Damien Misk was one of, if not the most dangerous men alive. When the Bratva needed a job done, they sent him. No questions asked.
Tonight was no different.
The warehouse reeked of oil and rust, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. Three men waited inside, nervous laughter bouncing off the metal walls as they clutched their weapons. They knew he was coming. Knowing made no difference in this case.
The first never even saw him. A flicker of movement, a sharp crack, and the man collapsed without a sound. The second man raised his gun, but Damien's blade kissed his throat before a shot could leave the chamber. By the time the third man's scream tore through the silence, Damien was already behind him, whispering something only he would hear before snapping his neck.
Just like that, the job was done. Easy, as always.
For the Bratva, Damien wasn't a man. He was a solution. A final answer. A promise that once his name was spoken, the matter was already finished.
Lighting a cigarette as he stepped out of the warehouse, Damien exhaled a long, heavy stream of smoke into the night air. The job was done. As always.
And as always, the same thought crept in, bitter and familiar.
"I fucking hate this shit."
His boots echoed softly on the wet pavement as he walked. He didn't rush. Damien never rushed. Three blocks away, his old MBW waited under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, looking out of place in the industrial sprawl.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he paused, his hand brushing over the console. Two small dolls sat there, faded but still smiling, gifts from a child whose life he'd spared years ago. His only reminder that he wasn't entirely a monster.
He turned the key. The engine coughed to life. The radio clicked on, and a soft, nostalgic song drifted through the speakers, a melody so gentle it felt wrong for a man like him. The tension in his shoulders eased. For a moment, he let his head fall back against the seat, eyes closing, smoke curling from his lips.
The only sound was the music.
He sighed.
Then, a sound sharper than the song, too sudden to place. The glass shattered. A bullet tore through the driver's side window and buried itself in the side of his neck.
The cigarette dropped from his fingers. Blood gushed hot and fast, painting his shirt and hands crimson as he pressed them against the wound. Pointless.
His vision blurred. The dolls on the console swam in and out of focus.
"I deserve this," he thought dimly, darkness closing in. "I deserve to meet him. After all, I've been his grim reaper for far too long."
The car sat idling, music still playing, as Damien Misk slipped into oblivion.
Darkness. He was swallowed in it, drowning, thrashing against nothing. Madness clawed at him, a chaos without sound or shape. Hell.
Then came the light.
At first, just a streak, distant and unreachable. But it grew, pulling him toward it, closer with every passing second. He tried to understand, to hold onto something solid, but nothing made sense. The light consumed the dark, washing over him until there was nothing else.
Blurry colors.
Muffled sounds.
Shapes moving in the haze.
Slowly, painfully, the world sharpened. A wooden ceiling stared back at him. He groaned, lifting a hand to wipe his face.
"Oi. You finally woke up, boy?"
The unfamiliar voice jolted him fully awake. He pushed himself upright, heart pounding. A man stood beside the bed, broad-shouldered, armored, his beard thick beneath a shaved head.
What the fuck happened?
I was in my car. I had just finished another planned gig. I was smoking. I was… killed.
No. Why am I here? Is this the afterlife? Is this hell?
Damien took in his surroundings. The man was still looking at him. Then Damien glanced down. He was way skinnier.
Wooden walls. An open window, also made of wood. Every single item in the room felt too medieval and, at the same time, strangely new, like it truly belonged to this era.
If this is hell, I wonder what heaven looks like.
"Hey, Will, you listenin'?" the man said, snapping his fingers in front of Damien's face.
"What? Who are you? And who's Will?"
"Shit… those little bastards really beat you up good, didn't they?"
"Eh?"
"How many fingers am I holding up?" the bald man asked, lifting two fingers.
"Two?"
The idiot lifted another finger. "Wrong. Damn it, he really messed you up."
Damien couldn't believe his eyes. Such stupidity was hard to comprehend.
The bald man ran a hand over his scalp, clearly stressed.
"Hey… where am I?"
"Oh Lord, you don't even remember your room. Those little fuckers, just because they are the legitimate sons doesn't mean they have the right to treat you like this."
"Legitimate sons? Can I get a moment to gather my thoughts?"
"Sure, buddy," he said, eyeing Damien with concern, but he didn't make any move to leave the room.
"Alone."
"Oh. Yes, of course." He left in a hurry.
Damien was usually an unfazed man, but that wasn't the case now. He jumped out of bed and went to a circular mirror sitting on a desk in the room. He stared at his reflection.
He was completely different, younger. His blue eyes were now emerald green. His once uneven facial structure was perfect, his blond hair replaced by onyx black. He looked like a model, lean and sharp.
The view outside the window caught his attention. He stepped closer. Beyond the glass stood a beautiful garden, and beyond that, five-story mansion, guarded by men carrying swords.
Holy fuck. I'm in the past.
Think, Damien. Think.
I'm in another person's body, in a time different from mine. First things first—I need to know who I am.
This was his room, the guy had said.
Perfect.
…
It took Damien about five minutes to thrash the whole room. He found a history book, a book titled Divine Gifts: A Guide for Idiots, and the most important one, Will's personal journal. He started reading. the books were conveniently in English.
After the first four pages of the history book, Damien realized how wrong he had been to think he was merely in the past. He wasn't. He was in a whole other world…