[[ Will edit this later on but for now here ya go— ]]

Fusion: the process of joining two separate things together to create something new. Dylan loved fusions. Whether it be in his cooking or his studies, producing something new fascinated him. He was a nerd in all its definitions. A video gaming geek with a mouth dripping sarcasm. A geek with a particular fascinated with the fusion of science and art. His inspiration, Leonardo da Vinci, had taught him several things through his published works and Dylan hoped to leave a similar impact on the world such as this man had.

And then things took a 180° turn. When his mom was diagnosed with cancer — his only family, as he was a single child with a single mom — his life started crumbling. Grades soon plummeted, sleep was a rare miracle and the stench of sickness was ubiquitous at home. It was hell. More than for him, but for his mom. Dylan loathed seeing her in so much pain whilst trying to put up a façade. As the months passed by, her condition worsened, but what could he do? His mom had been the only source of income; he was still a university student. Things were looking bleaker than bleak.

And then it struck him — his fusion.

His artwork was like nothing ever seen before. At first Dylan started out on small-scale garage sales: he painted small canvases, portraits, and the occasional wall-paintings. But as his recognition grew, so did the sale of his bigger, much better paintings. Things were looking up. Dylan came home one night with a bagful of money, a blinding smile on his face. Which wilted in an instant at the sight of his mother. Frail, stooping and pale, she wasn't going to last long at this rate. And despite all his hard work, the money was still not sufficient. 

A few weeks went by, with no answer for his mother's treatments funds. She was getting her medication thanks to the income generated by Dylan's artwork, but it was only slowing the cancer, not eradicating it. He needed something more.

The something more came in the form of a very illegal idea. 

Dylan considered himself a play-by-the-law kid, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The idea struck him in his Chemistry lecture — what if he made his own drugs? Even if he was Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes, Dylan knew people who could help.. "expand" his business. Within a few days, there was already a small lab set up in his basement. And this is where his fortune began. 

Dylan's product was so pure, so effective, that his meagre supply didn't last in the market for long. People wanted more. Startled but relieved by this change, he managed to arrange for more materials and soon enough, his basement was a drug factory. Yet, his advertising wasn't enough. He needed more customers. How did he accomplish this? Fusion. Why bother with word-of-mouth advertisements, when you can paint your very own? Of course, Dylan wasn't as stupid as to paint his drugs on a canvas and put a blaring "COME GET YOUR VERY OWN METH NOW" on it. Instead, he painted the feelings and emotions one feels when getting high on his drugs. It was ingenious, and people loved it. Soon Dylan's meth was the hot-topic of the city.

With fame, however, comes a lot of obstacles. Dylan's came in the form of a gang who were running low on dough. Their withdrawal symptoms were worsening, and they needed some free hits. Of course, Dylan wasn't as willing to let someone have his product for free; the money was constantly being used for his mother's treatment. Finally things were progressing on her side, and he wasn't willing to risk that for a handful of addicts. 

Sober or not, these men were angered. Rage-blinded, they drew out a plan to cause Dylan some "tiny bit of pain."

One day, a doctor approaches Dylan, offering a treatment for his mother which will completely eliminate her cancer. Delighted beyond belief, he accepted and his mother was brought to a lesser-known hospital for her treatment. Of course, by the time Dylan figured out what was going on, it was too late. His mother's cold, lifeless body resting on a broken bed in a dimly lit room was the last thing he remembered of that night.

That night always came to him in flashes: him weeping over his mother's empty body; a pool of crimson blood surrounding him, mangled bodies sprawled across the floor; his lips curled into a smile as he limb-by-limb ripped apart the gang's leader; blue-and-red lights flashing behind him as he slipped into the shadows, never return to the one place he once called home.