The shot still rang in Xavier's ears as darkness swept over him. He'd expected pain—a final explosion of agony before oblivion—but instead felt only a curious weightlessness, as though someone had cut the strings holding him to the earth.
Well. That was dramatic.
He tried to blink, realized he had no eyelids to blink with. No eyes either. No body at all. Just consciousness floating in an endless void that wasn't quite darkness, wasn't quite light, but something maddeningly in-between.
Am I dead? This feels like dead.
The space around him—if it could be called space—shifted like smoke, formless yet somehow solid enough to hold him. No temperature, no sound except the echo of his own thoughts, no sensation beyond existence itself.
So this is the afterlife. No pearly gates. No fire and brimstone. Just... nothing.
Xavier attempted to look down at himself but found no body to examine. Just awareness suspended in limbo. He tried to remember the penthouse, the bullet, the moment of impact, but the memories slipped away like water through cupped hands.
I wonder if this is the waiting room. Purgatory. The cosmic DMV where they process your paperwork before sending you to your final destination.
He'd never been religious—hard to believe in divine justice when you've seen the things he had—but he'd absorbed enough cultural mythology to have expectations. Heaven. Hell. Reincarnation. Something besides this featureless nowhere.
Hell. It's definitely going to be hell for me.
I mean, is there any reason it wouldn't be? Twenty years of lies, manipulation, seduction, and murder. That's not exactly Saint Peter's VIP list material.
In life, Xavier had never dwelled on morality. Survival first, pleasure second, consequences... well, consequences were problems for tomorrow. But in this formless void with nothing but his thoughts for company, the weight of his choices pressed against him from all sides.
All those people. The ones I killed for money. The ones I seduced for information or access.
He'd told himself they deserved it. The targets were criminals, the marks were lonely by choice, the victims were collateral damage in a world that didn't care about individuals. But stripped of flesh, of charm, of the constant forward momentum that had defined his existence, the excuses rang hollow.
I wonder who'll miss me.
Xavier Valentine—the real Xavier Valentine, not the various personas he'd worn—had prided himself on independence. No attachments meant no weaknesses. No connections meant no betrayals.
Aiko might care. For a while.
He recalled her face, the genuine emotion in her eyes when she'd tried to save him. But even that memory soured as he remembered why he'd been there in the first place. Not love. Not even lust, really. Just a job. Access to Hiroaki's private servers through his wife's credentials.
She'll get over it. Probably better off without a parasite like me in her life anyway.
Who else? Mila, his occasional partner in crime? She'd shrug, find another cocky assassin to work with, maybe drink a toast to his memory before moving on. The women he'd slept with? Most didn't even know his real name.
Shit. No one cares.
But isn't that what he'd wanted? To slide through life untethered, taking what he needed without the burden of reciprocity? Instead, it hollowed him out, leaving nothing but the echo of his own emptiness.
Twenty years of existing, and I've left no mark worth making. No one better for having known me.
Xavier tried to laugh but had no throat to produce the sound, no lungs to push air. Just thought, endless thought with nowhere to go and nothing to distract from the crushing weight of insignificance.
Even my death was pointless. Shot in the head for a petty insult. Not protecting someone. Not for some greater cause. Just because I couldn't resist one last dig at a man who'd already won.
Time meant nothing here. It could have been minutes or millennia as Xavier floated, trapped with the one person he'd spent his entire life avoiding—himself.
I wonder if this is hell. Not fire, not torture, just... awareness. Forced to face every choice, every consequence, every missed opportunity without the ability to change any of it.
Memories flickered through his consciousness. The orphanage. His first kill. The woman who'd taught him to dance. The man who'd shown him how to mix the perfect martini. The child he'd spared during a hit gone wrong. The street dog he'd fed for three weeks in Budapest before disappearing on a job.
Moments of kindness buried under an avalanche of selfishness. Glimpses of the man he might have been if he'd made different choices.
I never even had a real friend. Not one person who knew me—the actual me—and still chose to stick around. What kind of life is that?
The void seemed to pulse around him, as though responding to the intensity of his regret. For the first time, Xavier sensed something beyond himself in this nothingness—a presence, distant but growing closer, like a train approaching from miles away.
Oh shit. Is this the part where Satan shows up with a contract? Because I've seen that movie, and it doesn't end well for guys like me.
The presence grew stronger. Not malevolent, exactly, but overwhelming in its vastness. Like standing at the edge of the ocean during a storm, knowing it could swallow you without noticing.
If this is judgment, I'm screwed. Best case scenario: eternal torment. Worst case: complete erasure. Not much of a choice.
As the presence drew nearer, the void around Xavier began to change. Colors bled into the nothingness—not the familiar colors of life, but impossible shades that human eyes could never perceive. The formless space acquired texture, rippling like water disturbed by an unseen hand.
Whatever's coming, I probably deserve it.
The thought carried no fear, only resignation. What was the point of fighting fate when you had no body to fight with? When the entirety of your existence amounted to a stain on the universe's record?
I just wish...
Xavier paused, surprised by the intensity of his own longing.
I wish I'd gotten it right, just once.
The presence stopped, hovering at the edge of Xavier's awareness. Waiting. Watching. Evaluating.
Fuck it. If this is my end, I'm not going out begging.
"Well?" Xavier directed the thought outward, imagining it as a shout into the void. "Are you going to get on with it? Eternal damnation? Obliteration? Reincarnation as a cockroach? The suspense is killing me. Again."
The void rippled. Somehow, impossibly, Xavier felt amusement emanating from the presence—not cruel, but genuinely entertained, like someone watching a kitten attack its own reflection.
"Honestly," he continued, warming to his audience, "I expected more production value. Fire, brimstone, demons with pitchforks. This whole minimalist purgatory thing is a bit disappointing. Two stars."
The colors swirled faster. The formless space contracted around Xavier's consciousness, pressure building from all sides until he thought he might be crushed into nothingness.
This is it. Goodbye, cruel afterlife. It's been... boring.
Then, like a bubble bursting, the pressure vanished. Light flooded the void—not the impossible colors from before, but pure, blinding white that would have seared Xavier's retinas if he'd had any.
A voice spoke. Not in language, exactly, but in concepts that bloomed directly in Xavier's mind, bypassing the need for sound or comprehension.
XAVIER VALENTINE.
That's me. Unfortunately.
The presence seemed to consider this response, rippling with what might have been laughter.
YOU ARE... INTERESTING.
I get that a lot. Usually right before someone tries to kill me.
DEATH IS RELATIVE.
Tell that to the bullet in my brain.
YOUR JOURNEY IS INCOMPLETE.
Pretty sure getting shot in the head is as 'complete' as it gets.
The presence expanded, enveloping Xavier's consciousness completely. Instead of the expected obliteration, he felt something impossible—warmth. Not physical heat, but the emotional equivalent. Like being wrapped in a blanket after coming in from the cold.
YOUR REGRETS ARE PROFOUND.
Not really the kind of thing a guy likes to hear on his final judgment day.
YOU WISH FOR A SECOND CHANCE.
It wasn't a question, yet Xavier felt compelled to answer.
Doesn't everyone? What would be the point? I'd just make the same mistakes again. Different faces, same story.
The presence seemed to consider this, the warmth fluctuating as though in thought.
WHAT IF YOU REMEMBERED?
Remembered what?
EVERYTHING.
The concept expanded in Xavier's mind—not just remembering his life, but remembering this moment. This conversation.
That would be... cruel.
CRUEL? OR KIND? TO LIVE AGAIN WITH THE KNOWLEDGE OF DEATH?
Both, probably.
Xavier would have frowned if he'd had a face. The idea was simultaneously terrifying and tantalizing. To live again knowing how it ended. To make different choices with the wisdom of hindsight.
Why would you offer this? I'm not exactly salvation material.
SALVATION IS EARNED, NOT GRANTED. YOU HAVE POTENTIAL. UNREALIZED.
Potential for what?
But the presence offered no further explanation. Instead, the light intensified, becoming so bright that even without eyes, Xavier felt blinded by its intensity.
YOU HAVE FIVE CHOICES.
Images flooded Xavier's consciousness—not of his past, but of possible futures. Lives he could live. Paths he could take. Some familiar, others utterly alien.
Why are you doing this?
The presence contracted, focusing with such intensity that Xavier felt pinned beneath its scrutiny.
ENTERTAINMENT.
Before Xavier could process this bizarre answer, the void began to dissolve around him. The formless space that had held his consciousness fractured like glass, cracks spreading in all directions.
Wait! I don't understand!
UNDERSTANDING IS NOT REQUIRED. CHOICE IS.
What am I choosing?
YOUR NEXT LIFE.
The void shattered completely. Xavier felt himself falling, tumbling through nothingness toward... something. The sensation of movement without a body was nauseating.
The presence's voice followed him, growing fainter as he fell.
CHOOSE WISELY, XAVIER VALENTINE. NEXT TIME, I MAY NOT BE SO GENEROUS.
Next time? What do you mean next—
His consciousness slammed into something solid. Pain exploded through him—not the abstract memory of pain from his bodiless state, but real, physical agony that meant only one thing.
He had a body again.
Xavier gasped, lungs burning as they filled with air for the first time. His eyes flew open, vision blurry and unfocused. Light stabbed into his retinas, sending fresh waves of pain through his skull.
What the fuck?
He tried to move, found his limbs responding sluggishly, as though they belonged to someone else. His fingers twitched against smooth fabric. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.
Alive. He was alive.
Or... something like it.
As his vision cleared, Xavier found himself staring up at a ceiling that seemed to shift between solid and transparent, revealing glimpses of swirling cosmic patterns beyond.
"Well, well, well! Look who's finally conscious! Took you long enough!"
The voice was female, young, and carried the kind of cheerful condescension usually reserved for pets or small children. Xavier turned his head—an action that required far more effort than it should have—toward the sound.
A woman stood beside whatever he was lying on. No, not a woman. Something that looked like a woman but radiated power and beauty that made the presence in the void seem like a nightlight compared to the sun.
Silver hair cascaded around a perfect face, framing pink eyes that literally glowed with inner light. She wore what appeared to be a robe that defied both physics and modesty, and she was looking at him with the delighted expression of a child who'd just found a particularly interesting bug.
"Welcome to the Liminal Space, Xavier Valentine!" She twirled, rose petals materializing from nowhere to shower around her. "I'm Calypso, Goddess of Reincarnation, and you, my deliciously tragic disaster, are my newest project!"
Xavier opened his mouth, found his voice, and managed a single, heartfelt response:
"Fuck."