I had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor.
And not just any tumor — one so advanced that the doctor looked at me with eyes heavy with pity, as though he were already watching me slip into the grave. The words too late for treatment echoed in my ears like the toll of a funeral bell. For anyone else, it would have been the end of hope. For me, it was confirmation.
That was when I realized why, on the day I woke in this body, I had found blood smeared across my face. Death wasn't simply tormenting me with reincarnation after reincarnation — she had dropped me into the flesh of a man already circling the drain.
I should have broken down. I should have despaired.
But instead, I laughed.
I laughed until the walls of the sterile white office trembled with the sound. I laughed until the doctor looked unsettled, shifting nervously behind his desk, probably wondering if the tumor had already chewed away at my sanity. Perhaps he thought I laughed from fear of dying, from the crushing helplessness of knowing there was no hope.
But no.
I laughed because I finally understood the kind of dirty game Death was playing with me. As if placing me inside the body of a serial killer wasn't cruel enough, she added a terminal sickness — a ticking clock strapped to my skull.
"Mr. Benson," the doctor said cautiously, his voice breaking my storm of laughter. "I know this must be difficult to comprehend, but—"
I cut him off, forcing my grin to linger. "So tell me, doctor… how much time do I have left?"
He hesitated, shuffled through his papers as though hoping the numbers would change. "A month at most. Perhaps less. I'm sorry."
His words carried no weight. I had long known that nothing in my cursed existence was guaranteed, that Death herself could strike me down at any moment. But this, this month he gave me, was more than enough. Enough to finish what I had been placed here to do.
The doctor's brows furrowed when I smiled at the verdict. To him, I was a man given a death sentence, yet behaving as though I had just won a prize. He could not understand that my clock didn't matter. My vengeance did.
Because before I died, I would make Governor Simons suffer.
He thought killing Rihanat — mocking her death as though her life meant nothing — would be forgotten. That was his greatest mistake. And I would make his death a masterpiece of pain. I would drag it out, savoring every scream, every drop of blood, until he begged for the grave.
I left the hospital with my coat drawn tight around me, the smell of disinfectant still burning my nose. The evening air hit me cold, sharp, almost alive, and I let it fill my lungs as though I could drown myself in it. One month. One month to find where Governor Simons lived, to infiltrate his gilded life, and to paint his end in agony.
My thoughts swirled as I walked toward the glass exit doors, lost in visions of how he would fall. Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
"Hello, Mr. Elon," came the voice of the gallery's manager, nervous and rushed. "Someone contacted us about purchasing Red Cloud. I told them the piece wasn't for sale, but they kept insisting they must speak with you directly."
I scowled. "What sort of lunatic wants to buy a worthless mess like that?"
Silence. Then her voice trembled. "It was… CEO Governor Simons, sir."
I froze mid-step. The world seemed to tilt. The name, spoken so casually, burned through me like fire.
Governor Simons.
The very man whose death I had sworn to orchestrate. The man who had taken everything from me. And now, he wanted my painting.
"He said he's on his way to the gallery right now," she continued quickly, "and that he wishes to meet you in person."
For the first time since Death cursed me with this body, I felt a glimmer of something like fate. Perhaps the gods — if they still watched me — were placing him in my path. If he came to me, if I could meet him face to face, then I could trace him back to his den, discover where he lived. The first step to his destruction.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and hailed a cab, my pulse thundering. My mind whirled with possibilities. Red Cloud — why that painting? Why now? And what could he possibly see in it that made him so desperate?
The answer didn't matter. What mattered was that the hunter was coming straight to me.
When I arrived at the gallery, the lights inside burned bright against the encroaching night. Through the tall windows I saw him — Governor Simons, surrounded by his ever-present aides, standing before Red Cloud.
The painting was one I had never truly cared for. A chaotic swirl of crimson lines on black canvas, dripping with the kind of madness Elon Benson — the man whose body I now wore — had been infamous for. I had never intended to use it. Yet here was Simons, staring at it as though the canvas whispered secrets only he could hear.
I entered quietly, the echo of my steps on the marble floor drawing his attention. He turned slowly, eyes narrowing as though calculating the worth of the stranger before him.
"I hear this piece has caught your eye," I said evenly, approaching him.
His gaze lingered, sharp and suspicious. "And you are?"
"Elon Benson," I answered. For the first time, I spoke the name aloud to my enemy, letting it roll from my tongue like a weapon unsheathed.
Something flickered across his face — recognition, surprise, perhaps even admiration. Then he extended his hand. "Mr. Benson. An honor, at last."
For a moment I considered refusing. But to draw suspicion now would be foolish. So I clasped his hand, hiding the revulsion that boiled within me.
"If it isn't too much trouble," he said smoothly, "might you share your interpretation of this work?"
I looked at the canvas, its angry streaks of red like veins across a corpse's skin. My lips curled into a smile. "This piece was created with the blood of five people."
His head tilted slightly, curiosity flashing in his eyes. "Real blood?"
"Of course," I said without hesitation. "Their deaths… connected by the hand of a god."
Silence fell, heavy, until he whispered, "And this god you speak of… must be yourself."
I chuckled. "You understand far better than most. Yes. I am the god of this work."
His stare sharpened, but not in disbelief — in recognition. He saw himself reflected in me. And I in him.
"Why do you think," he asked softly, "I am so drawn to your art?"
"Because like attracts like," I said. "We are the same. Lunatics who think ourselves gods. Killers. You and I."
For the first time since I entered, a shadow crossed his face. Fear. He wondered how I knew. He wondered if I was bluffing, or if I had somehow seen through the carefully woven lies that hid his atrocities.
I watched the tension build, savoring it. Then I laughed lightly, waving a hand. "A joke, Governor. Don't take it so seriously."
He exhaled, relief flashing quickly, though suspicion remained in his eyes. "That was… uncalled for," he muttered.
I offered a half-bow. "Forgive me if I offended."
The tension eased, and our conversation drifted back to safer ground. We spoke of art, of collectors, of nonsense. But beneath it all, a storm brewed between us — an unspoken recognition that each of us was measuring the other, predator against predator.
Hours passed. The gallery emptied until only we remained.
I reached into my jacket, fingers brushing the cold handle of the knife hidden there. My pulse thundered. This was my chance to end him here, to spill his blood across the polished floor, and to make his screams echo through the gallery halls.
But then, just as I began to move, his assistant's voice cut sharply through the silence.
"Governor Simons! We should leave. It's late."
Simons turned at once, breaking the moment. And I felt it — the invisible chain tightening around my chest. Death's warning. Her promise that she would intervene if I dared strike too soon.
I released the knife slowly, fury burning through me.
Not yet.
But I would not give up. If Death thought her little game would stop me, she was wrong. I would find another way, another chance. I would carve out my vengeance even if it meant tearing this cursed body apart.
And so I vowed in that empty gallery, as Simons disappeared into the night, that his death would still be mine to deliver.
No matter what Death had planned.