EPILOGUE I: THE ZOO

It was a typical chaotic morning at school, the sound of children running through the hallways, lockers slamming shut, and the bustling noise of another day unfolding. But for me, that morning was different. At eleven years old, I had a fire in me that few understood—an unrelenting desire to get to P.E. class on time. It wasn’t just another class—it was my escape, my refuge. P.E. was the one hour in the day where I could stretch my legs, feel the rush of adrenaline, and forget everything else.

I had been running late. The bell had already rung, and I was sprinting down the hallway, my breath heavy in my chest. I could see the door to the gym at the end of the hallway, the bright fluorescent lights beyond it beckoning me. It was within reach. I pushed myself harder, every step bringing me closer. But just as I reached the door, something changed.

There, standing between me and the class, was Kevin—a kid who had always rubbed me the wrong way. With a mischievous grin on his face, he stepped forward and slammed the door shut with a force that echoed in the empty hallway.

I stopped short, my heart pounding in my chest. The gym, my sanctuary, was just beyond that door. I wasn’t going to let some punk prevent me from getting there. Not today.

Kevin’s laugh echoed in the hallway, his mocking tone rising in volume as he watched me.

“You’re not getting in,” he sneered, his voice taunting, daring me to back down.

But I didn’t. My mind locked onto one thought: I’m getting in there. No matter what it took.

Without thinking, I planted my foot against the glass door, the cool, smooth surface of it taunting me like an obstacle in my path. I kicked it, hard. Once. Twice. The impact reverberated up my leg, the glass rattling violently in its frame. The sound of it cracking sent a rush of adrenaline through me. A wild, primal force surged in my veins, and before I even realized what I was doing, I kicked again. And again.

The final kick—brutal and unstoppable—sent the glass flying in all directions. Shards rained down on the floor as the door splintered, but the force of it all drove my foot deeper into the frame.

And then, I felt it.

A sharp pain shot up my leg, and I looked down in horror as blood began pouring out of a deep gash in my calf. My foot had struck one of the glass shards, and it had driven itself deep into my flesh.

Blood. Everywhere.

Kevin’s face went pale as he saw the blood oozing from my leg. His eyes went wide in terror. He stood there frozen for a moment, and then, like a coward, he turned and ran, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The gym, the game, the sense of victory—nothing mattered more in that moment. Despite the blood pouring from my leg, I straightened up and took a step forward.

I walked, limping, my vision blurry as I passed the older kids in the hallway. They looked at me, frozen in shock, some recoiling in fear. Their eyes were wide as they saw the blood oozing from my leg, a wound so severe it was impossible to ignore. I could feel their stares, their whispers, but I didn’t care.

I made my way to the nurse’s office, each step sending a new wave of pain through me. The nurse looked up as I entered, her face turning ashen when she saw the extent of the injury. Her hands shook as she scrambled for supplies, but she quickly realized there was nothing in her small office that could help with this kind of wound.

In a panic, she called for help. An ambulance arrived soon after, the paramedics rushing me into the emergency room. The pain was overwhelming now, but I tried to stay calm as they wheeled me through the sterile hallways of the hospital.

In the ER, the doctors worked quickly, numbing my leg before they began the slow, meticulous process of removing the glass fragments from my leg. It felt like hours, though I couldn’t say how long it had been. Each fragment they removed was followed by another wave of pain, but I gritted my teeth, refusing to cry out.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they stitched me up—twelve stitches, the doctor said. Twelve. It could have been more, or worse—an artery could have been hit. The doctor looked at me with a mix of awe and concern.

“You’re lucky,” he said softly, his voice filled with the kind of quiet respect that only comes from seeing someone survive something they shouldn’t have. “This could have been much worse.”

As I lay there, my leg stitched up and the worst of the pain behind me, I realized something: I had made it. Despite the blood, the pain, and the fear, I had gotten in. I had overcome the obstacle.

In that moment, I had faced fear head-on and come out victorious.

And though the road ahead was long and filled with recovery, the feeling of power—real, unyielding power—was something I would carry with me forever.

That day, as I lay in the hospital bed, recovering from the mess I had made of the glass door, a realization started to settle in. The pain in my leg was nothing compared to the realization that I had made a critical mistake—the mistake of letting others see me as weak. The lesson was harsh, but it was one I would carry with me for the rest of my life: strength wasn’t just a matter of lifting weights or mastering physical endurance. It was about commanding respect—something I had to earn, something I had to force upon others.

I had arrived at a new school, a place where everything was unfamiliar. I had to fit in, but I quickly realized it wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. I wasn’t just the new kid; I was the kid who was different. My accent, my background, the way I dressed—all of it made me a target. The others didn’t understand me, didn’t want to. I wasn’t one of them. I was an outsider. The first few months were rough. The group dynamics were already set, and I wasn’t part of the pack. I could feel their eyes on me, their whispers when I walked through the halls.

And then, Kevin’s face flashed in my mind—the look of fear and awe when I had kicked down that door. That was when I understood. In this world, there were predators, and there were prey. I was going to make sure I was never prey again.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I knew it: I had to become a physical authority if I was going to survive here. It wasn’t just about being tough; it was about showing that I wasn’t someone to be messed with. My mind raced back to those moments of pure adrenaline, that raw force that surged through me when I kicked the door down. If I could summon that energy in moments of weakness, I could start using it to my advantage.

For the next few years, I worked quietly. The gym became my temple, a place where I could escape the jeers and whispers. I wasn’t there to make friends. I wasn’t there to impress anyone. I was there to get stronger, to forge a body that would demand respect, and most importantly, to build the kind of power that would never leave me vulnerable again.

I pushed through every session, my body screaming for mercy as I lifted, ran, and pushed myself beyond what I thought I could handle. And every day, I grew.

I had learned the importance of being unnoticed. The library became my sanctuary, where I could lose myself in the pages of books and online worlds. In the real world, I was a ghost. But in Runescape and World of Warcraft, I was a warrior—a hero. These games became more than just an escape; they were my refuge. They were a place where I could be someone powerful, someone who commanded respect and forged their own destiny.

In the game, I built a network of friends, people who saw me for who I was, not where I came from or what I looked like. Azeroth didn’t care about my accent, my culture, or my past. It only cared about what I could contribute to the fight. In a way, that became my escape. It was where I could exist without the weight of the world pressing down on me.

But then, after three long years in what I’d come to call “The Zoo,” everything changed. I transferred to an international school—a place with kids from all over the world. The air was different there. There was no pack, no hierarchy like at my old school. Instead, there were individuals. The pressure to fit in wasn’t the same, and for the first time, I felt like I could breathe. But I still carried that instinct inside me, the one I had honed at “The Zoo”—the instinct to survive, to fit in by earning respect and power, not through compromise, but through strength.

At the international school, I stumbled a bit at first. I didn’t quite know how to navigate this new world, where cultures collided and people’s expectations weren’t so easily defined. But I adapted, as I always did. I learned to speak their language—literally and figuratively—and to blend in, but I never lost my edge. I kept training, kept pushing my body to new limits, and in turn, my confidence grew.

I was no longer the outsider, the kid from a different world. I was someone who could stand tall and command attention, not because I shouted, but because I had earned the right to be noticed. My strength—physical, mental, and emotional—had become my shield. And, over time, I found that my power wasn’t in blending in; it was in standing out, in showing the world that I was a force to be reckoned with.

Survival had taught me more than any textbook ever could. It had taught me that in order to make it in this world, you couldn’t just wait for respect to come to you. You had to take it. You had to make yourself undeniable. And with that, my journey toward power—real, unyielding power—had only just begun.