A youth of eighteen years of age, aloof and clueless, walked home from his part-time job. He had just dropped out of school some few weeks past.

Raindrops started to fall from the sky and shattered against concrete and asphalt.

He had no umbrella to hide himself from the wet wrath of nature. The youth's canvas shoes eventually became soaked through. He thanked himself that his windbreaker was water resistant, and that it had a hood to cover his long, unkempt, and almost black, hair.

He was called Kenneth. That was the name his parents gave him. The few people who knew his name called him Ken. He liked his name. It was the only thing his parents left to him. Not that he cared for them. His father died foolishly in a bar fight and his mother wasn't sober, or hardly even conscious, for the last few years of her life.

His mother's death caused Ken to become a recluse soon after, but that chapter of his life was closed and behind him. He was incredibly hopeful for the future, for the years to come. Fantasies of freedom, careers, and even love pervaded his mind.

He had no friends. He hardly had acquaintances, people he'd met on his job. Nobody in his past cared enough to reach out to him, and there was sure to be nobody in his future either. And yet, he didn't care. All he could ever do was dream.

The gathered water splashed under Ken's patchy shoes. He walked with confidence and purpose. He was on a quest. A crusade, even. His goal was noble and challenging. He was going to go to a grocery store, purchase ingredients, and prepare his own meal for once. It was something he had dreamed of doing, and it was something finally in reach. The day before, his landlord informed him that his gas was fixed, after months of no luck. Ken was planning on making a basic meatloaf, similar to how his late grandfather had taught him to.

But the Gods had other plans.