Darkness wasn't empty.
It pressed.
Something viscous wrapped around him—cold, heavy, alive in a way that had no pulse. It filled his mouth, his nose, forced itself into his lungs. He tried to breathe and failed. His body reacted before thought, thrashing instinctively, but the substance only tightened, dragging him deeper.
Not again.
The sensation was wrong. Pain without pain. Suffocation without air. The darkness wasn't crushing him—it was holding him.
His mind screamed.
And then—
He broke the surface.
Water exploded out of his lungs as he jerked upright, choking violently. His hands slammed against solid ground, fingers scraping over stone slick with moisture. He coughed again and again, each breath tearing through his chest like fire, as if his body was relearning a forgotten skill.
Air.
He sucked it in greedily, ragged and uneven, his vision swimming.
The world tilted but did not collapse.
That alone felt strange.
He stayed on his knees, one hand pressed flat against the floor, the other clawing at his throat as if expecting restraints to still be there. They weren't.
No ropes.
No plank.
No concrete ceiling.
Just silence—thick, abandoned silence—broken only by the slow drip of water somewhere nearby.
When his breathing finally steadied, he opened his eyes fully.
The place was… ruined.
A wide room stretched around him, its walls cracked and discolored, old stone exposed beneath peeling layers of something that might once have been plaster. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling above, some sagging, some broken entirely. Faint light filtered in from high, narrow openings—windows, maybe—clouded with grime but still letting the outside world exist.
Dust hung in the air like it had weight.
The smell hit him next: damp wood, mold, and the unmistakable scent of life. Not decay—growth. Moss crawled along the edges of the walls. Thin vines crept through fractures in the stone, reaching inward as if curious.
This place was abandoned.
But it wasn't dead.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled, unfamiliar in a way that made his balance feel slightly off. He took a step. Then another.
No immediate pain.
No alarms.
That was unsettling.
His gaze drifted until it caught on something reflective near the far wall.
A mirror.
Or what remained of one.
The frame was ornate but damaged, its edges chipped, one corner cracked clean through. The glass itself was fractured, spiderweb lines radiating from an impact point near the center—but enough remained intact to show a face.
He approached it.
Each step felt heavier, like his instincts were warning him not to look.
He stopped inches away.
The person staring back at him was a stranger.
Pale skin, almost unnaturally so, contrasted sharply against the dark shadows beneath sharp eyes. His hair was white—not gray, not silver—white like ash or fresh snow, messy and uneven, strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Dark irises stared back at him, not wide with fear, not confused.
Alert.
Cold.
Too calm for someone who had just drowned.
His face was lean, sharper than he remembered—if remembered was even the right word. High cheekbones. A straight nose. Lips set naturally into a neutral line that looked one breath away from indifference.
No scars.
No interrogation marks.
No evidence of the life that had ended.
He raised a hand.
The reflection copied him perfectly.
For a moment, something twisted in his chest—not panic, not grief, but a hollow recognition.
This body is not mine.
The thought arrived fully formed, unquestioned.
Behind it came another realization, heavier and quieter.
I'm alive.
The room creaked softly, wood settling, vines rustling as if disturbed by his presence. Outside, something distant called—a sound unfamiliar, layered, not quite animal.
He lowered his hand.
The reflection did the same.
Whatever this place was… whatever this body was…
This was not the Authority's world.
And for the first time, there were no orders waiting for him.