Under the glare of white, shadowless surgical lights, a very special operation was underway.
The doctors were not racing against time to save a dying patient.
They were fighting Death itself—trying to tear someone back from its grasp.
The man lying on the operating table looked no different from an ordinary patient, except for one horrifying detail:
his skull had been opened, exposing the ridges and folds of his brain directly to the air.
Above his head, a specialized machine continuously released electrical currents, stimulating his cerebral cortex—attempting to re-ignite a brain that had already ceased to function.
Under the relentless stimulation, fragments of neural activity flickered back to life.
Suspended between life and death, the man began to speak, his voice broken and desperate.
"Please… let me die…
Let me die… please…"
In a nearby observation room, a one-eyed man watched the procedure with unwavering intensity. Even with only one eye, his gaze was still as sharp as a blade.
"Coulson, you are not allowed to die," Nick Fury growled quietly.
"I've already lost an eye—I'm not losing my best man. You will come back."
Nick Fury had summoned the world's most brilliant neurosurgeons for one reason alone: to save his most trusted agent.
People he could truly trust were few and far between—and losing even one cut deep.
Unseen by the doctors, in the corner of the operating room, a figure trembled.
Electric currents ran through the brain… and through the soul bound to it.
The man's spirit was trapped near his body, unable to depart, unable to return.
"Please… let me go…
Even hell would be better than this…"
Clara stood there, staring at the man in pity.
This state—neither living nor dead—was driving him insane.
When he noticed her, the man reached out desperately, his face twisted with agony.
"Take me with you… please…
Anywhere… even hell…"
"You aren't dead," Clara said softly. "You're still alive."
"No!" he cried. "Living like this is torture. I'd rather die!"
Clara took his hand.
Her presence calmed him.
"If you're still alive," she said gently, "then you must live properly.
You need to find meaning again. A reason to exist."
With a light flick of her hand, his soul drifted back—settling perfectly into his body.
On the operating table, Phil Coulson's eyes flew open as he sucked in a sharp, ragged breath.
"Stop the stimulation—now!"
"He's awake!"
"He's alive!"
"We did it—we created a miracle!"
The operating room erupted in cheers. Doctors embraced one another, overwhelmed by the triumph of defying death.
Coulson slowly turned his eyes.
He saw a figure waving at him—
—and then vanishing into thin air.
...
Beep. Beep. Beep.
An alarm clock sounded.
Clara slammed her palm down on it, plunging the world into silence.
Half-asleep, she rose automatically—getting dressed, washing her face, brushing her teeth, making breakfast.
The porridge in the pot thickened as she stirred it.
Too thick.
Like—
Brains.
Clara shuddered violently, goosebumps rising across her skin. She shook her head hard, forcing the image away.
Ever since the Battle of New York, she'd been plagued by strange dreams—ghostly, screaming, impossible.
Her sleep had suffered badly.
Several days had passed since the invasion, yet discussion of it still dominated television, the internet, and everyday conversation.
This wasn't a natural disaster.
It was the first alien invasion in human history.
Even with government attempts at media control, there was no stopping the frenzy.
At school, Clara's class became a curiosity. Students from other classes constantly came by, bombarding them with questions.
"What do the aliens look like?"
"Do they eat people?"
"Can they transform?!"
A bunch of kids who watched way too many sci-fi horror movies.
Only after the principal and homeroom teachers intervened did the attention finally die down.
Though privately, the class's resident braggart continued telling everyone he'd fought aliens alongside Iron Man and the Hulk—judging by his enthusiasm, give him wings and he'd fly straight into the sun.
On the night of the battle, nearby residents had spontaneously gathered to hold a silent vigil for the fallen.
Clara attended too, lighting a white candle in mourning.
Two days earlier, a planned performance in Midtown had been canceled on the spot. Lanterns were replaced with white mourning cloths—a sobering reminder of life's fragility.
Eating breakfast, Clara watched the news closely. Having lived through it firsthand, she followed every update.
Two days after the Battle of New York, a joint company formed by Stark Industries and government agencies announced it would handle alien debris cleanup. All extraterrestrial materials would belong to the government and Stark Industries.
Then—
a familiar face flashed across the screen.
Clara nearly spat out her food.
The elderly man in sunglasses, confidently declaring that New York could never have superheroes—wasn't he the same man who'd bought flowers and vanished without waiting for change?!
Turns out he was in San Francisco.
Yeah… that was a bit too far for Clara to chase down.
Shouldering her backpack, she locked the door and headed to school.
Same routine. Same classes.
She even started wondering if she should skip a grade.
But then she thought of Ms. Daisy… and Jeresia.
And hesitated.
Humans were remarkably good at forgetting.
What once caused endless uproar would, months later, be replaced by new headlines—celebrity scandals, trendy products, the next big thing.
…..
In a sunlit white hospital room, Phil Coulson stood at a chalkboard, scribbling furiously.
It was hard to believe that only months earlier, he'd been a dead man.
Nick Fury entered just as Coulson finished—a chaotic diagram of circles and lines, like an unfinished circuit map.
"Still doing this, Coulson," Fury sighed.
To save him, Fury had authorized the use of a classified alien-derived drug. It was incredibly effective—but the side effects were severe.
"Sorry, sir," Coulson said weakly.
"I can't help it… I really can't control myself."
He felt drained, haunted by fractured thoughts, on the brink of madness.
"I think… I need these memories erased," Coulson said quietly.
"Otherwise, I'll lose my sanity."
It was a decision he'd reached after deep reflection.
The drug had saved his life—but dragged him into darkness.
For him, forgetting was the only way to stay whole.
Fury studied him for a long moment.
"I've arranged it," Fury finally said.
"The hypnotist will leave you with a pleasant memory. Any last requests?"
"I want to remember that god."
Coulson smiled gently, as if joking.
"Coulson," Fury said helplessly, "I've told you—there are no gods. That was science.
And you have met gods. Loki, for example—an immature, irritating brat.
If God were a child, the world would've collapsed already."
Ever since waking up, Coulson insisted he'd seen a god.
A little girl.
Fury dismissed it as a hallucination caused by the drug.
"Maybe," Coulson said calmly.
"But I still believe I saw one."
Fury waved his hand.
The hypnotist entered the room.
Coulson lay back obediently and closed his eyes.
"Relax, Agent Coulson," the hypnotist murmured softly, voice like a lullaby.
"Follow my voice… drift into sleep…"
"I think…" Coulson whispered faintly,
"I think… I've met her…"
And with that final sentence, he sank into deep sleep.
--------------
T/N:
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