Chapter 1 — The Man Who Was Supposed to Stay Dead
The rain hadn't stopped for three days.
It came down in sheets, drumming against the asphalt, flooding the gutters, blurring the city into streaks of gray and silver. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, swallowed by the storm.
People would remember the accident for years.
Not because of the fire.
Not because of the building collapse.
But because of the man who died saving someone…
and the impossible thing that happened after.
They said he ran in without hesitation.
A child was trapped inside the burning structure — third floor, window sealed, flames spreading fast. Smoke already pouring from the stairwell. The firefighters on scene hesitated. The floor was unstable. The ceiling was close to giving in.
He didn't hesitate.
He ran in before anyone could stop him.
The last radio transmission they recorded was calm. Too calm.
"I've got the kid. Getting out now."
Then came the crash.
Concrete gave way.
Steel snapped.
The entire floor dropped.
By the time they dug through the rubble, the fire was out and the rain had turned the ash into black mud.
They pulled the child out alive.
Then they found him.
No pulse.
No breathing.
Body crushed under debris.
The paramedics tried anyway. They always did.
But after seven minutes, one of them shook his head.
Time of death was called.
And that should have been the end of the story.
But something happened.
Something no one could explain.
Darkness didn't feel like darkness.
It felt… quiet.
No pain.
No fire.
No weight.
Just a strange stillness, like floating in deep water.
For a moment — or maybe longer — there was nothing.
Then something stirred.
Not a sound.
Not a voice.
Not even a memory.
Just a faint ripple inside him…
An echo.
A crimson echo.
He didn't know what it meant.
He didn't know why it was there.
But it was the first thing he felt before the world snapped back into place.
Air slammed into his lungs.
His body jerked violently on the hospital bed.
Machines started screaming.
A nurse gasped.
A doctor dropped the clipboard in his hand.
"He's awake?!"
Impossible.
The chart said he had been gone too long. Death should've been certain. There was no reason for him to be breathing, let alone conscious.
But his chest rose again.
And again.
Slow. Heavy breaths.
His eyes opened.
Everything was bright — too bright. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Shapes moving above him.
He tried to speak, but his throat burned. Only a rough sound came out.
"Water," someone said quickly.
A nurse rushed forward. Another doctor checked the monitors, muttering under his breath like he was reading something that made no sense.
"Can you hear me?" the doctor asked, leaning into his line of sight.
He blinked slowly.
Yes. He could hear.
But something felt… wrong.
Not pain.
Not confusion.
Something deeper.
Like he had woken up from a life he couldn't quite remember.
"Do you know your name?" the doctor asked.
Silence.
The answer should've come instantly.
It didn't.
He knew the word name.
He understood the question.
But the thing they were asking for…
It felt far away.
Like reaching for a memory that slipped through his fingers.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Outside the room, people were already whispering.
Family had been notified hours ago. They were on their way, expecting to see a body.
Instead, they were about to meet someone who had came back from the dead.
Inside the room, he stared at his hands.
Bandaged. Bruised. Real.
He felt alive.
But the strange sensation inside him didn't fade.
That ripple.
That presence.
That… echo.
It sat somewhere deep in his chest, silent but heavy, like something unfinished was waiting for him.
He didn't know what it meant.
He didn't know why he had survived.
He didn't even know who he was yet.
But something in him understood one thing:
Coming back wasn't an accident.
It was the beginning.