Chapter 370: Dimmed Light
Micah suddenly staggered sideways and collided with the shoulder of a passerby. His steps faltered, his vision a blur of lights and shapes.
He mumbled something that vaguely resembled an apology and kept walking without even lifting his head to look.
Then, out of nowhere, a rough hand grasped his shoulder tightly. The sudden pressure made Micah flinch, his body jerking back as if he had been jolted awake from a bad dream. He tilted his head, eyes squinting. "Ha?" His voice was dazed, soft, as if his mind hadn’t caught up to what was happening.
"Are your eyes for decoration?" the man snapped. His voice was coarse, full of irritation. The smell of alcohol clung to him, and his shirt bore a large wet stain where a drink had clearly splashed.
Micah blinked hard, struggling to focus.
"Sorry..." he slurred, noticing the stain. His apology fell flat and lifeless.
The man’s nostrils flared. He looked down at his ruined shirt, his expression twisting in disgust. "Fucking my luck. A drunkard!" he lashed out.
Micah’s stomach clenched violently, a raw throb tearing through his abdomen. The alcohol was biting into his ulcer like acid, making his inside churn and twist.
He groaned loudly.
The sound enraged the stranger further. To him, Micah’s pained groan seemed like a mock sneer. His eyes darkened as anger overtook reason.
"You piece of shit!" he snarled, and with swift motion, he grabbed Micah’s collar in both fists, yanking him forward with brute force.
Micah’s head bobbed from the motion. He took the man’s arms, trying to hold back his vomiting. "Let go..." he muttered breathlessly, his stomach lurching dangerously.
But the man only shook him harder, spitting as he shouted, demanding compensation for the ruined shirt.
The crowd nearby began to stir, voices rising with interest. A commotion was starting to occur.
Micah’s patience, thin and frayed, snapped. His vision pulsed red, his head throbbing. He sucked in a sharp breath, his expression twisting as he raised his foot. He kicked the man’s abdomen.
The impact landed, but weakly, nothing compared to the strength he had shown earlier that night when sober. His drunken body betrayed him, his limbs sluggish, his balance unstable.
The man staggered back half a step, then lost it completely. His expression turned into unrestrained fury. With a growled yell, he threw a punch.
The fist connected with Micah’s cheek, the sharp crack echoing faintly in the night air. His head snapped to the side, and pain shot into his skull.
Micah staggered, raising his arms, trying to defend himself. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated, every swing of his arm delayed by his blurred vision and alcohol clouded reflexes. Still, he could land his strikes once or twice.
Around them, the crowd didn’t intervene. On the contrary, laughter rang out, whistles pierced the air, and the glow of the phone screen lifted as strangers began recording. Their eyes shone with entertainment, not concern. Micah was nothing but a spectacle, a drunk fool brawling on the street.
The man’s fists and kicks kept coming, one after another. Micah absorbed them all, his body jerking back, his breath growing shallower with each hit. He might have held his own until the man’s friends stepped in.
And not with fists or kicks, but rather a stick. A sudden blow from a wooden stick slammed into his side, knocking the breath out of him, completely disabling him.
The rest blurred into fists, boots, and the intense pain. They ganged up on him, beating him into a pulp.
Eventually, the man shoved him hard aside like discarded trash, barking a series of curses as he left with his friends.
Micah stumbled, his back slamming against a wall. His knees gave out, and he slid down until he was sitting on the cold pavement, his body trembling, his cheek swollen and throbbing. He coughed, the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth, and his hand shot up instinctively to cover his lips. His fingers came away stained red.
And then he chuckled, hissing from the pain. His hand wiped blood from his lips.
How laughable. He was just a flimsy boy, weak and fragile. Wanting to save Darcy? Wanting to stand against those four male leads? What a joke.
He had overestimated himself. Always had.
Wasn’t he, in the book, nothing more than a minor villain? Someone who fought tooth and nail only to end up abandoned, discarded in dumps? Why had he convinced himself he could be different? That knowing the truth, knowing the future, meant shit.
Without Ramsy’s family power, without Clyde, without money, he was as pathetic as the one described in the book.
At least in the book, the fake heir had ignorance. Blissful ignorance. He didn’t know what would happen in the future, enjoying his life before the disaster struck.
Now... Micah knew. Every day was a ticking clock, living with panic attacks left and right, a pathetic, ruined stomach, and a mind so fragile it shattered the moment he spotted the male leads.
Haha... Micah laughed bitterly. Then he hissed again. Every part of his body hurt, especially his ribs.
He lifted his gaze, unfocused eyes tracing the silhouettes moving past him. People walked by, some slowing just enough to glance at him with faint disdain, others sneering, some averting their eyes as though he were a stain on the pavement.
Micah closed his eyes slowly, shutting them all out. He didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore how people saw him. This was nothing. This was a glimpse of what the future would look like. When the truth came out, when the switch at birth was revealed, people would look at him just like that. With contempt. With satisfaction of his fall.
The fake heir. The imposter. The Ramsy family’s trash.
He should get used to it.
Clyde couldn’t change everything. He couldn’t shield him every time. Not from this. The case of the switch at birth was untouchable... Nobody could help him with that. He should just face it.
His breath grew shallower, each inhale shaky, each exhale weaker... His body slumped further against the wall, his bloodied hand slipping from his mouth to rest limply on his lap. The light in his eyes dimmed with every passing second.