It took some time for Donald to actually succumb to his death. Even after being shot with three bullets—two in the chest and one in the head—death didn't come early to him. For some reason, it took its sweet time, as if it wanted him to see something… to know something.
To Moreno, the two guards, and Jackson, of course, they believed Donald had perished and left this world—but they didn't know better. And they were wrong.
Yes, in their eyes and presence, it did look like Donald had died. After all, when he died, he died with his eyes wide open—and he saw and heard almost everything.
There he was, sitting by the fridge with his lifeless body. For a few seconds, it really did feel like Donald was gone and there wasn't any sign of life left in him.
The only thing that made him regain a flicker of consciousness was the distorted sound of voices, talking.
"Damn it! I got blood on my new suit," Moreno cried.
One of the bodyguards took out a handkerchief and handed it to Jackson, who was standing there, looking sad and heartbroken.
"What is this? What am I supposed to do with it?" Jackson asked, taking the handkerchief and staring at it like it was something disgusting.
The bodyguard didn't say much after that. He simply nodded, indicating to Jackson to go and clean off Moreno.
The other guard shoved Jackson forward. He tripped and almost fell into Moreno, who was busy inspecting himself.
After Jackson bumped into him, Moreno gave him a cold-blooded stare.
Seeing the emptiness in his eyes, Jackson couldn't help but feel a shiver of fear.
"H...h...here," he stuttered, shaking as he handed Moreno the handkerchief.
Moreno took it. "Oh, thanks, kid."
He began to clean himself, wiping the blood and goo from his cane.
Jackson, looking at the body of who he presumed to be the lifeless Donald, couldn't help but feel disturbed—because even in death, Donald's eyes looked like they could still see everything.
"Uhm, Moreno, boss... shouldn't we like... close his eyes? For some reason, it's giving me the creeps," Jackson asked.
Moreno finished cleaning his stick. After one last thorough wipe, he pointed it at Jackson, who was now caught off guard and terrified.
"Hey!" Jackson raised his hands in fear.
Then Moreno chuckled. "Relax, kid. I'm not gonna do anything to you."
He handed the handkerchief back to his bodyguard.
Jackson sighed in relief.
"Okay then, what about him?" he asked, referring to Donald.
Moreno looked at Donald, almost as if he were saddened to have had to do what he did.
"Oh, poor kid. You know, I liked this kid. He was a good kid."
Honestly, Jackson didn't care about any of that. He seriously didn't care about Moreno's sentimental reflection or his history with Donald. He just wanted to know one thing—what were they going to do with the body?
That's all.
"Okay, I get that, but my question is—what are you going to do with him? And can you at least close his eyes?"
Jackson was starting to get frustrated.
Moreno just looked at his two guards—and they started laughing, making Jackson feel deeply uncomfortable.
"What's so funny?" Jackson asked, trying to maintain his cool.
Moreno and his guards stopped laughing like nothing had happened, and Moreno gave Jackson a piercing, interrogating look.
"Why? You got somewhere to be, kid? Got money to spend?"
Jackson gulped.
He was starting to feel hot, which was odd for a cool night.
"Nah, I'm just worried someone might come and find all of this," Jackson lied through his teeth.
Clearly, Moreno didn't believe him—but to avoid any delays, he went along with it.
"Hmmm." Then he looked at his guards. "Guard Number One—go get a body bag from the car. Guard Number Two—you try to clean up this house, okay?"
The guards obeyed. Jackson couldn't understand why a mafia boss like Moreno would call his men by their job descriptions instead of their names.
But what Jackson didn't know was that Moreno called them that simply because he couldn't remember their names.
After all, even though Moreno was the top boss and the most feared man in the underworld, time was no longer on his side.
Why?
It was simple—Moreno was an eighty-year-old gangster who had been in the crime game for decades. And now, he was beginning to decay.
His hair had gone from grey to pure snow-white. His skin had become so frail that it started growing hair in places too obvious to ignore. The funniest part? He wore prescription glasses that made his eyes look three times their actual size.
Hence, the real reason for the stick—which was, in truth, a cane.
Finally, the guard who had been sent to get the body bag returned, just as the one cleaning had finished up.
"Good. Now put him inside, and let's go dispose of him," Moreno said, stepping aside for the guards to do their job.
Donald still saw all of this unfold—though in their eyes, he appeared dead. But deep within his soul, spirit, and consciousness, he was alive. He tried to break free, but something kept him imprisoned in his own body.
The guard laid him down, placed him in the bag, and tried to close his eyes.
"No, don't do that," Moreno stopped him.
"Why did you stop him?" Jackson asked without thinking.
Moreno gave him a cold stare, and Jackson backed away.
They had done everything—from cleaning the house and its bloodstains to carrying the "dead" body to the car.
And then they drove.
Donald wasn't fortunate enough to see what was happening anymore. He had been thrown into the trunk. The only things he could register were the sounds of the car driving—what felt like a long drive—and the muffled voices of Moreno and Jackson talking.
After what seemed like forever, the car finally stopped. Moreno, Jackson, the guards—and Donald's body—had all arrived.
They were now in the middle of nowhere. One of those places that usually mark the beginning of horror movies, just before something terrible happens to the unlucky ones.
The place was quiet and deserted. The only thing visible was a foot-tall cornfield behind Moreno, Jackson, and the others.
Jackson looked around and was stunned by what he saw—a well-groomed field with what seemed like a hundred crucifix signs marking buried graves.
"What is this?" Jackson couldn't believe his eyes.
No one answered him. Moreno just led the way, and his guards followed, walking toward an unnamed burial site.
They walked for a while until they stopped at a freshly dug grave.
Moreno stood there. "Throw him in," he ordered.
And then—
Thud.
That was the body of Donald hitting the hardened ground.
Lifeless.
And just like that, Donald finally succumbed to his death.
For real this time.
NOWHERE – VOID
Donald felt his lifeless body floating—but he didn't know where. The strange thing was, his body suddenly felt lighter, as though everything that had once weighed him down had been lifted.
He tried to look around, but he couldn't see anything—nothing but endless darkness, stretched out into an abyss.
He tried to feel himself. He started with his face, and what he felt wasn't what he expected. His face was smooth, like he didn't have any of the facial features he'd had before.
Not that it freaked him out or anything. Calmly, he moved his hands down from his face to feel his arms—and to his quiet relief, everything was still in place.
Then—
He moved to feel his chest… and, to his strange and unexplainable surprise, he couldn't feel it either. Smooth. As if he no longer had anything masculine about him.
But like all guys, his biggest question came next—his special area.
And yes, he did try to feel it.
But something stopped him.
More like he stopped himself.
Floating helplessly in the middle of nowhere, there wasn't much he could do at that moment.
Donald tried to convince himself that maybe he had been taken to some kind of waiting line—like one of those Egyptian god trials, where your soul waits to be judged, to see where it will be sent.
And from what he remembered, in order to have your judgment passed, you had to have something to offer.
At this point, he didn't even care where he was going to be sent.
He just wanted it over and done with.
But there was one slight problem—and that problem was, he had nothing to offer.
Not long ago, the only thing he could recall—though it brought pain and suffering—was his stupid decision to rush into something that wasn't his. A crime that had landed him here.
Yes, even if his intentions were good—even if he had a genuine reason behind it—it didn't make what he did right.
But of course, back then, he didn't think about the consequences. All he ever wanted was to get his mother the medication she needed in order to live.
And now, he had failed. Now he was here—while she was out there, alone and afraid… who knew where.
It was not a good memory lane.
It tortured him.
It tormented him.
Lost in the middle of nowhere… in the middle of nothing.
All hope was lost.
Then—out of nowhere—
A static sound echoed through the void. A crackling noise, like a corrupted computer infected by a virus.
Then—
A ping.
[ LIFELESS SOUL DETECTED ]
[ SOUL IN NEED OF BODY ]
[ IN NEED OF SAVING ASAP ]
[ TIME LAPSE REMAINING: 00:00:02:45 ]
A mysterious floating board appeared in front of Donald—and by the look of it, it was definitely doing something to him.
[ BEGIN SOUL TRANSFERENCE ]
Buzz. Buzz.
[ SOUL TRANSFERENCE INCOMPLETE ]
[ REASON: SOUL TOO DAMAGED ]
[ BEGIN SOUL REPAIRING PROTOCOL ]
What happened next was not something for the faint-hearted, because the pain that Donald felt when the protocol process began was far worse than the three bullets he had just endured.
It was excruciating.
Before anything else, Donald began screaming—loud, guttural screams filled with agony.
His soul felt like it was being stretched and pulled in all four directions—limbs tugged apart, his head twisting like a loose screw being forcefully jammed back into place.
Then came a sharp, stabbing sensation—like a needle piercing straight into the hole in his skull. It was being stitched back together, but not with care. No, it felt like it was being sewn shut by a crazed, blind woman with shaking hands and no mercy.
His head wasn't the only thing being sewn together—his chest, too, where the bullets had torn through him. A burning gust of air rushed through his open wounds, stinging like acid against raw nerves.
And the worst of all—
The moment he felt his heart.
It was like it was being pounded by a hammer and electrocuted at the same time—millions of volts coursing through it, every jolt firing off pain that echoed through his very soul.
Donald screamed and screamed—for how long, he didn't know. It felt endless.
Then… everything went quiet.
The torture… the torment… it subsided.
Donald gasped, trying to catch his breath. Relief washed over him—briefly.
But he was wrong.
Because something else was coming.
Something bigger.
Something worse.
Something that would feel like he was dying all over again.