in motion. "That spins really smooth," he murmured, half-amused, half-dazed.

His heart pounded violently in his chest as he cocked the hammer, the click of the mechanism echoing in his ears. He held the gun to his head, arm trembling again—this time not just from his condition.

His finger hovered over the trigger, nerves on fire. The beating of his heart felt like it might kill him before anything else could. His pulse thudded in his ears, loud and frantic, like a clock ticking down.

Kaiden’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around him stopped. Just him, the gun, and the quiet city beneath. He closed his eyes, and the revolver clicked.

His heart stopped for a moment, then surged back to life in a wild, frantic rhythm. His eyes snapped open, tears blurring his vision as they began to stream down his face. He didn't know why he was crying. Was it relief? Disappointment? His chest ached, and his breath came out in ragged, uneven gasps. He wiped at the tears but more kept coming, unstoppable now.

"Music," he whispered, choking on the word. "I need music."

His hands fumbled over the speaker, trembling as he struggled to get it working. Finally, after a few attempts, his playlist began to fill the air—a collection of songs he had picked out just for this moment. The first notes washed over him, soothing in a way only his favorite tracks could be. A buffer between him and the dark pit he was standing over.

He grabbed the gin again, taking another deep swig, feeling the burn spread through his chest, numbing everything. His body felt looser now, his mind foggy. Another handful of pills, dry-swallowed with the alcohol. Soon, he'd be brave enough. He just needed a little more time.

But then—sirens. Faint at first, but growing louder. His heart lurched. Were they coming for him? He blinked, trying to focus. He had left his parents a note. His mother had probably just found it and called the police. His father… Kaiden was sure his dad would understand. He wouldn’t want this either, living as a prisoner in a body that betrayed him more every day. No way. He could feel it deep in his bones—there was no life left for him like this.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head as tears spilled faster now. He wiped at his eyes again, frustration bubbling up. He had to do it before they came. Before they stopped him.

He pushed himself up from the chair, hands gripping the crutches as he staggered toward the edge of the building. His knees shook, and the revolver felt heavy in his hand as he shuffled forward, closer to the drop. His feet edged over the lip of the roof, his toes almost dangling. The ground seemed impossibly far away, but so final. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat pounding in his ears, competing with the music in the background.

He was getting sleepy. Really sleepy. His head swam, the gin and the pills dragging him under like a tide. Was this it? Was this the long sleep everyone talked about? He felt his body swaying, his vision darkening at the edges. His legs wobbled, barely able to support him.

Wait… he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not like this. It’d be a shame to ruin the suit. Yeah, that’s it. He wasn’t a religious person and he’d never worn a suit in his life, but if there was ever a time to do it, it was now. And if, by some chance, there was an angel or deity waiting for him on the other side, at least he’d look presentable.

He turned, trying to shuffle back to the chair, but his foot caught awkwardly on the crutch, which swung out into thin air. Suddenly, his balance was gone. For a moment, there was nothing. No ground beneath him, no rooftop under his feet. Just emptiness.

Weightless.

His stomach lurched as he tumbled forward, everything spinning around him. The city lights blurred, streaking past like stars as gravity took over. He could feel the air rushing past his face, tugging at his clothes, but it felt distant—like it was happening to someone else.

Man, I’m tired, he thought, and then—nothing.