Paris, February 10, 2027 — 10:15 a.m.
Rain Cole woke on the edge of a scream.
Not from a nightmare—
but from something worse.
A memory carved in fire. Etched in bone. Refusing to let go.
His breath came ragged, chest rising like he'd surfaced from deep water.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was.
The walls... the air... the stale scent of yesterday's life—
all felt eerily familiar, yet off by a fraction, like a painting recreated by an imposter.
His fingers shot to his neck.
No blood. No wound.
But the phantom of cold steel remained.
Sharp. Relentless.
He whispered to the silence:
"I was there. I felt the blade. I died."
And yet—
he was here.
Alive. Breathing.
The world around him remained defiantly real.
Cruel in its normalcy.
Then—
Footsteps. Small. Fast. Alive.
"Daddy!!"
Noelle.
That laugh. Untamed. Joyful.
He barely caught her in time, scooping her up like something fragile, fleeting—
as if she might vanish mid-hug, dissolve into vapor.
And just like that, Lima appeared in the hallway—smiling.
Sunlight kissed her features. She looked so vividly alive it hurt.
"You planning to let that alarm ring until next year?"
Rain stared, throat tight.
She was supposed to be gone. A corpse. A cold memory.
But here she was. Breathing. Speaking.
Real in a way that made him question his sanity.
Something inside him screamed:
"This isn't possible."
Outside the window, Paris bloomed as always.
Same stone facades. Same blur of horns, wet pavement, and rushing crowds.
But it felt like watching a city through someone else's dream.
Everything looked normal.
Everything felt wrong.
Then—impact.
A kid. Shaggy hair. Oversized coat. Camera hanging like a noose of truth.
"Rain Cole? The dead cop? The one who came back?"
Rain blinked.
"Nico," the boy said quickly. "Freelance journalist. Between gigs. Mildly unstable. Obsessed with death."
"Stay away from me."
"Too late. We're already in the story."
They ended up in a grimy back-alley café, the kind that never fully woke up.
The air smelled like old smoke, spilled whiskey, and burned conversations.
Nico leaned in, voice low.
Reverent. Like a priest at the altar of something unspeakable.
"You died. And now you're here. That doesn't happen. Except in legends."
Rain gripped his cup too tight. The ceramic whined in protest.
"You're imagining things."
"Maybe. But I heard the scream too."
The words froze Rain in place.
Not because of what was said—
but how.
He knew.
A vibration cut through the moment.
Rain's phone buzzed on the table.
No name. No number.
Just a message, etched in digital static:
"96 hours. Change everything... or die again."
His hand trembled. The screen blurred.
Something inside his chest—deep and ancient—began to thud like a war drum.
Nico sipped his coffee, watching him like a man reading a prophecy.
"Is this the part where the plot thickens?"
"No," Rain said hollowly.
"The plot ended. This... this is the rewrite."
"You think you can change what's already written?"
"I'm alive, aren't I?"
"And if you're not?"
Nico smiled, almost kindly.
"Then let's at least die with better lines."
Elsewhere in Paris...
For seventeen seconds,
a security camera blinked into nothing.
Just static. Silence.
At exactly 10:18 a.m.,
the first body was found—
a man strung up with an electrical wire, shaped like a broken heart.
But that wasn't the detail that mattered.
In the haze of a nearby street, half-hidden by morning fog,
stood a figure.
Still.
Faceless.
Smiling faintly as he stared at Rain's photo on his phone.
Then he typed:
"Tick tock. 96 hours."