Nobody
- Anthonio von swagger
- Apr 3
- 12 min read
Louisville, Kentucky – 3:17 AM
Swagger woke up to the taste of blood.
The pavement beneath him was cold, soaked with something sticky—his own sweat, or maybe the beer someone had poured on him as a joke. His head pounded, his ribs screamed with every breath, and his vision flickered in and out, as if his brain was struggling to stay tethered to reality.
Laughter rang out. Sharp. Cruel.
“Look at this weird-ass nigga.”
Swagger flinched as a foot slammed into his side. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs in a choked gasp.
“Ain’t nobody looking for him.”
Another kick—harder this time. Swagger’s body curled instinctively, arms wrapping around himself. They were right. No one was coming.
“Man, he don’t even fight back.”
Swagger felt a hand grip his hoodie, yanking him up just enough to meet the face of Malik—the leader of the local dealers who ran the block like kings without a kingdom. His breath reeked of Hennessy, weed, and power.
“Say somethin’.” Malik smirked, his gold teeth catching the dim light from a nearby streetlamp.
Swagger stayed silent.
His ears were ringing, his body screaming, but his mind—his mind was awake.
"Weak. Pathetic. Let me handle this."
Black’s voice sliced through his thoughts, sharp and venomous.
"This punk think he untouchable! Smash his fuckin’ teeth in."
Swagger winced, the voice pressing against his skull like hot iron. His fists clenched, his breathing grew ragged—rage flickering beneath his skin.
But then—
"P-please, don’t, Swagger," Wimpy’s voice stammered, jittery and afraid. "W-we can’t beat them. W-we’ll just make it worse."
And then came the Professor, calm and precise as ever.
"Logically speaking, engaging in violence would serve no beneficial outcome. The probability of severe injury is at 97%."
Swagger just breathed.
Malik scoffed. “See? Dude ain’t even real. Just a ghost tryna walk like a man.”
A new voice—Jalen, one of the younger ones—chuckled. “Ghost-ass nigga.”
Ghost.
That was what they called him.
Swagger, the nobody. The mute. The man who wasn’t there.
The final punch came fast—knuckles cracking against his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the pavement like discarded trash. The pain was distant now, fading, blending into something else.
Something… wrong.
His fingers twitched.
For a split second, his body flickered.
The men didn’t notice. They were already walking away, laughing, their voices drifting into the night.
Swagger lay there, eyes half-lidded, staring at the blinking lights of the city.
He exhaled.
And a piece of him… disappeared.
Chapter Two: The Girl in 3C
Swagger’s apartment was a coffin. Small. Claustrophobic. Stained with the scent of oil paint, dust, and forgotten meals. His books were everywhere—towering stacks leaning like unstable skyscrapers, threatening to collapse at the slightest touch. The walls were covered in them—his paintings, his visions, his desperate attempts to make sense of the world.
They were beautiful. Terrifying. Alive.
And no one had ever seen them.
No one… except Romona.
She lived in 3C. Married. Soft-spoken. Kind. The kind of woman who smiled even when the world gave her nothing to smile about.
The only person who had ever really looked at him.
Swagger sat by his window, watching as she walked across the parking lot below, her long curls bouncing with each step. Her husband, James, followed behind—tall, broad-shouldered, always tense.
Swagger’s heart clenched.
Black growled. "She ain’t for you, dumbass. Move on."
Wimpy sighed. "B-but she sees us. She sees us."
Professor adjusted his metaphorical glasses. "Emotionally speaking, this attachment is both unhealthy and illogical. The likelihood of reciprocation is—"
“Shut up,” Swagger muttered.
He turned away from the window.
Then—
A knock.
His breath caught.
Slow. Careful. He approached the door, hesitating before unlocking it.
Romona stood there, holding a small paper bag.
“I—uh—made too much cornbread,” she said with a smile. “Figured you could use some.”
Swagger stared.
This was how it always went. Her offering something—kindness, warmth. Him standing there like an idiot, trying to remember how to be human.
“…Thanks.”
He took the bag.
Romona’s eyes flickered past him, into his world—the clutter, the colors, the madness on his walls.
She smiled. “Your paintings…”
Swagger swallowed. “They’re… nothing.”
Romona frowned, like she wanted to say something else—but James’s voice called from down the hall.
“Ro! You coming?”
She sighed.
Then—one last look. One last smile.
And she was gone.
Swagger exhaled.
And a part of him wished he could disappear all over again.
Chapter Three: The Man No One Sees
Swagger walked through Louisville like a shadow—present but unnoticed, drifting between people who refused to acknowledge him.
The city was loud, alive, but none of it belonged to him.
The bus driver barely glanced at him when he dropped his crumpled fare into the slot. At the gas station, the cashier sighed impatiently as Swagger counted out change, her nails tapping the counter like every second of his existence was an inconvenience.
At the grocery store, a woman cut in front of him in line as if he wasn’t there.
Swagger said nothing.
Because he wasn’t.
Even when people did notice him, it wasn’t kindness—it was irritation. A shoulder slammed into his as he stepped off the curb. Swagger stumbled, catching himself against a newspaper stand.
“Watch where the fuck you goin’,” the man snapped, barely sparing him a glance.
Swagger clenched his jaw, the words forming on his tongue—You walked into me—but they died in his throat. What was the point?
It wasn’t just strangers. It was everyone.
His neighbors never greeted him. His old classmates barely remembered his name. Even when he was younger, his family had looked through him rather than at him.
He could disappear right now, and no one would care.
"You wanna prove a point?" Black’s voice slithered through his skull. "Make them see you. Make them remember."
Swagger exhaled sharply.
No.
He just needed to get home.
As he walked, he felt it again—that sickening, creeping sensation in his fingertips. The unraveling.
Like something inside him was pulling apart, molecule by molecule.
Like he was already fading.
And maybe… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Chapter Four: The Chase
Swagger wasn’t sure when he became a target.
Maybe it was because he never spoke. Maybe it was because he never fought back. Or maybe some people just needed a punching bag, and he was convenient.
It started like any other night—him, walking home, head down, mind in a fog. Then came the voices.
"Aye! Ghost-ass nigga!"
Swagger’s spine went rigid.
Malik and his crew.
His pulse quickened as he kept walking. Faster.
"Look at him, actin’ like he don’t hear us."
Swagger rounded a corner, but the footsteps behind him quickened.
Then—glass shattered.
A bottle smashed near his feet.
Swagger bolted.
The city blurred past him—dark alleys, flashing streetlights, the cold air slicing his lungs. He heard them laughing, running after him.
"Run, bitch!"
He didn’t know where he was going. He just ran.
Then—a door. Old. Wooden. A shop he’d never noticed before.
He yanked it open and stumbled inside.
The bell jingled softly.
The laughter outside faded.
Swagger turned, panting, heart hammering. The street was empty.
As if no one had ever been there.
A chill crawled down his spine.
Then—
A voice.
"Welcome, traveler."
Swagger turned.
Behind the counter stood a woman.
She was old—but not frail. Her dark eyes studied him like she already knew his secrets. Like she had always known.
And on the floor, at his feet…
A small, glowing sphere.
Waiting.
The moment Swagger stepped inside, the world outside ceased to matter.
The air was thick—dust, incense, something metallic beneath it all. The shop was wrong—not in a sinister way, but like it had been plucked from another century and forced into existence here.
The ceiling stretched impossibly high, though from the outside, the building had been small. Ancient chandeliers, their candles flickering without any visible wax, swayed overhead as if moved by an unseen breeze. The walls were lined with books older than time, their spines cracked and flaking, their titles in languages Swagger had never seen.
Objects filled the space, stacked on every available surface.
A Victorian-era mirror, its reflection just slightly off. A rusted typewriter with keys that moved on their own. A taxidermy owl, but its head turned to follow Swagger’s movement. A phonograph that played no music, only faint whispers.
It was alive, this place.
And it was watching him.
Swagger swallowed hard. His fingertips tingled—that same sensation he’d been feeling more and more lately. Like his atoms weren’t fully connected anymore.
And then, there was her.
The woman behind the counter.
She was old, but her presence was sharp. Her silver hair was pinned back neatly, her skin deep brown and unmarked by time. She wore a robe embroidered with symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking.
And she was smiling.
Like she’d been expecting him.
Swagger hesitated. His breath was still ragged from the chase, but he forced his voice out. “Uh… I—I just—”
“No need to explain,” she interrupted gently, her voice rich and smooth, like she was speaking from somewhere deeper than her throat. “Things find their way to you when they are meant to.”
Swagger blinked.
Then he noticed the object at his feet again.
A sphere. Small, no larger than a baseball. Black, but pulsing with an eerie blue glow. When he looked at it too long, he felt dizzy, like the floor beneath him was stretching into infinity.
He swallowed. “This yours?”
The woman’s smile widened. “No.”
Swagger frowned. “Then—”
“It’s yours.”
He took a step back. “I—uh—no. I don’t—”
Her head tilted slightly. “You’ve been unraveling, haven’t you?”
Cold fear licked his spine.
She knew.
Swagger’s fingers twitched. His three voices fought for space in his head.
"Take it. We don’t run from power." Black sneered.
"W-we don’t even know what it does," Wimpy whimpered.
"A fascinating object," Professor mused. "If it reacts to you, it is undeniably connected to your existence."
Swagger clenched his fists. His whole life, he’d been ignored. And now, this strange woman—this strange place—acted like he mattered.
The ball pulsed again.
And against every logical thought, Swagger reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched its surface—
The shop collapsed around him.
Chapter Six: The Weight of the Unseen
The shop still stood around him. The world hadn’t ended. But something had shifted.
The moment Swagger touched the sphere, an electric jolt ran through his veins—hot and cold at the same time. His vision blurred, doubled, then sharpened into something else.
And then, he saw them.
He had always seen them, but never like this.
The spirits.
They were everywhere.
Drifting between bookshelves. Peering from the corners of the shop. Some were hazy, their forms barely clinging together. Others were sharp, too sharp—jagged shadows with hollow eyes, whispering things he couldn’t hear.
They had always been there, lingering just beneath the surface of reality.
But now, they knew he saw them.
Swagger stumbled back, clutching the sphere tighter.
"Oh, hell no," Black spat, his voice sharp and mocking. "You really picked up some haunted shit? We ain’t got enough problems?"
"Th-this is bad," Wimpy stammered, voice quivering. "I-it’s not supposed to be this clear, r-right? We’re not supposed to see all of them?"
Professor hummed in fascination. "This is remarkable. The energy displacement suggests the sphere acts as a conduit between dimensional planes. The implications are—"
"Shut up, nerd," Black snapped. "We need to put this thing the fuck down."
Swagger gritted his teeth. The shop felt smaller now, the spirits pressing in, their presence a thick, suffocating fog.
The old woman was still watching him, unmoved, unbothered.
“You were always meant to see them,” she said. “But now, you can understand them.”
Swagger’s heart pounded. “I—I don’t want this.”
The woman chuckled. “You never had a choice.”
The sphere pulsed in his hands.
Swagger’s breath hitched as the spirits turned toward him.
And for the first time in his life…
They reached for him.
Chapter Seven: Unraveling
The spirits reached for Swagger. Not aimlessly. Not blindly. With purpose.
They knew him now.
The air in the shop turned thick—humid, suffocating. The shadows stretched unnaturally, curling toward him like fingers itching to pull him apart.
Swagger’s chest heaved. The sensation was back—the unraveling.
His fingers tingled, then his arms, his legs—like his body wasn’t entirely his anymore.
"Oh, this is some bullshit," Black growled. "They ain’t about to touch us, bro. We swing first!"
"Swing at what?!" Wimpy yelped. "They’re spirits! You can’t fight—y-you can’t punch—oh God, we’re gonna die—"
"Fascinating," Professor mused, calm despite the chaos. "They aren’t simply observing anymore. They recognize something within us. The sphere is synchronizing with—"
"SHUT UP!" Swagger gritted his teeth, his grip tightening around the glowing sphere.
The spirits were closer now—distorted faces, twisted limbs. Some looked human. Some didn’t.
One of them—the closest—stared at him with vacant, rotting eyes. It opened its mouth.
A sound leaked out.
Not words.
Pain.
A deep, vibrating wail that made Swagger’s stomach lurch. It ached—like the sound itself was trying to claw inside him.
He stumbled back, crashing into a shelf. Something fell—a rusted dagger, its blade stained black with age.
His skin crawled.
The old woman still hadn’t moved.
She was smiling.
“This is just the beginning,” she murmured.
Swagger gasped as his fingers burned. He looked down.
The sphere pulsed, its glow crawling up his veins, beneath his skin—inside him.
The unraveling grew worse.
Swagger saw his own arm flicker—his fingertips fading into transparency, then back again. His atoms were slipping, breaking apart like static on a dying screen.
"No, no, no, NO—" Wimpy was panicking. "We’re gonna disappear! We’re gonna DIE!"
"Not today," Black snarled. "MOVE!"
Swagger didn’t think.
He ran.
Shoving past shelves, knocking over relics, staggering toward the door—
His vision warped. The shop twisted around him, spiraling, bending, as if reality itself was cracking.
He reached for the doorknob—
And the moment his fingers touched it—
The world ripped apart.
Chapter Eight: Tearing Through Reality
The moment Swagger touched the doorknob, pain exploded through his body.
Not like a wound. Not like a bruise.
Like something was peeling him apart from the inside out.
He gasped, but no sound came out. His throat convulsed, his lungs collapsed—or maybe they were gone. He couldn’t tell anymore.
His skin rippled. His fingers stretched too long, then snapped back. His ribs shifted—as if his bones were deciding whether or not they belonged in this world.
The shop around him blurred, darkening at the edges.
Then—
A deep, violent pull.
Like something had hooked into his very atoms and was yanking him through a space too small to contain him.
His body screamed.
His nerves fired off like live wires. His muscles spasmed, twisted.
He felt his feet leave the ground, but there was no ground.
There was nothing.
Everything around him was stretching, stretching, stretching—his own body warping with it. He could see himself unraveling. Pieces of his flesh breaking into mist, his vision fracturing like a shattered mirror.
And the voices—
Not just his own.
Hundreds. Thousands. Whispering, laughing, screaming.
His three personalities fought to be heard.
"STOP THIS! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!" Wimpy wailed.
"Oh, so NOW you wanna be in control?" Black barked. "Too fuckin’ late, bruh."
"We are experiencing a violent dimensional shift," Professor said, too calm, too fascinated. "A forced transference of consciousness through—"
His voice split.
Everything did.
Swagger was breaking.
Then—
Silence.
For one long, agonizing second, there was nothing. No pain. No voices. No air.
Just a vast, empty void.
And then—
He landed.
Hard.
The impact sent shockwaves through his bones, his nerves screaming back to life. His body was whole again, but something was wrong.
The ground beneath him was wet.
Sticky.
And the air—
Heavy. Pulsing.
Swagger blinked, his vision swimming, adjusting—
And what he saw—
Was not his world.
Chapter Nine: The Awakening
Swagger lay still, his body aching in ways he didn’t have words for.
His skin buzzed—like static lived beneath it, crackling, shifting, adjusting.
The air around him was thick, pressing down like humidity but colder, heavier. It was breathing.
Or maybe it was just him.
Slowly, his senses returned.
The first thing he felt was the ground. It wasn’t concrete. It wasn’t dirt. It was soft, almost fleshy, pulsing faintly beneath him.
The second thing he noticed was the sound.
Not immediate. Not deafening. But a distant, low hum—like music heard through walls, layered with whispers, shifting voices, laughter that wasn’t quite laughter.
Then—
The smell.
Thick. Sweet. Rotten. Like burnt sugar and decayed flowers.
His fingers twitched. His body still worked.
He opened his eyes.
And saw the sky.
It wasn’t black. It wasn’t blue. It was moving.
A swirling, liquid darkness, shimmering with shifting colors—deep purples, violent reds, streaks of unnatural green and gold. The sky itself breathed, expanding, contracting, as if the entire world was alive.
Swagger swallowed hard. His throat was raw, his tongue heavy. He forced himself to sit up, his limbs trembling.
Then he saw the shapes.
Not people.
Not quite.
They moved through the shadows—drifting figures, some tall and elegant, others hunched and writhing. Their forms were wrong—some flickering, some stretching too long, some barely more than mist.
And then he realized—
They weren’t just shadows.
They were spirits.
Auras.
The same ones he had always seen in the real world. But here, they weren’t hidden beneath flesh.
Here, they were the world.
His stomach twisted.
Then—
Laughter.
Not near him. Not far either. Somewhere between—a layered, distorted sound, like multiple voices laughing at once.
Swagger’s pulse quickened.
His fingers clenched into the pulsing ground. His three voices stirred inside him.
"Okay," Black said, his tone sharp. "This some next-level hell, bruh."
"I—I d-don’t wanna be here," Wimpy stammered, panicked. "I wanna go home—I wanna wake up—"
"Fascinating," Professor murmured. "The atmospheric energy is… potent. The physics of this plane are entirely different from our own."
Swagger took a slow, shaky breath.
He had to move.
Had to figure out what the hell this place was.
Because one thing was certain—
He wasn’t alone.
......to be continued
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