Day one of the Shift was the easiest day of Ethan Cole's life. It was also the day he died the fewest times. Only seventy-one.
It was late. Heavy footsteps echoed through the pitch-black stairwell. There wasn't a single light source. Yet, oddly enough, when Ethan Cole looked up, he could somehow make out the stairwell stretching upward—layer upon layer—like a gaping maw ready to swallow him whole.
Swallow him whole? Where the hell am I? How did I get here?
The thought triggered something—like flipping a switch. Before he could feel fear or confusion, the wall beside him began to glow with a dim, blood-red light. Whispers seeped from nowhere, low and unintelligible. Black smoke curled from every corner of the stairwell. He tried to run, but two clawed hands formed from the mist had already seized his ankles.
In the next instant, the smoke twisted into grotesque faces—distorted, hungry, brimming with hatred and a craving for flesh. They lunged.
"Fuck!"
Ethan Cole jolted awake in the crowded hospital waiting room, screaming. He shot up from his chair and crashed into a young couple passing by.
"What the hell?" "Are you nuts?"
The woman clutched her husband's arm in panic. The man instinctively shielded her with one hand and shoved Ethan back into his seat with the other, both of them shouting.
Ethan sat hunched over, head in hands, silent. The couple turned back to glare, but the man's anger faltered when he saw Ethan's face.
His expression was twisted. Eyes wide, forehead drenched in sweat, chest heaving with rapid, ragged breaths. Even the chair beneath him trembled from his shaking.
The husband suddenly understood why his wife had pulled him back. Someone that terrified—had to be cancer. Late-stage, probably. So young. So tragic.
His expression softened. He released Ethan's arm, gave his shoulder a gentle pat, opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He shook his head and walked away with his wife, leaving behind a sigh heavy with pity.
Half an hour later, inside the examination room, the doctor sighed too.
"Mr. Cole, the results are the same as last time. Same as the other hospitals. Everything's normal. No health issues whatsoever. In fact, the only change is that your body's gotten even healthier. You had mild shoulder inflammation and a stomach ulcer two weeks ago—both completely healed now."
"Doctor, I don't care if there's a problem or not. Please, I'm begging you. I'm not asking for a cure—just give me something. I can't take this anymore…"
"Mr. Cole, you've been here so many times. You know that's not possible." The doctor was firm. "Stimulants are strictly regulated. I can't prescribe them. Pharmacies won't dispense them either…"
"Please, I'm begging you. I haven't slept in three days. I'm at my limit. I dozed off for two minutes out there—just two minutes—and had a nightmare that nearly scared me to death! Please…"
Ethan pleaded, yawning uncontrollably. If the doctor hadn't known him well, hadn't run multiple tests, hadn't found zero signs of substance abuse, he'd have suspected Ethan was an addict fishing for controlled meds.
"Mr. Cole, this isn't about helping or not helping. It's hospital policy. Besides, given your condition, the last thing you need is something that keeps you awake for seventy-two hours straight…"
The doctor paused, studying Ethan again.
Despite the yawns and the fear etched into his face, Ethan's hair was glossy, his complexion rosy, his eyes clear, his skin radiant. The test results on the desk were pristine. Any colleague glancing at them would reach the same conclusion: This guy was in peak physical condition. Which was precisely the problem.
"Even without the tests, anyone can see it," the doctor muttered. "But long-term sleep deprivation—days without rest—will absolutely harm your health. I suggest you at least take some sedatives…"
"I don't want sleeping pills!" Ethan Cole shook his head violently. "Absolutely not!"
"Doctor, I'm terrified of sleeping! Every night—no, not even night—every time I close my eyes, even for a second…"
His face twisted with fear. "…monsters come for me. Chinese jiangshi, Japanese ghosts, Brazilian anacondas, Egyptian scarab mummies—they're old news. Even the Transformers have crushed me a few times. Yesterday, I was on the subway and some idiot next to me was watching a trailer for a new video game. That night, the demon hunter from the trailer showed up in my dream and stabbed me."
"Day thoughts, night dreams," the doctor interrupted. "Mr. Cole, you're too stressed."
"I can't help it! You said I was mentally strained—I spent a whole day reading comedy. You said I was overworked—I quit my job and stayed home. You said I was overstimulated—I stopped watching TV, stopped going online…"
"But nothing works! You know this. I've tried everything—sleep aids, hypnosis, therapy, churches, temples, mosques… None of it helped!"
Ethan's voice cracked with desperation. He was on the verge of tears.
"…If you really can't sleep," the doctor hesitated, finally moved by Ethan's pleading. Under Ethan's hopeful gaze, he slowly opened a drawer. "I've got some instant coffee. Want it?"
"Damn it. Hospitals are a dead end."
Standing outside the hospital doors, clutching two packets of instant coffee, Ethan Cole made up his mind: If four hospitals won't give him meds, he'd get drugs the illegal way.
He wasn't being dramatic. His suffering was real—and worse than he'd let on.
It started thirty-five days ago. No warning. No cause. Every time Ethan Cole fell asleep, he had a nightmare. Every single time.
The content? Anything and everything. Horror movies from childhood. Japanese ghost stories. Internet creepypasta. Even Hans Christian Andersen's witches and medieval torture methods from history class joined the party.
In short: Anything Ethan Cole had ever seen—regardless of nationality or genre—was fair game. If it was scary, it showed up. If it was absurd, it showed up.
Medical condition? Mental breakdown? Bad feng shui? Cursed horoscope?
In the past month, Ethan had moved twice, consulted seven spiritual experts, visited eleven hospitals, and tried countless remedies. Only one thing helped, even slightly: Not sleeping.
Thirty-five days in, he'd quit his job. His savings were nearly gone. And yet, despite sleeping less than two hours a day—broken into a dozen micro-naps—he hadn't collapsed. He hadn't even gotten sick. In fact, his body was getting stronger.
Which was deeply unsettling.
Something this unnatural had to mean something was wrong. And that fear gnawed at him.
Ethan left the hospital, recalling the nearest gang hangout and waiting by the roadside for a cab.
It was mid-afternoon. The lunch rush had passed, and the evening traffic hadn't begun. The road was quiet.
A taxi approached. Ethan stepped forward, waving.
Just as he was about to reach it, a young woman and her daughter darted out from the side and snatched the cab.
Fuck.
He didn't feel like fighting over it. He stopped, turned—and spotted another empty taxi coming from the opposite lane.
He headed toward it.
That's when it happened.
A sudden blast of honking. A roar of an engine.
Ethan spun around.
Fuck. Was he hallucinating with his eyes open now?
April 20, 2024. 2:17 PM. Outside the hospital.
A tragic triple overture began:
Tragedy One: A city SUV barreled toward Ethan and the woman with her child.
Tragedy Two: The driver—a panicked woman—slammed the gas instead of the brakes, accelerating.
Tragedy Three: As Ethan tried to dodge, the woman collided with his waist. All three of them crashed to the ground.
Fuck. This is bad.
The SUV loomed larger in his vision. The stench of metal and death filled the air. The distance between him and the reaper was less than twenty meters.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…" Ethan's lips trembled as he cursed, scrambling to move. His brain raced.
Adrenaline? Terror? Near-death shock?
Whatever the cause, his body was sluggish. His reflexes couldn't match the SUV's speed.
He was going to die. No doubt about it.
"Not necessarily…"
A voice spoke beside him.
Suddenly, the honking, the engine, the screams—all vanished.
"As long as you hold your posture, the impact won't be enough to recycle you into the food chain…"
The SUV froze mid-charge. The woman and child froze mid-scream.
Ethan tried to run—but couldn't move. Not even his mouth.
What the hell? Why isn't the car moving? Why can't I move?
As if hearing his thoughts, the voice chuckled.
"This is a soul-space. You don't have any spiritual energy yet. Of course you can't move."
Soul-space? What the hell is that?
"Oh? You don't like this form?" The speaker frowned.
In the next instant, a monk appeared beside him. Robes, prayer beads, glowing forehead scars, radiant with holy light.
"Peace be with you, Monkey…"
Then a priest materialized. Black robes, crucifix, sorrowful expression.
"God loves all creatures. Even His monkey…"
One by one, religious figures from Ethan's memory lined up: Taoists, exorcists, shamans, elven elders, beast shamans, divine clerics…
Each reciting their own doctrine, forming a queue that stretched beyond Ethan's vision.
If he could move, his jaw would've dropped.
"Primitive totems and tribal cognition often cause miscommunication. Sorry—it's been a while since I visited such a rural universe. Pick whichever form you prefer."
"Now then, shall we address the immediate issue?"
The entire lineup pointed toward the SUV.
The car? Oh god—the car!
Ethan panicked again, trying to move.
Or rather, trying to "want" to move. But nothing happened.
"Don't bother. At your current level, influencing reality from soul-space requires massive energy. To shift 1.816 meters to safety would take the energy of your star burning for 200,000 years. Or 30 billion years of nightmares."
Nightmares?
Ethan caught a suspicious word.
"Born in a rural universe. No training. Low soul-wave efficiency. Thirty-five days of nightmares only adjusted 0.000012%. Not your fault. I won't blame you."
So you're the one giving me nightmares?
"Don't be so formal. It's a necessary process for the plan. Not exactly a favor…"
Favor my ass. Fuck you. Fuck your whole bloodline. I'll dig up your ancestors and piss on their graves—
"Oh? That's a no?" The religious lineup frowned. "So you don't want help?"
They raised their hands.
Snap.
The frozen world resumed.
Honking. Screaming. Roaring engine.
The SUV charged.
0.4 seconds: Ethan's brain processed the threat. 0.7 seconds: His body began to respond. 0.9 seconds: The child was hit. 1.1 seconds: The woman was dragged under. 1.5 seconds: Ethan was struck, spun midair, shattered the side mirror with his arm—twisting it into a mangled mess.
3 seconds: The SUV sped off, leaving behind shattered glass, scattered shoes, and blood.
5 seconds: Bystanders rushed over.
8 seconds: Pain signals flooded Ethan's brain. He screamed—then went hoarse.
15 seconds: Before the crowd reached him, the priest walked over, kicked aside Ethan's broken limbs, and squatted.
"See? I told you. Even with a slight angle change, you didn't get recycled."
I…fuck…you…
Unable to speak, Ethan mouthed the words.
The priest understood perfectly.
"You need to calm down." He stood. The lineup raised their hands.
Snap.
Time reversed. The SUV backed up. Glass reassembled. Blood vanished.
Snap.
The SUV charged again.
3 seconds later, Ethan was mangled again.
The priest squatted beside him. "Want to talk now?"
I…fuck…
Snap. Reset. Charge.
8 seconds later, Ethan was bleeding again.
"Want to reconsider?"
I…I…I…
"I…" Finally, Ethan gave in. "I…what do you want from me?"
"Good." Snap.
Everything reset. Ethan was whole again.
"Now we can communicate."
Who…who are you? What are you?
"If you mean a name, I've never used one. But if you need a designation…"
The lineup paused.
"You can call me QA9677."
QA what? What kind of name is that?
Before Ethan could finish the thought, he saw the priest's face curl into a faint smile. A chill ran down his spine. He forced himself to stop thinking in directions that might get him killed.
Q… Q-bro… Q-master… Whatever you say goes…
"Excellent. Just as 1A7489's manual predicted. When communicating with carbon-based monkeys, the instruction manual is always the most effective tool."
QA9677 was pleased. He had once, out of sheer boredom, skimmed through a manual written by a predecessor who'd suffered greatly on a carbon-based planet. Thanks to that, he had now successfully initiated first contact.
Facing the newly compliant Ethan Cole, QA9677 nodded with satisfaction. "There's a small project. I'll need your help gathering a few things."
Whatever you need…
Even the thoughts in Ethan's head had to be censored. He'd learned the hard way that even silent curses could lead to horrific consequences. Having witnessed QA9677's ability to conjure nightmares and manipulate space, Ethan knew better than to resist.
"Good. Looks like we're off to a great start. Since you're willing to cooperate, there's no need for inefficient nightmare-based spiritual calibration anymore."
Oh? Really?
Ten minutes ago, Ethan would've thrown a party at the news that his nightmares were over. Now, trapped in this soul-space—far more terrifying than any dream, and capable of inflicting real pain—he knew better.
Whatever it takes to get out of here.
"Don't worry. No need for poison or bombs. The materials I need are common elements—found all over the universe. Just a bit tedious to collect. Might take some time."
Universe?
Ethan's greatest political achievement was being appointed class monitor in elementary school because of his height. Now he was being dragged into something involving the universe. He had a bad feeling about this.
"Relax. With the full training curriculum of the Sairel Union and the comprehensive manual written by renowned carbon-based expert 1A7489, you'll receive the best onboarding possible. Guaranteed to make your job easy."
Manual?
"A specialized category of training material. You'll understand more later. For now, since we've reached an agreement…" QA9677 pointed toward the SUV. "Let's deal with this little problem first."
Oh? It's finally over?
Ethan perked up. If this was the end of the nightmare that had summoned QA9677, he was ready.
"Ready?"
Ready for what?
Snap.
The SUV charged again.
Snap.
The SUV roared forward.
This time, Ethan was ready.
0.07 seconds: Sound reached his ears. 0.13 seconds: His brain fired commands. 0.3 seconds: He pressed to the ground, elbows bent, core engaged, head tilted—ready to roll.
0.5 seconds: First roll initiated.
Compared to his first collision, he was 0.3 seconds faster. A 60% improvement.
Then—pain. His back hit the woman's fallen high heel. His body stiffened.
The delay cost him 0.2 seconds.
1.5 seconds later, the SUV roared past. Ethan had improved: major limbs intact, only two fingers missing, plus some gashes on his back and leg.
"Not bad, not bad…" QA9677 clapped. "See? Progress comes with effort."
Snap. Reset.
Fuck! Again?
"Of course. Injuries reduce efficiency."
Snap.
No warning this time. The SUV charged.
Sound… reaction… command… movement… roll…
Everything went smoothly—until Ethan remembered the high heel.
He instinctively kicked toward where it had been. The sudden move threw off his balance. His roll turned into a spin. He tried to recover—but the SUV was already there.
Twenty-five seconds later, Ethan lay in a pool of blood. His chest stopped moving.
Soul-space. Ethan Cole died a second time.
Snap.Snap.
Fuck!!!!!!!
Two snaps later, Ethan was whole again. Staring at the charging SUV, he screamed at the sky.
Then died a third time.
Fourth: dodged the heel, tripped on the woman's purse. Result: upper body escaped, legs mangled.
Fifth: dodged heel and purse, blocked by the child. Result: left side escaped, right side mangled.
Sixth: dodged heel, purse, child, even his own falling phone. Result: too slow—death.
Seventh: screamed at the sky. Result: death.
...
Fifty-seventh attempt:
Honking. Engine. Screams.
The SUV charged.
First instant: Ethan pushed off the ground, body lifted 15 cm.
0.42 seconds: First roll halfway done. Right leg lifted, left hand pushed—body rose to 21 cm. Back skimmed past the high heel.
0.66 seconds: Core engaged, head lifted—cleared the child.
0.83 seconds: Phone halfway out of pocket. Right leg swept the purse aside. Body tilted—phone slid back into pocket.
1.13 seconds: Third roll complete. Shoulder and neck shifted—dodged flying metal buckle.
1.5 seconds: SUV roared past.
1.7 seconds: Ethan jumped up, checked himself head to toe.
Not a scratch.
Tears welled in his eyes.
Success. Finally. Finally!
"Excellent, excellent…" QA9677 applauded. "You've completed Phase One of problem-solving training."
Phase One? What does that mean?
A familiar dread crept in.
"Phase One means…" QA9677 pointed at the bloodied woman and child. "Phase Two is pulling those two monkeys out with you."
What?
Did I hear that right?
QA9677… saves lives?
After fifty-seven collisions, Ethan had learned: At this speed and distance, the SUV was lethal.
He'd tried to help the woman and child before. Every time, he failed. Every time, he died.
Eventually, he gave up. Focused only on saving himself.
He'd already labeled QA9677 as a monster, a freak, a tyrant, a sadist. Now, hearing him speak like a humanitarian, Ethan was stunned.
"Their survival has nothing to do with your future collection work," QA9677 said coldly. "But during the fifty-seven training sessions, your brain showed heightened activity thirty-two times for the woman's death, and forty-five times for the child's."
"Such high activity means that, once you return to the material world, your endocrine system or neural cortex might make you do something stupid. Better to solve the problem now."
QA9677 raised his hand.
"Oh, and by the way—any damage they take will be mirrored in your body."
Snap.
The SUV charged again.