Bradley's vision swam, then sharpened. A cold, metallic weight pressed into his palm, solid and real.
He blinked once, twice—then froze.
A black revolver gleamed in his hand, oily and dark in the weak light.
"What the fuck?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
The gun clattered to the wooden floorboards, the sound unnaturally loud. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the silence. His breath hitched, uneven.
What am I doing here? Why the hell was I holding that thing?
His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache behind his eyes. His thoughts were shards, scattered and sharp.
The old fucking woman—her hand, piercing my chest. I died. He clawed at his shirt, fingers searching for the hole, the memory of her hand sliding through his flesh and bone still vivid, slick and hot. Nothing. Just smooth, unbroken skin.
The image replayed behind his eyes: the woman's lunge, the flash of pain, the swallowing darkness. And then… this.
He turned slowly, taking in the room.
It was a box of polished wood—walls, floor, even the ceiling, all fitted together with a craftsman's precision. A small, square table stood in the center, a single candle drowning in its own wax beside a leaning tower of worn-out books. A narrow bed was shoved into the corner, its white sheets folded with a stark, military neatness. To his left, a heavy wardrobe loomed, a dark monolith in the half-light.
"Is this… heaven or something?" he muttered to the stillness.
Silence answered, thick and heavy. The air was dead. His other self—that chattering, cynical shadow in his mind—was gone. Truly gone.
"Yo, Brad, you in there?" He turned, half-expecting a smart-ass retort to echo in the silence.
"Are you playing a prank on me? Because if you are, it is not funny."
Nothing.
He got no reply.
Bradley frowned, the skin on his forehead pulling tight.
"Wasn't I supposed to be dead?"
He gave a hollow, rasping laugh. It sounded like gravel in his throat. "Yeah… I must be."
Unless…
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. The motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness through him. "Impossible. Reincarnation is a fantasy. A story."
He pushed himself to his feet. The wooden floor was icy against the bare soles of his feet, the grain rough and unforgiving.
A wave of vertigo slammed into him, forcing him to grab the edge of the table. The wood bit into his palm. His skull pounded, a rhythmic throb that felt like his brain was trying to crack the bone from the inside.
"What's… wrong with my body?" he gasped.
Everything felt off. His limbs were heavy, responding with a sluggish delay. His joints were unfamiliar hinges, his skin a ill-fitting suit. He was a prisoner in a stranger's flesh.
He stared at his hands, held them up in the dim light. They were small. Delicate. The fingers too slender, the palms too soft.
"Why are my hands so small?" he asked the unresponsive silence.
The candle flame guttered, and the shadows on the walls stretched, becoming long, clutching fingers.
He moved toward the bed, but his heel slipped on something slick and warm.
"What now?" he muttered, a fresh spike of annoyance cutting through the fog.
He snatched the candle, its hot wax dripping onto his thumb, and lowered it toward the floor. The flame trembled, throwing a jittery orange glow across the boards—illuminating a grayish-pink lump, wet and glistening, surrounded by a dark, sticky smear.
For a single, suspended heartbeat, his mind refused to assemble the pieces. Then, recognition dawned, cold and horrifying.
It was a piece of brain matter. A chunk of what had once been a thinking thing.
"Fucking hell!" he yelled, stumbling back. His stomach lurched. "Get this disgusting shit off me!"
He half-fell onto the bed, fighting the acidic rise in his throat. He grabbed a corner of the pristine white sheet and scrubbed at his foot, the fabric turning pink and red with frantic, furious strokes.
"So disgusting…" he hissed, throwing the soiled cloth away from him as if it were poisoned.
He exhaled, a shaky, ragged sound, and forced a weak, broken laugh. "Did I blow my brains out or something? I know I didn't do that."
He looked around the cramped, dark room, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that felt like his only anchor. "Great start, if this is heaven."
The room was still too dark. He squinted, and a faint silver glimmer caught his eye—a thin, vertical slit in the wall. He stepped closer, running his fingers over it. The surface was soft, like heavy silk. A hidden curtain. He pulled it gently to the side.
Moonlight exploded into the room, a silent, silver flood that bleached the darkness. Bradley shielded his eyes, waiting for them to adjust before slowly lowering his hand.
Outside, hanging in a sky of bruised velvet, were two moons.
Not illusions. Not reflections. Two distinct, colossal orbs of pale light. One was slightly larger, both glowing with a ghostly, ethereal brilliance, their light painting the world beneath in monochrome.
"What the hell…" he breathed, the words barely audible. "Two moons?"
Below them sprawled a city—a labyrinth of stone buildings, slender towers, and narrow, winding streets, all bathed in the twin moons' glow. The rooftops were thick with thatch, the windows tall and arched. It was medieval, ancient, pulled straight from the pages of a forgotten storybook.
His breath caught in his throat. He had tried to cling to denial, to the impossible notion that this was some twisted afterlife. But now—the gun, the brain, the body, the two fucking moons—the evidence was a tidal wave, crushing his skepticism.
This wasn't his world.
"I need a mirror," he muttered, a sharp edge of panic slicing into his voice.
This is like a goddamn reincarnation novel. This is exactly how it starts.
He turned, his gaze sweeping the room. A faint glint near the wardrobe snagged his attention—a mirror, its surface dusty, half-swallowed by shadow.
Each step toward it was a monumental effort. His legs were leaden, trembling.
When he finally stood before it, his reflection stole the air from his lungs.
A stranger stared back.
A boy. No older than thirteen. Dressed in black trousers and a simple white wool shirt, now stained with a rusty-brown splash of blood across the shoulders. His skin was pale as moonlight, almost translucent. A gash of dried blood, dark and flaking, streaked from his temple down his cheek. His eyes were pools of absolute black, deep and unblinking, framed by a wild, tangled mess of obsidian curls.
"Goddamn…" he breathed.
There was no more room for denial. He had reincarnated.
The boy's features were sharp, finely drawn, unnervingly symmetrical and perfect.
"Damn, I'm handsome as fuck," he said with a half-smile, the gesture feeling alien on this new face. He touched his cheek, the skin smooth and cool. Then a sudden, visceral thought struck him.
He fumbled with the drawstring of his trousers, yanked them open, and looked down. A wave of profound relief washed over him.
"Thank God I'm not a girl," he muttered, fastening them again. "Or I'd have used that revolver again for real."
His gaze flicked back to the weapon on the floor.
It made a grim sort of sense now—the mess near the chair, the blood on his forehead. The body's original owner had sat there, put the barrel in his mouth, or to his temple, and pulled the trigger.
"But damn, this thing is too big for his age." He said as he closed his pants, a crude but necessary confirmation of his identity.
He touched the dried blood on his temple again, feeling the smooth, unbroken skin beneath. No wound, no scar.
"It must've healed when I took over," he whispered to his reflection.
His stomach twisted again as his eyes drifted back to the squashed gray matter near the table. He forced his gaze away, locking it onto the mirror.
"So… I reincarnated," he said, the words quiet, final. "Just like in those fucking novels."
"Wasn't I supposed to get a headache showing me the memories of the previous owner of this body, just like in fantasy books?"
Unfortunately for him, there was no such thing.
"Great. I'm in an unknown world with no memories to guide me." He said bitterly.
He traced the line of his new jaw with trembling fingers.
No longer that ugly face from before…
A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips. That's one good thing, I guess. A silver lining in this fucking nightmare.
But the brief flicker of relief was snuffed out by a rising tide of anger. It heated his blood, tightened his chest.
"Why didn't I just die?" His voice trembled with the force of it. "Why can't I rest? Why can't I just be done?"
He clenched his fists, the small, pale knuckles turning bone-white.
"I wanted to see my parents again," he whispered, the confession raw and painful. "But instead… this." He gestured vaguely at his body, at the room, at the whole impossible situation.
He stood motionless for a long time, just staring at the boy in the mirror, this vessel he now inhabited.
Finally, he let out a long, weary sigh. "Complaining won't change anything. Might as well move on… unless—" his eyes drifted, magnetically, to the revolver, "—I want to end it. For good."
The thought was a poison, sweet and tempting. He walked over, his movements deliberate, and picked up the heavy, cold metal. He cracked the cylinder open. Four bullets stared back, brass casings gleaming in the candlelight. He snapped it shut.
He raised the revolver, his hand shaking violently, and pressed the cold, circular muzzle against the soft skin of his temple.
Hot puffs of steam ghosted from his lips in the chill air. His hand was a traitor, trembling so hard the metal chattered against his skull.
He closed his eyes.
His finger curled, finding the curve of the trigger.
His heart was a wild thing, beating itself to death against his ribs.
He could end it. Achieve the silence he craved with one ounce of pressure. It would be so easy. So final. But did he have the courage? The real, raw courage the boy before him had possessed?
He bit his lip until he tasted the coppery tang of blood. Abruptly, his hand fell, the revolver dropping from his numb fingers and clattering onto the floorboards.
He doubled over, panting heavily, warm sweat springing from every pore, running in rivulets down his face and back. He felt as if he'd run for miles, his body trembling with spent adrenaline.
He couldn't do it. He was still a coward, after all. Even in another world, in another life.
He had tried, once, in his past life—a stolen gun from a inattentive security guard at his home. He'd held it, just like this. And he had failed then, too.
"Guess some things don't change," he rasped, his breath still coming in gasps.
He exhaled deeply, a long, forced breath, trying to push the clinging darkness out of his mind. "Whoever—or whatever—crammed me into this body… it's got to be some godly son of a bitch. There's no way this shit happens naturally."
He was certain of it. After what he'd seen, what he'd experienced in his last life, the supernatural was no longer a theory. It was a fact. And in every fantasy story he'd ever read, it was always some unknowable entity pulling the strings, plucking some poor schmuck to be their hero.
He frowned at the thought. The main character. He didn't like it. Not one bit. He was not a hero. He would never be one.
He began to pace, the old wooden floor groaning under his unfamiliar weight.
"The real question is why? Why me?"
He imagined, for a fleeting, painful moment, his parents. Alive again somewhere else. Reincarnated, maybe happy.
"If I'm proof this can happen, then maybe… maybe they're out there too," he murmured to the empty room. "Unless it's the usual cliché fantasy bullshit—some bored god bringing me back to 'save the world' or some other self-serving prophecy."
He clicked his tongue in disgust. "Yeah, right. I'm no one's hero. So if you're listening, you almighty bastard, you unfathomable piece of shit—I'm not your puppet." His voice rose, sharp and clear in the silent room. "I'm not going to do your bidding."
The declaration hung in the air, a challenge thrown at an unseen audience. For a moment, he felt a fraction lighter.
He stepped over the congealing brain matter with a grimace of disgust and picked up the revolver again.
He flipped open the cylinder—four bullets left. It would have been three, if he'd had the guts.
He stared at the deadly little cylinders. "What drove you to do it, kid? Bullying? Loneliness? Just… tired of living?"
"At least you had the courage to do it," he said, the words bitter on his tongue. "Unlike me."
His gaze drifted to the table, to the stack of worn, leather-bound books. "Maybe there's something in there. A clue. About you. About this world."
He set the gun down, its weight a familiar comfort and a chilling reminder. He pulled the wooden chair closer and sat. The candlelight quivered, throwing his long, dancing shadow across the pages.
The first book he opened was a small journal, its leather cover soft with age. The pages crackled under his fingers.
Blank.
He opened another. Also blank.
He frowned, a deep line forming between his brows. He licked his finger and began flipping faster. The rustling of paper was the only sound.
"What kind of diary has this many empty pages?"
Finally, his thumb stopped. There was writing.
"Finally…" he muttered, leaning in close, the candle casting a pool of light onto the page.
The ink was faint, faded to a watery brown, but the script was neat, legible.
Name: Bradley
Age: 13
Family: Orphan
Status: Currently living in an orphanage
Bradley blinked. "Same name? That's… fucking creepy."
He chuckled, a dry, nervous sound. "An orphan, too. Guess irony really has it out for me."
He turned the page—and his blood ran cold.
The next entry was scrawled in a frantic, jagged handwriting. The words were pressed deep into the paper, the letters slanted and desperate, as if carved with the tip of a knife or a fingernail. In places, the ink was smeared with what looked disturbingly like dried blood, brown and flaky.
His voice was a trembling whisper. "What in the actual fuck was this kid on? What was happening to him?"
Bradley looked down at the revolver again, the faint, acrid scent of gunpowder still clinging to the air.
He didn't know what awaited him in this strange new world with its twin moons and stone cities. He didn't know whose tragic fate he had inherited, or what horrors had driven a thirteen-year-old boy to paint the walls with his own mind.
But one thing was certain, solid and cold as the gun in his hand.
This was his world now.