Avi

People don’t usually ask about me. Most just see the bandage and avert their gaze. Like blindness might be catching. Or worse—they pity me. I can hear it in their voice. Feel it in their silences. So if you really want to know who I am… you’d better be ready for the ugly parts too.

I’m not gentle. I wasn’t raised that way. I speak too bluntly and take too long to trust. I’ve got the patience of a rusted knife and the temper of someone who’s been betrayed one too many times. But I don’t lie. Not unless it’s to protect someone else. And I don’t make promises unless I know I’ll bleed to keep them.

I used to be good with my hands. Metalwork, mostly—small gears, clockwork, tools, anything mechanical that needed fixing or building. The world made more sense when it was in parts and pieces. Machines don’t pretend. They don’t whisper behind your back. They either work, or they don’t. You fix them, or you don’t. Clean. Honest.

That’s one of the things I hate about people. The dishonesty. The smiling while plotting. The praise laced with condescension. I’ve had enough of that to last me a few lifetimes.

Likes? Hmph. I like rain when I’m indoors. Fire when it crackles. The quiet hum of something turning under my fingertips. I like the smell of oil and steel. The weight of a good tool in my hand. I used to love sketching blueprints in the middle of the night—just me, candlelight, and the sound of my own breath.

And music. Yeah… I never told anyone that. But music—especially string instruments—gets to me. There’s a kind of clarity in sound that no blurry image could ever replace. Now that the world’s dimming around me, I hold onto that like a lifeline.

I hate crowds. Hate being touched without warning. I hate being watched, even if most people don’t think I can tell when they’re staring. I can. I feel it. Like heat on the back of my neck. I hate bright light now too—too harsh, too blinding. I flinch instinctively even though I can barely see it.

Quirks? I count steps. I memorize layouts. I’ll touch every surface in a room until I know it like the back of my hand. If I stay in one place long enough, I can move through it with my eyes closed. I chew the inside of my cheek when I’m thinking, and I’ve got a bad habit of keeping sharp objects within arm’s reach—even in sleep. Old habits die hard.

You want my story? Fine. I grew up in a place where softness got you nothing. My father was a forger—metal, not paper. Taught me everything I know about shaping steel. He wasn’t cruel, just… carved from stone. Ma died early. I got used to silence before I ever learned to fill it.

I worked in the back of a weaponsmith’s shop by fifteen. Built knives. Then modified them. Got noticed. Government type came around when I was seventeen. Offered me a deal—design, prototype, test. I took it. Thought I could use the money to start something of my own.

Should’ve known better.

The tests weren’t for tools. They were for control. Surveillance tech. Eye-tracking, sensory overload devices. I built half a dozen things I regret before I pulled out. Thought I could walk away. But someone made sure I paid for it.

One night, while I was closing shop, they hit me. Not to kill—just to break. Something was sprayed in my eyes. A compound. Targeted my optic nerves. I didn’t even know what was happening until the light started hurting, until the dark didn’t feel like sleep anymore—it felt like truth.

They called it a “slow fall.” Said I’d be blind by the end of the year. No cure. No undoing. My work was classified. My name? Erased from the record.

So now I drift. Keep my head down. Fix what I can with what little sight I’ve got left. People bring me broken things and leave without asking questions. I like it that way.

But… I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss being seen.

Not pitied. Not feared.

Just… seen.

Even if it’s through a blur. Even if it’s the last thing I ever remember.