The rain fell in sheets, a cold blanket against Elias' face. Below, the city was a tapestry of neon and shadow, but his focus was a single lit window on the eighth floor of the building across the street. Inside, his target—a man named Kael—was in a frantic phone call, his face pale and slick with sweat. Elias watched him through the scope of his high-powered rifle, his breathing slow and steady.
For a decade, Elias had been a phantom, a whisper in the underworld. His name was a myth, his face unknown, and his work was always clean. He never left a trace. This was supposed to be the final hit, the one that would let him disappear for good. Kael had betrayed a client of Elias', and the price on his head was more than enough to buy a new life.
He had the shot. The crosshairs centered on the back of Kael's head. But something felt off. The street below was too quiet. The usual late-night traffic was gone, and the only sound was the distant wail of a police siren, a sound that was getting closer.
Elias lowered his rifle, his instincts screaming at him. This wasn't a setup for a hit; it was a trap. He spun around, but it was too late. A sharp pain bloomed in his side. He looked down and saw a glint of silver—a knife. The handle was carved into the shape of a serpent, the same one his handler always wore as a ring. Betrayal.
The handler, a woman Elias had worked with for years, stepped out of the shadows. Her face, usually so calm and composed, was now a mask of cold calculation. "Elias," she said, her voice soft and emotionless. "They made a better offer."
Elias stumbled back, clutching the wound, his mind racing. He had been so close to his new life. Now, it was slipping away. He looked into his handler's eyes, not with anger, but with a cold, clear understanding. He had lived by the sword, and now, he would die by it.
Another figure emerged from the shadows, a man with a heavy briefcase. He opened it, revealing not money, but a glowing blue stone, pulsing with an unnatural light. Elias' vision blurred as the man held the stone out toward him. The pain was unbearable, his body was failing, but he kept his eyes on the stone, his analytical mind trying to make sense of it.
Then, the world shattered. The neon cityscape, the cold rain, the pain—everything dissolved into a storm of light and sound. Elias felt himself being pulled apart, atom by atom, his consciousness stretching and tearing. He was nothing but a whisper in a storm of magic.
He was gone.
The first sensation was warmth. Then, a stifling heat. The air was thick, fragrant with the cloying scent of exotic flowers and old parchment. It was a stark contrast to the cold, wet reality he'd just left. He opened his eyes, but all he saw was a shimmering mosaic of colors that swam and shifted like a kaleidoscope. His limbs were heavy, his muscles weak, and he felt a strange, dizzying lethargy.
He blinked, and the colors solidified into a view of a finely carved, wooden ceiling. He was in a bed—a soft, oversized thing of silk sheets and goose-down pillows. Sunlight streamed in through a high window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. This was no hospital. It was no place he had ever been.
A name whispered in his mind, not in his own voice, but in one that felt impossibly young. Orion. The name belonged to this body, he realized. A body that felt frail, uncoordinated, and utterly powerless. It was a child's body. Panic seized him, a cold knot in his stomach. He tried to sit up, but his limbs refused to cooperate, trembling with the effort.
"Orion, you are awake," a woman's voice said, and the words were strange, lilting, yet he understood them perfectly.
A figure came into view, a woman with soft eyes and hair the color of spun silver. She was wearing a dress of fine silk, and a worried frown creased her brow.
"You have been ill for a long time," she said, her hand resting on his forehead. The touch was gentle, a kind of softness he hadn't felt in a lifetime. "Do not strain yourself."
Elias stared at her, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. He had been a professional, a killer, a predator. Now, he was a child, and the hand of a stranger was on his face. The world had gone mad, but his analytical mind, his core, was still there, observing, processing. He was not just in a new place; he was in a new life. And he had no idea what to do next.
He closed his eyes, his consciousness retreating deep inside this new, fragile body. He was Elias, the dead man who had woken up in a strange world. He was Orion, the boy who was gravely ill. Two parts of a whole he didn't understand. And for the first time in his life, he was utterly, completely, out of his depth.