The office smelled of instant coffee and burnt-out dreams.
Fluorescent lights buzzed above, their white glare spilling over rows of cubicles. Keyboards clacked, printers hummed, and somewhere, a phone rang endlessly with no one caring enough to answer.
A man sat at his desk, staring at the spreadsheet that had eaten three hours of his life. Numbers blurred on the screen, twisting into meaningless patterns. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he hadn't typed anything in minutes.
Twenty-nine years old. A degree that no longer mattered. A job that paid just enough to keep the landlord off his back. His reflection in the black corner of the monitor looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess, shirt crumpled from yesterday's wear.
He sighed and leaned back. The chair squeaked in protest.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
When he was younger, he thought life would be different. He thought he'd make something of himself—an artist, a writer, anything that gave meaning. But dreams cost money, and money was the one thing he never had enough of. One small failure bled into the next, until the weight of responsibilities crushed everything else.
Now, he was just another nameless face in the city. Replaceable. Forgettable.
"Hey, Mendoza!"
A voice cut through his thoughts. He looked up to see Garcia, his supervisor, leaning over the cubicle wall. The man's tie was too tight, his smile too wide.
"Numbers are due before lunch. Don't slack off."
"Yeah," Alaric muttered, forcing a nod.
Garcia disappeared.
Alaric's jaw tightened. He wanted to curse, to slam his fist on the desk, to do something reckless. But he didn't. He never did.
Instead, he went back to the spreadsheet. Numbers, rows, columns. A pointless puzzle.
Minutes crawled into hours. He finished his work, sent the email, and leaned back again. His chest felt tight, his thoughts foggy. He hadn't eaten since last night—just a cigarette in the morning and stale coffee after.
He rubbed his temple. Maybe he needed fresh air.
The office windows were sealed, of course. Corporate prison cells never had open windows.
He stood, legs stiff from sitting too long, and shuffled toward the bathroom. The floor swayed beneath him. For a moment, he thought it was just exhaustion.
Then the pain hit.
Sharp, crushing pain in his chest.
He stumbled, grabbing the wall for support. His breath came shallow, ragged. He tried to call out, but the words wouldn't come.
A few heads turned. Colleagues stared, eyes wide, but no one moved. No one ever moved.
His knees buckled. He hit the floor, gasping.
The buzzing lights above blurred into streaks of white. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, then stuttered. The cold tiles pressed against his cheek.
So this is it?
The thought came bitter, almost mocking.
All the years of struggle, of chasing scraps, of pushing himself through every disappointment—only to collapse here, in the middle of an office, surrounded by people who wouldn't even remember his name a year from now.
No grand meaning. No closure. No one by his side.
Just another meaningless ending.
The world dimmed around him. His vision narrowed, then faded into black.
—
Darkness stretched on forever.
Alaric drifted in it, weightless, thoughtless. He should have been gone. That's what death was supposed to be. Quiet. Final.
But then—
A sound.
Distant, muffled. Crying.
His eyes snapped open.
Not the sterile white ceiling of the office. Not fluorescent lights. Instead, he was staring at a wooden roof, rough-hewn beams darkened by age and smoke.
His body felt wrong. Too small. Too fragile. He tried to move, but his limbs jerked uselessly. His hands—tiny, pale fists—flailed in the air.
Panic surged.
He opened his mouth to shout—only for a weak wail to escape.
The sound wasn't his voice.
It was a baby's.
What the hell…?
Memories clashed in his head—the office, the heart attack, the suffocating weight of life—and now this. He wasn't dreaming. He wasn't dead. Somehow, impossibly, he was alive again.
Reborn...
He lay wrapped in cloth, his cries echoing in a dim room. Shadows moved—figures leaning over him, their words sharp, unfamiliar. He didn't understand the language, but he caught the urgency in their tones.
A woman held him close, rocking him. Her face blurred through his newborn eyes, but he felt the warmth in her arms. For a fleeting moment, something inside him softened.
But it didn't last.
The door burst open. Rough voices shouted. The woman screamed, clutching him tighter.
Men stormed in, armed with blades and wearing ragged cloaks. One of them barked an order, and another yanked the woman away.
Alaric's world tilted, spun. Hands that smelled of sweat and leather grabbed him, tearing him from her grasp. He cried, flailing helplessly, but his tiny body was no match.
The woman's voice rose, breaking with desperation.
Then came the sound of steel. A cut-off scream.
Alaric's cries turned silent, not because he chose it, but because something inside him froze.
He couldn't see clearly. He couldn't understand. But he knew. She was gone.
And now he was being carried away.
The men moved quickly, rushing into the night. Cold air bit his skin, moonlight flashing through gaps in the trees as they entered the forest. He tried to fight, to scream, but his voice was nothing but whimpers.
Leaves rustled underfoot. Owls hooted. The forest loomed dark and endless around them.
Alaric's tiny heart pounded. He had died once. He had been given another chance. And already, the world was trying to snuff him out again.
—
That was how his second life began.
Not with hope.
But with blood, fear, and the certainty that survival would never come easy.
The man who had taken him didn't stop running.
Alaric's tiny body jolted with every step, the world a blur of shifting shadows and moonlight. His captor was fast, his breathing steady despite the weight he carried. The man moved with practiced silence, his boots hardly snapping a twig as they cut deeper into the forest.
Alaric could barely process what was happening. The warmth of his mother's arms, the sudden violence, the metallic smell of blood—it was all still there, etched into his newborn senses. He tried to scream, but his cries came weak, muffled against the man's chest.
"Shut it," the man hissed. His voice was low, ragged, like gravel grinding together. He adjusted his grip and pressed a hand against Alaric's mouth. "I don't need your wailing giving us away."
Alaric's heart pounded harder. The man's words were strange, but he could understand them—or at least, he felt like he did. His brain wasn't fully forming the meaning, but the intent carried across.
The man slowed after several minutes, weaving through the trees with the familiarity of someone who had walked these paths countless times. He muttered to himself, more to the shadows than to Alaric.
"Your bastard of a father won't laugh after this. No more looking down on me. No more pretending I don't exist."
Father.
The word struck Alaric like a jolt. His newborn body couldn't understand everything, but his mind—his old mind, the one that had lived and died as Alaric Mendoza—snapped onto it. Whoever this man was, he wasn't here for money. This wasn't just a random kidnapping.
This was personal.
The man carried him into a clearing where moonlight spilled like silver water across the ground. He crouched, pulling out a leather flask and drinking deeply. His free hand reached into his cloak, pulling out a curved dagger. The blade gleamed faintly, sharp and well-kept.
Alaric's stomach twisted. Even without words, even without explanations, instinct told him the man wasn't someone who hesitated to kill.
The assassin wiped his mouth and looked down at Alaric. His face finally came into focus—sharp cheekbones, unkempt beard, eyes filled with years of bitterness.
"You don't even know who I am, do you?" His lips curled into a bitter smile. "No, of course you don't."
His grip tightened. "But you'll remind him of me. Even if it's just as a corpse."
Alaric's chest constricted. He couldn't move, couldn't fight back. He was helpless, trapped in a body that couldn't even hold a spoon.
The man stood, sheathing his dagger again. "No. Not yet. Killing you now would be too easy. I'll make him suffer first."
That was when the forest changed.
The wind stilled. The usual chorus of insects and owls cut off, replaced by a silence so heavy it pressed on Alaric's tiny ears.
The man froze, every muscle tensing. His eyes darted to the treeline.
A low growl rolled out of the darkness.
Then another.
And another.
Shapes slithered and stalked between the trees, their eyes glowing faintly in the dark. The assassin's hand went to his blade in a blur, pulling it free with a metallic whisper.
"Damn it," he muttered, shifting Alaric to one arm and holding the dagger with the other. His stance lowered. Predatory. Ready.
The first creature stepped into the clearing.
It was wolf-like, but not entirely. Its body was too long, its limbs too thin, and its jaw stretched wider than it should, rows of jagged teeth glinting under the moon. Dark fur bristled, and a foul stench carried on its breath.
Two more slunk behind it. Then five. Then ten.
Alaric whimpered. The sound drew every glowing eye toward him.
The assassin hissed through his teeth. "Monsters. Just my luck."
The first one lunged.
Steel flashed. The assassin sidestepped, dragging the blade across the beast's throat in one smooth motion. Black blood sprayed, the creature collapsing with a strangled snarl.
The others circled, growling.
"Come on, then," the assassin spat, shifting his grip on Alaric. "Let's see which of us walks away."
They came at him in a frenzy.
The man moved like liquid shadow, his dagger carving arcs of silver through the night. Each strike was efficient, each step purposeful. He twisted, ducked, slashed—killing with the precision of someone who had spilled blood countless times before.
But there were too many.
Claws raked across his arm. Fangs sank into his leg. He kicked one beast away, stabbing another through the skull, but more piled in. His cloak tore, his blood joining the monsters'.
Alaric was jostled violently, his small body clutched against the man's chest as the assassin fought with savage desperation. Every motion rattled him, every strike sending shockwaves through his fragile frame.
Then it happened.
A claw raked across the assassin's chest. Too deep. Too fast.
He staggered, choking on blood. His grip on Alaric faltered.
"No—!" he rasped, trying to pull him closer, but another beast lunged, sinking teeth into his shoulder.
The man screamed, a sound torn between fury and agony. He swung wildly, stabbing the monster again and again until it released him.
But it was too late.
The wolves closed in. His strength faltered. One last slash, one last curse, and then the creatures dragged him down.
Alaric tumbled from his arms, hitting the ground wrapped in his swaddling cloth. His cry pierced the clearing, shrill and raw.
The beasts turned.
Their glowing eyes fixed on him.
Alaric's body stiffened, terror drowning him. This was it. He couldn't run. Couldn't fight. Couldn't even crawl. Death, again, in a body that had barely begun to live.
The first monster padded closer, its jaws dripping black saliva. It loomed over him, breath rancid, teeth inches away.
Alaric squeezed his eyes shut.
But the bite never came.
A long moment passed. Then another.
He opened his eyes, trembling.
The beast was still there, staring. Its nostrils flared as if sniffing something unseen. Then, slowly, it backed away.
Another beast approached. It, too, stopped short, lowering its head almost in a bow before turning aside.
One by one, the monsters circled him. Not touching. Not attacking. Just watching. Their growls quieted to low rumbles, almost… reverent.
And then, as suddenly as they appeared, they retreated. Melting back into the trees, their glowing eyes vanishing one by one until only silence remained.
The clearing stank of blood and death. The assassin's body lay broken, torn apart by claws and fangs.
Alaric was alone.
Alive.
For reasons he couldn't begin to understand.
-----
The forest was quiet again. Too quiet.
Alaric lay on the cold earth, wrapped in bloodstained cloth. His tiny chest rose and fell in quick, frightened bursts. The monsters were gone, but the echo of their growls clung to the clearing like smoke.
He turned his head, his weak neck straining. Not far from him, the assassin's body sprawled in the dirt. Torn. Mangled. Lifeless.
The metallic tang of blood filled the air. The night was colder now, or maybe it only felt that way because the warmth of another body was gone. The assassin—his captor, his would-be killer—was nothing more than a corpse. Yet even in death, his presence loomed.
Alaric whimpered, the sound pitiful and small.
He was alone.
Alone in a world that wasn't his. Alone in a body too fragile to fight. Alone with a corpse and the memory of monsters that had spared him.
Hours passed like shadows stretching. The moon climbed higher, then began its slow descent. Hunger gnawed at him, a hollow ache in his tiny stomach. Thirst burned his throat, his lips dry even as drool pooled at the corner of his mouth.
His cries grew hoarse. No one came. No mother. No father. No savior.
The silence pressed harder, broken only by the distant calls of night creatures that had no interest in him. The forest was alive, but not for him. He was an intruder, a fragile scrap of life that didn't belong.
Fear coiled tighter in his chest. Not the vague fear of an infant, but something deeper. The fear of a man who knew what death was, who had felt it once before.
He remembered the cold. The darkness. The stillness of lungs that refused to fill. He had died once. He couldn't die again. Not like this. Not as nothing.
His tiny fists clenched, nails scratching against his own skin. The act was feeble, useless, but it was something. A refusal.
His gaze drifted back to the assassin's body. The man who had hated him without reason. The man who had cursed his father. The man who had carried him here, only to leave him with monsters.
Now he was still. Silent. Flesh turning pale beneath the moonlight.
And yet… Alaric couldn't look away.
Something stirred inside him.
It wasn't pity. It wasn't horror. It was something stranger, something that pressed against the edges of his mind, hot and heavy, like a heartbeat that wasn't his.
A whisper, silent but deafening, filled his skull. He didn't know the words, couldn't form them, but the meaning was there.
Life.
Death.
Power.
The air seemed to thrum around him. The shadows deepened. For a moment, it felt as though the assassin's body wasn't empty, as though something lingered, hovering just beyond reach.
And Alaric felt it. Felt it reaching for him as much as he reached for it.
His stomach ached. His throat burned. His body trembled. And yet, deep inside, something answered.
A spark in the void.
A current that wasn't supposed to be his, moving where it shouldn't.
His infant body shivered violently. His vision blurred, not from tears this time, but from something else—something twisting the air. The hunger and thirst sharpened, mingling with the pull he felt from the corpse.
Like there was something inside the man's death that could fill him.
Sustain him.
He didn't understand it. He couldn't. But his body… no, something deeper than his body… responded.
The world seemed to exhale.
The whisper faded, leaving him gasping weakly on the ground. His cries had gone silent, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. A warmth lingered in his chest, faint but real, pushing back against the cold that had begun to seep into his bones.
Alaric blinked slowly. The assassin's corpse no longer looked just like a corpse. It looked like… a vessel. A source.
Something he shouldn't touch.
Something he already had.
Fear curled tighter around him, but it was different now. Not just the fear of death, but the fear of himself.
He lay there, panting softly, the night heavy around him. His hunger was still there. His thirst was still there. His weakness was still there.
But he wasn't the same as before.
Something had changed.
The monsters had spared him. The corpse whispered to him. And deep inside, in a place even his newborn body couldn't restrain, power had stirred.
The forest watched. The moon sank lower. And Alaric—reborn, helpless, and strange—remained.
Alive.
Alone.
Waiting.