Time dragged like a broken clock. Two weeks had passed—and nothing happened.
Despair ate at Orien until he lied to his family, saying he was going on a short trip. He didn't want them to see the weight he carried. Quietly, he also searched for the right place to spend his "final days."
But nothing came. Only silence. Only doubt.
Was I wrong all along?
His room mirrored his mind—decay everywhere. Faded wallpaper. Clothes spilling from the basket. Curtains shut tight against the sun. Dust clinging to shelves. The sink stinking of dishes left too long.
In the dimmest corner, Orien curled against the wall, red-eyed and sleepless. For days, he'd resisted rest, terrified that sleep meant death. But staring at the wreck of his once-orderly room, something inside him snapped—not in despair, but in clarity.
He rose and walked into the bathroom.
The mirror greeted him with a ghost: hollow eyes, a face rough with two weeks of stubble.
"I almost can't recognize myself anymore," he muttered. "Is this… what despair looks like?"
Then he straightened. A flicker of defiance burned in his reflection.
"I've lived too long in fear, carrying a weight I never asked for. Enough. If death is coming, let it come—but I'll meet it as myself."
He picked up the shaver. As the blade hummed, stubble fell into the sink, and with it the burden he had carried. He rinsed his face, touched his smooth chin, and smiled faintly.
"I look better now."
The cocoon cracked. Something inside him shifted.
He opened the curtains; sunlight poured into the gloom. He washed his clothes, scrubbed the dishes, swept away the dust. By the time he stood in his fresh shirt and blue jeans, the room no longer reeked of despair.
Outside, the afternoon sun wrapped him in warmth. 1:00 PM. The street bustled, indifferent as always.
And Orien realized: The world doesn't care if I live or die. Life will move on without me.
The thought should have crushed him. Instead, it freed him.
He walked toward the shop across the street, hunger gnawing at him. But halfway there, a strange chill pricked the back of his neck. He turned—no one.
Maybe I'm just tired, he told himself.
At the crosswalk, the signal flicked green. He stepped forward.
And then—
A blaring horn.
A flash of white metal.
A truck hurtling through the red light.
The driver, eyes glued to his phone, never saw him.
Impact. Orien's body slammed against the hood, rolled across glass, and crashed onto the asphalt. His phone skidded away. Silence, for a breath.
Then chaos. Screams. Footsteps.
A woman knelt beside him, voice trembling as she called for help. "Stay with me! Don't move. You'll be okay!"
But Orien's vision blurred. His chest barely rose. Blood pooled warm beneath his head. His hand twitched. His lips tried—and failed—to form words.
And then he saw it.
From his shadow, something stepped forward. A figure—humanoid, formless, unreal.
Death… so this is it.
But before it reached him, a growl rippled the air—half purr, half monstrous snarl.
A colossal black cat emerged from the shadow. Golden eyes blazed like suns. Its fur shimmered with the night itself.
Orien remembered. The dream. The regal feline that had lain by his side.
He stretched a trembling hand. The beast brushed against his palm, warm, alive. A fragile smile touched his lips.
Darkness pulled at his vision. Sirens wailed in the distance.
No one else saw the cat. To everyone else, it was just a young man broken on the crosswalk, whisked away by EMTs as strangers cursed the reckless driver.
But to Orien, one truth remained as his eyes drifted shut:
Death had not come alone. Something else had chosen him.
Inside the ambulance, the steady beeping of monitors blended with the low hum of wheels grinding against asphalt. Two paramedics flanked Orien, their eyes never leaving him—checking his pulse, scanning his vitals.
"Pulse stable, but vitals still erratic," one reported, speaking into his radio as he relayed the situation ahead to the hospital.
"It's okay. You're going to be fine. Just keep breathing," the other said softly, his voice steady, pulling hope out of thin air.
But Orien's senses were slipping away. The flashing lights, the metallic chirp of machines, the muffled voices—all blurred together. His vision tunneled, darkness rushing in, and then—nothing.
A sudden vibration broke the stillness. His phone lit up. One paramedic answered, his brow furrowing at the sight of the caller ID.
From the other end came a panicked female voice.
"Thank God you picked up! I'm at the crosswalk near his apartment—I think an accident just happened there. Where's Orien? Is he okay?"
The paramedic froze, caught between truth and tact. "Ma'am… may I know your relation to the owner of this phone?"
A pause. Then a hard swallow. "I'm… his mother. Who are you? Where is my son?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the paramedic said gently. "Your son was in a car accident. We're stabilizing him now. He's almost at the hospital."
The line went quiet, heavy with the weight of the words. Before hanging up, the paramedic quickly texted the hospital address.
Her partner glanced at her. No words were needed. She only shook her head and murmured, "Same old. You know the drill." Still, her gaze lingered on Orien, a flicker of pity in her eyes.
Moments later, the ambulance screeched to a halt. The hospital doors burst open. Doctors and nurses swarmed with a gurney. Orien was transferred from stretcher to roller, wheeled into the glaring lights of the ER.
His body stirred faintly, but all he could hear were blurred voices—hands pressing against him, equipment clattering, the shrill squeal of the gurney's wheels. Sliding doors parted. A red light above flashed. The operating room swallowed him. Darkness claimed him again.
---
When awareness returned, he was no longer in a hospital. A blinding white expanse stretched endlessly in every direction.
Did I… die?
He tried to look at his body—but there was nothing. No hands, no legs. Only a presence adrift in the void. He tried to move, but there was no up or down, no sense of distance or time.
I'm a soul… Realization hit. If I'm like this, my body must be in some kind of coma… or worse.
The stillness shattered. Without warning, the space trembled violently, tossing him like a leaf caught in a storm.
---
Meanwhile, in the operating room:
"We're losing him!"
Gloved hands pressed into his chest. A flash of electricity jolted his body upward before it sagged limp again.
"Charging to 200—clear!"
Shock. Nothing but the shrill flatline.
"Again—clear!"
Another jolt. No response.
Syringes clattered. Drugs were pushed. A nurse phoned the ICU, voice trembling. The anesthesiologist called out times and doses.
Five minutes passed.
The lead surgeon gritted his teeth, compressions steady. "Don't do this to us, Orien. Not now."
Eight minutes.
"Alright… last try. Charge to 300. Clear!"
Shock surged. His body jerked, then collapsed still. Silence. One beat. Two.
The monitor remained flat.
"Time of death: 3:45 p.m."
The surgeon stepped back, shoulders heavy. "Call it."
Gloves peeled away. Tools clinked into trays. The ventilator powered down. A white sheet was pulled gently over Orien's face.
Outside, the hospital bustled on. Inside, one chapter of his life had ended.
---
But in the white expanse, the quake peaked. A low whirling sound cut through the chaos. Out of nothing, a black door formed—its surface carved with golden sigils that pulsed like a heartbeat of hidden power.
Something beyond called to him. Irresistible.
Drawn closer, Orien floated toward the door. Its glowing patterns throbbed like living veins of light.
Without warning, the door swung open. A force yanked him through. The moment he crossed the threshold, it slammed shut—and vanished as if it had never been.
The collapse of the door triggered the collapse of the white expanse itself, folding into nothingness… forever.
---
Author's note: revised chapter for clarity. Chapter 3&4 merged into 3