WILLIAMS' POV:
SCREECH
Is this how I go out? Not with a blaze or a song — just the smell of burnt rubber and the dull thud of headlights? I'm not drunk. Well… maybe a little. A stupid, embarrassed little buzz that turns my thoughts into cheap film reels.
Faces flash. My mother calling my name in the kitchen, soft as bread; my father's hard-set jaw, a man I never really knew; my little sister, forever tailing me like she thought I had answers. If I'd listened to her—if I'd only listened—maybe I wouldn't be here. The thought is a thin, sharp thing that slides down me like another breath. I sigh.
It's all because of Eloise. "Williams, I'm tired of our relationship. I think we should break up." She said it like she was folding the sentence and putting it away—neat, final. I still don't know why she left. Maybe I do: cowardice, drift, the shame of twenty sack letters stacked across my resume like receipts for every time I failed to be steady. My sister used to tell me to end it before it ended me. She was right. Sigh.
Now there's a new chorus: the crunch of metal, the hiss of brakes, the bright, stupid glare of other people's phones. Another driver—worse off than me—stumbles and curses. Crowds gather at accidents the way vultures gather at carcasses; some cruel part of them wants to see life spill and call it a lesson. You'd ask how it happened. Simple: two drunk fools, one worse than the other. His blame will outweigh mine like a heavier coin. Sigh.
I do what people do when they think the world is ending—I joke. I whisper, ridiculous and hopeful, "I hope I get reincarnated into a lovely harem-centered world as the MC with 199 women." The words taste like a dare, like a paper boat on a storm drain.
"Sister, Mother, Father—live well," I tell the night. Not a prayer exactly, more a passing of tokens. My breaths grow shallow. The world narrows to a strip of light across the dashboard. I count the sighs—one, two, three—because counting makes the chaos feel like arithmetic. How many times had I sighed in my life? It seems important in the moment to know.
Then something else happens. Not a miracle. Not a mercy. A voice, clinical and absurdly polite, whispers through me as if reading from someone else's log.
"Integration complete. Host has sighed five times before reincarnation."
There's a ridiculous, small part of my brain that notes the precision—five sighs—and finds it almost humorous. I don't have time to be surprised. The lights go soft, the sounds tunnel, and the world—my messy, regrettable life—slides away.