Ethan opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was his own corpse. It lay twisted before him, face tilted, eyes bulging as if to scold him for forgetting to write a will.
"Ugly as hell," Ethan muttered instinctively. Then he realized—he was floating above, peering at himself through a strange, translucent veil.
Before he could think, a cold wind dragged him into the dark.
—Act Two.
This time, he stood in the middle of a street. The sky bled red, people screamed all around, and an iron rod jutted straight through his chest. Blood poured like a leaky pipe. He clutched at it, but his hands were more useless than funnels.
Just as he gasped to scream, the scene collapsed—like stage props being yanked away.—Act Three.
Now he sat in an interrogation room. A mirror faced him. His reflection grinned, pulled out a scalpel, and slit its own throat. Blood splattered the glass, which reflected Ethan holding the blade. The lightbulb above popped and died, plunging him back into blackness.
—Act Four.
He woke inside a crematory furnace. Flames licked his skin. His eyeballs burst first, popping like popcorn. His nose melted, his teeth fell out, his bones crackled. The worst part—he could smell himself roasting, like discount barbecue in the next aisle over.
He shuddered and laughed."At least… I smell delicious."
The fire surged, and he died again.
—Act Five.
Now he plummeted from a skyscraper. Wind roared in his ears. The ground below became a field of familiar faces—Karl, the Bureau chief, rebels, strangers—all reaching up as if to catch him. Then, at the last second, they pulled their hands away.
"Surprise! Splat!"
He laughed as he smashed into pulp.
…
Death replayed, again and again. Execution by bullet, hanging, car crashes, crushed by nightmare gods. Once, he even choked to death on a half-chewed piece of bread. Each was brutally real, each agonizing—yet each ended with the same tug back into darkness and a fresh script.
Gradually, he stopped fighting.
"Oh, drowning this time? Fine. I never learned to swim anyway.""Falling again? Director, you're running out of material.""Pulled apart? Kinda cathartic, actually."
Like an overworked actor, he gave in, taking whatever role was handed to him. Death shifted from terror, to routine, to sheer monotony.
Until one scene—he found himself seated in a theater. The curtain rose. Onstage, actors appeared: every version of his death. Drowned Ethan, burned Ethan, fallen Ethan, shot Ethan—all reenacting their demise. The audience? Rows upon rows of Ethans, clapping and roaring with laughter.
"Welcome to your reality," said a masked version of himself, stepping forward to bow. "Death is the only constant. You can't escape it, and you don't need to. Accept it."
Ethan blinked, then shrugged."Sure. If death's the truth, then I'll be the best damn corpse I can be."
The crowd roared, applause shaking the theater. The curtain fell to a thunderous crash.
And in the dark, Ethan's final voice drifted, light as smoke:
"Hell yeah—that's what I call a black comedy."