Minutes passed without movement.
Something in him went quiet. The fear that should've risen never came. Instead, an eerie calm settled across his thoughts—a cold acceptance that felt almost… borrowed.
He spoke softly, not to the room but to the reflection, his voice steady and detached.
"I guess you're dead, huh?"
The eyes in the mirror didn't respond.
But Michael felt it—the faint, overlapping pulse of two existences layered wrong, discordant, like two echoes trapped in the same throat.
Then the realisation sank in.
This body… this was the source he had sensed in the void.
The moment his consciousness brushed against it, the connection had dragged him here—tethering him to flesh that wasn't his, stitching him into a life that had already ended.
I can still feel it… that place. The two spheres. I'm still connected to all of it.
Fragments of memory surfaced—shards of a life not his own. They struck like cold sparks, vivid and irrefutable, forming a past that wasn't his, yet felt too real to deny.
And together, they whispered a truth he could no longer run from: This world was not his.
He looked down at his hands again, half expecting them to flicker out of existence. They didn't. They remained—trembling, solid, unfamiliar.
Was this real?A dream?A delusion?Some twisted afterlife wearing a child's skin?
If this wasn't a coma, if this wasn't a hallucination, then reality itself had split—And he had slipped through the crack.
The silence pressed against him, patient and suffocating, waiting for him to identify himself.
Finally, a whisper escaped the hollow of his chest.
"…Am I a ghost wearing someone else's flesh?"
The words trembled, barely real.
"A wraith…"
It felt absurd.Ridiculous.But it also felt true. Painfully, undeniably true.
Michael let out a shaky breath—half laugh, half surrender—and pressed his fingers against his temple.
If a flying pig appeared right now, he was certain he wouldn't even blink. Reality had already folded in ways far stranger.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the mirror. The face staring back wasn't his—not even remotely. He tilted his head, studying the stranger's features as though examining them long enough would make them familiar.
"I know this sounds narcissistic," he muttered, "but my new face is really handsome… better than the old one."
The humour fell flat, echoing weakly against the cold walls. It wasn't comfort—just denial wearing a smile.
His gaze drifted down to the blood-stained linen shirt clinging to his chest. The fabric had stiffened; the red had dried into a rusty brown.
He exhaled softly, expression unreadable.
"Guess I'll take a bath first."
...
The sound of running water filled the silence.
Steam curled through the room as hot water poured over him, washing away grime—and the faint stains of a death that wasn't his. The heat seeped into bone and muscle, easing tension he never realised he carried.
For a brief moment, he allowed his eyes to close. The world shrank to the rhythm of falling water and the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
But peace was never meant to last.
The memories—sharp even after eternity in the void—returned.
Michael's brow tightened.
"He wasn't human," he whispered, voice low, still unsure whether he believed it.
But there was one thing he no longer questioned:
The killer had done something impossible—something that bent reality itself.
The muzzle had flashed once, and for the briefest instant… time had folded backward, like a breath drawn and undone.
Yet what unsettled him most wasn't the manner of his death.
It was what happened after.
For a single, fragile heartbeat, the killer had faltered—a flicker, a fracture in his perfect calm.
And in that moment, Michael had seen it—his own ghostly reflection trembling in the killer's eyes.
Along with an emotion no murderer should've worn:
Pain. A sorrow that couldn't be shared.
A breath escaped him—half sigh, half defeated laugh. It echoed faintly, swallowed by the cascade of water.
similar
…
Michael's reflection shimmered faintly in the window's glass.
Ever since he entered this new body, a strange connection had formed—one that blurred the boundary between him and the one who lived here before. Fragments of memory surged into his mind, vivid and raw. The earliest moments were faint, buried too deep to reach, but from the age of five onward, everything aligned—every emotion, every scar, every quiet trace of who this person once was.
With that alignment came more than memory—instinct, habits, hope, fear, and pain. Two lives tangled until there was no clean line between them.
No longer him or the other.
They were one.
"You had a pretty rough life," he murmured. His voice was calm, but a quiet ache shaped every word.
A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips. "All that you were, and all that I was—neither exists anymore. You died alone, and I have no one who remembers me. What remains… is whatever we decide to become."
He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly—grounding himself in a truth both haunting and comforting. "But I'll remember you," he said softly. "I won't let your name fade into an empty house."
He paused, then continued, "I'll be the start of a new life." He stared at his reflection—eyes faintly glinting gold beneath green—and smiled.
"Maren Cross."
Not a bad name.
For a long while, Maren sat in silence, his mind quietly unravelling. The hum of the jet's engines blended with the weight of his thoughts as fragments of memory painted themselves into something coherent—something resembling a past.
After a while, he muttered, "Two possibilities." The words left his tongue dry, almost heavy.
Two answers. Both fragile. Both terrible.
The first: he was in another world—one that mirrored his own but had evolved differently, advancing far beyond the reach of human science and reason.
The second: this was Earth… changed, twisted, and unrecognisable. Perhaps centuries—or even millennia—had passed since the world he knew.
But everything he had seen so far leaned toward the first.
Races that should have belonged to myths—light elves, dark elves, dwarves, giants, frost giants, dragons, and spirits—walked the world. Each race held dominion over elements or concepts that defied human comprehension. This wasn't the Earth he remembered.
From the standard calendar the world followed, it was currently the year 2415—the 203rd year since the event known as The Convergence began: seven cracks in reality through which the different races, called Fantasia, appeared.
It was also the point in time when the planet was plunged into an eternal ice age, with the warmth of sunlight lost to the people.
Either way, one truth remained. The world he once knew was gone.
And whatever had taken its place, he no longer belonged to it.
But something else unsettled him far more deeply.
The phenomenon known as Awakening.
It was a universal concept across seven of the eight (including Earth) known realms—a mark of transcendence. The moment when a being surpassed the limits of their species, ascending to something greater.
The mark of Awakening manifested as a tattoo-like symbol, each one unique to its bearer. It glowed when resonating with a person's black essence—a form of energy drawn from the same force that governed the black sphere. Its opposite, white essence, was its counterpart.
When Maren sifted through the flood of memories, another realisation surfaced—the endless black void from before wasn't random. It had a name.
The Mindscape.
A realm within consciousness. A reflection of one's existence—where thoughts, memories, and emotions intertwine, forming the landscape of the soul.
But something about his Mindscape was wrong.
The pitch-black world of still water and silence didn't match what he had seen in the memories of the previous Maren.
For him, the Mindscape had been radiant and endless—a vast sky suspended above an infinite ocean, memories shimmering like reflections on its surface. Light touched everything, though no sun was ever visible. It was calm, whole, alive.
But Michael's—his—Mindscape had been dark. Silent. Empty.
Something had gone wrong.
Or worse… something had been erased.
Maren exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against his temple. "This is… too much," he muttered under his breath, voice strained. "God, my head feels like a watermelon being split in half."
He let out a long sigh and slouched into the seat, eyes flicking down to his wrist. A slim metallic bracelet hugged his skin, smooth and dark, faint neon lines tracing intricate geometric patterns along its surface.
He called softly, "Natla."
The bracelet's faint lines flared to life, projecting a small holographic sphere above his wrist. It hovered like a tiny star, flickering with soft light before a pleasant, clear voice spoke.
"Hello, Ma. Did you have a nice sleep?"
Maren blinked, then smiled faintly. "Yes, Natla. Thanks for asking."
"I was worried," the AI replied. "Your heartbeat, body temperature, and neural activity dropped drastically. I attempted to wake you multiple times. My calculations concluded you were dead."
Maren chuckled softly, leaning back further into the seat. "It was nothing. Just… pretending to play dead."
"Understood," Natla said after a short pause, her tone polite but uncertain.
He rolled his shoulders, still feeling the faint ache in his body. "How much longer until we reach the airport?"
The holographic sphere flickered as Natla answered, her tone shifting to something professional.
"Current speed: four hundred sixty miles per hour. Estimated time to destination: fifty minutes and twenty-four seconds. Arrival at Denver International Airport will be smooth and on schedule."
The steady hum of the engines blended with her voice, rhythmic and almost soothing.
Maren's eyelids felt heavy, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
"Wake me up ten minutes before landing," he murmured, words trailing off with a quiet yawn.
The holographic sphere pulsed once in acknowledgment.
"Understood."
The recliner sighed as it tilted back, soft leather embracing his form. Maren pressed his finger against the button, holding it there until the quiet hum of motors filled the stillness. Slowly, the leg supports lifted, rising to their maximum height.
The lights dimmed, fading into a tranquil dusk that turned the edges of the room to shadows. The faint hum of engines murmured from beyond the walls, mingling with the distant whisper of wind.
To Maren, everything had begun to feel like a dream without end—an echo stretched thin between two realities. Deep down, he knew there would be no waking from it, and he had long made peace with that truth.
This body, this borrowed existence, was his reality now—haunted by the memories of someone who no longer was.
And yet, for the first time in what felt like an eternity—after endless wakefulness in that silent void—he felt the faint warmth of stillness settle over him.
His thoughts quieted. His breath slowed.
And Maren drifted into a long-forgotten sensation.
...
Through the falling snow, an open aircraft hangar stood at the far edge of the airport—one of several private bays reserved for VIP rentals and executive charters. Inside, fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the polished concrete and the faint steam rising from the floor where the snow melted in thin streaks.
A black limousine waited near the centre, its engine still running, exhaust smoke curling in soft grey fog—a contrast to the falling white snow—while the distant rumble of turbines, some landing, others taking off, hummed through the vast, empty lot.
"Slurp."
Inside the sleek, climate-controlled limousine, a man sat in the passenger seat, leaning backward, steam curling from the coffee cup in his hand. He reclined his chair as he propped his legs over the dashboard.
"Turn up the heater," Bael ordered, his tone full of pride—the bossy type with an uncaring attitude.
The driver hesitated for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before he muttered, "Yes, sir." He adjusted the controls, eyes on the frozen road.
Noticing the cheerful expression on the man's face—a contrast to what one would expect from someone behaving so stuck up—the driver hesitated. The thought lingered, but curiosity won over caution, and before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
"Sir, if you don't mind me asking… what seems to have you in such a good mood?"
Bael's gaze shifted for the briefest moment before returning to his coffee. His brows furrowed as he realised only two sips remained, yet a faint smirk tugged at his lips as he swirled the rest in a slow, smooth rotation.
Savouring the warmth from the remaining coffee, he placed the cup in the door's holder. His gaze turned toward the frost-blurred window, catching the reflection of his own tired eyes staring back.
"Let's just say," he murmured, his voice tired but carrying relief and excitement, "today marks the end of a very… very long job."