Sunlight slipped through the gap in the curtain, landing on the face of a man lying in bed. He had brown hair and was shirtless, revealing his athletic build.
The morning light invaded the room in soft beams, lazily dancing through the half-open curtain. A faint scent of old wood and dust lingered in the air, mixed with the forgotten fragrance of some soap used days ago. The man lying in bed didn't move, as if the warmth of the sun were just another nuisance among many.
He woke up every day, but didn't live any of them.
His body, though marked by the routine of someone disciplined, seemed to weigh more than it should. When he finally blinked, the light made him squint, and the world returned in layers: the ceiling, the dull walls, the distant sound of cars outside. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He got up like someone completing a task, moving slowly, without hurry—without a reason to have it. The bathroom mirror stared back at him with the same indifference as always. He brushed his teeth mechanically, washed his face as if trying to erase a tiredness that never left, and stepped into the shower.
The hot water ran down his back as if carrying part of the weight of his mind. But it didn't wash away the emptiness.
He dressed in the same type of clothes as always. Dark jeans, gray t-shirt. Nothing special. A simple coffee in the kitchen, a frying pan with eggs, bread toasting. The news played on the television, talking about politics, violence, economy. All the same.
He brought a piece of toast to his mouth, chewing slowly, when—knock knock.
A dry, precise knock on the door.
He froze. Blinked, still holding the toast. For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Strange… no one usually knocks here at this hour.
Everything went silent. Even the cars stopped passing by. As if the world knew what was coming.
Curious, Arthur got up and set the food aside, leaving the still-warm plate on the table. The sound of the television echoed in the background, distorted and distant, as if the world around him had suddenly been suspended. He walked toward the door, each step echoing through the small apartment.
He turned the knob.
As soon as the door opened, there was no time to react—a brutal punch struck his face, the dry crack of bone breaking the morning silence. Arthur fell backward, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, his nose already dripping hot red. Dazed, he brought his hand to his face, ready to curse, but the words died in his throat when he saw who was in front of him.
His eyes widened. A chill ran down his spine.
It was Alonso. The same man who led the gang Arthur had fled from. A face he had buried with the past—or at least, tried to bury. Behind him, other familiar faces appeared, distorted by time, brutal thugs with empty eyes.
"What the…?" he tried to say, but there was no space for words.
Another punch. And another. A relentless flurry of blows threw him to the floor like a rag doll. Each impact made his world spin, his vision fill with shadows. He felt ribs crack, teeth loosen, his own body failing to defend itself. The floor was cold. The voices around him muffled, as if underwater.
Alonso grabbed him by the bloodied hair and lifted him.
"You thought you could run without punishment?"—his voice was a snarl laced with hate. "Thought you could fake your death and escape like nothing happened? Or that you could disappear with my money?"
Arthur didn't respond. He could barely keep his eyes open.
The slap that followed echoed down the hallway. Then came a stream of accusations—betrayal, theft, Alonso's ex-girlfriend, ruined deals… But to Arthur, it all seemed distant. The pain had become a constant noise, a black cloth wrapping his consciousness.
The sounds grew fainter.
Then, the silence was broken by a single gunshot.
The impact of the shot threw him back to the floor. The air fled his lungs, and everything began to grow cold. His fingers twitched weakly, as if searching for something to hold on to. The pain faded slowly, replaced by a chilling numbness.
Was this how it ended?
A single tear ran from his eye as the darkness slowly closed in.
Mom… I… still had so much left to do…
Memories came like shards: the drunken father, shouting, breaking everything. His mother's blood on the floor when he killed her. The knife trembling in young Arthur's hands after stabbing his father in rage. The silence after it was over. The dark alleys. The stolen wallets. The first meal in days. School. The gang. The escape. The victory. The diploma.
And then, nothing.
Arthur died in silence.
⧫
Darkness. A damp cold clinging to the bones. The sensation of sinking into something dense, heavy, shapeless. And the loneliness… a loneliness that seemed to have teeth, gnawing at his consciousness bit by bit.
Then, came a light.
Bright. Blinding. Like someone had opened a window into the void.
Arthur gasped, eyes snapping open.
The ground beneath him was rough and cold, covered in moss and dark puddles of water. The stones under his body exhaled moisture and mold, the air thick with the putrid scent of something old—something dead. He rose with difficulty, arms trembling, muscles strangely weak. The chamber he was in was made of gray stone, with high walls and no windows. A closed, damp structure, like the womb of some forgotten ruin.
Confused, he sat up and looked around.
Several children, ranging from eight to fourteen years old, were scattered throughout the chamber. All wore simple white clothes, dirty and worn. Some were curled in corners, others whispered to each other with sunken, frightened eyes. No one seemed to know why they were there.
Arthur was about to ask what was going on—but stopped.
He looked at his own hands. They were small. Much smaller than they should be.
He frowned and touched his face. The skin was smooth, without the adult features he knew. A strange shiver ran down his neck as he pulled a lock of hair.
Black hair? Long...? But… my hair was brown.
Staggering, he approached a puddle of still water. The surface reflected faintly under the weak light of some distant torch. When he finally saw himself, his heart skipped a beat.
The reflection showed a boy.
About ten years old, black hair flowing over his shoulders, dark brown eyes. The face was handsome, almost serene—but that didn't matter. None of it made sense. He stepped back, breath quickening.
He tried to speak. The voice that came out was strange—high-pitched, childlike. It didn't sound like his.
What's happening? This can't be real. I… didn't I die?
Why am I here? And why do I have the body of a child?!
Panic took over. The air felt heavy, as if there wasn't enough space to breathe. The questions piled up, hammering at his mind in desperation.
Did I… reincarnate?
Before he could process the idea, a deep sound echoed through the stones. A dry crack. On the left side of the chamber, one of the walls shifted, revealing a dark and damp passage, like the throat of a hungry creature. The opening exhaled an even fouler stench, and a sinister silence fell over all the children.
Something—or someone—was about to enter.