"Brother, are you feeling okay?"
Rose wiped the vomit off the floor with a wet cloth she held in her hand, her movements slow and practiced, as if she had done this more than once.
The young man watched her from where he lay. Rose looked exhausted. Deep dark circles framed her red eyes, her body was thin, almost malnourished, her face gaunt and pale, black hair falling messily over her shoulders.
"I'm fine."
His voice sounded dizzy and confused. The moment she heard it, Rose hugged him tightly, as if afraid he might disappear. He raised a trembling hand and placed it gently on her head, trying to calm her.
A wave of nausea passed through him.
He tried to stand, but his mind and body failed to coordinate. This body felt wrong. Unfamiliar.
Rose helped him up and guided him to the living room before heading to fetch some water. The room was small, dim, and worn down by time and poverty. Cracked walls, old furniture, and the faint smell of dust filled the air.
As he stared at the floor, the dizziness faded, replaced by a sharp, gnawing hunger. From what he could tell, most of the food in this house went to Rose. Hunger and scarcity were not strangers here.
"Nero."
He raised his head. Rose held out a porcelain cup, chipped and stained with age. He took it and drank all the water at once. The cold liquid eased his nausea as it slid down his throat.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, worry evident in her voice.
He nodded and glanced at the clock and calendar hanging crookedly on the wall.
Tick.
Tock.
5:32 p.m.
Saturday, October 12, 1427.
So this was the day of his resurrection.
Feeling his body slowly stabilize, he stood and walked into the kitchen. Rose was reaching into a bread bag, pulling out two old, hardened loaves. In his current state, they looked like a feast.
She noticed him watching, walked over, and placed one loaf into each of his hands.
"Rose, I'm going out. I need to find work," he said.
He devoured both loaves in a single bite before heading toward the door.
Rose let out a soft sigh.
"Don't forget to take Dad's revolver."
He froze.
Digging through the body's memories, he turned down the hallway and entered his room. He opened the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a wooden box reinforced with metal edges.
Inside lay a revolver.
He opened the cylinder.
Two bullets.
Only two chances.
He tucked the revolver into his waist, hidden beneath his belt, returned to the living room, waved goodbye to Rose, and stepped outside.
The sunlight forced him to shield his eyes. He hadn't left the house in days.
As his vision adjusted, he began walking along the packed dirt road. Dust crept into his shoes, irritating his heels. The streets were alive—vendors shouting, children running, distant footsteps echoing between stone walls. Poverty clung to the air, yet life stubbornly moved forward.
Now alone, a single question echoed in his mind.
Why could he only remember the last twenty-four hours of his previous life?
Not his parents.
Not his friends.
Not even his own name.
He pushed the thought aside.
The present mattered more.
A shrill laugh suddenly cut through the air.
He turned toward the sound. A crowd had gathered around a street performer dressed entirely in black, a tall hat perched atop his head.
A magic show.
The young man moved closer.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. It is I, the incredible…" The performer paused dramatically. "Merlin!"
Applause erupted. Merlin moved theatrically, removed his hat, and reached inside. First his hand vanished, then his arm, and finally his entire body.
Gone.
A loud bang echoed as Merlin dropped back onto the stage. He snapped his fingers, and white birds burst from the hat, scattering powder like falling snow.
The young man watched only briefly before turning away.
He couldn't waste time.
The sky was darkening. It had to be around six.
He searched his memories—and found it.
A detailed mental map of the city. Streets, work districts, dangerous areas, cheap food stalls, even hidden alleys.
A treasure.
He headed toward a rundown bar called the Blue Sea.
Three minutes later, he stood before its damaged door.
Closed.
He clenched his jaw, steadied his breathing, and checked the map again.
Brown Day Cafe.
He slipped through narrow alleys, leaving dust in his wake, and entered the café. Warm air and the smell of coffee greeted him. The barista looked him up and down and sighed.
"Sir. Are you here to buy something or to work?"
"To work."
The barista pointed down a hallway. He walked to the end and opened a wooden door. A woman buried in paperwork glanced up.
"We're full. Not hiring today."
The door closed behind him.
Time passed.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Rejection after rejection.
By ten, night had fully claimed the streets.
He decided to return home.
In a narrow alley, three figures stepped into his path. One grabbed his arm, smiling mockingly.
"You're in my territory. Follow my rules."
"Give me your money."
He remembered a lesson from a long-forgotten psychology class: a human has two ways to react—flight or fight.
He chose.
His fist slammed into the man's ribs. A woman attacked next, her strike grazing his face. He kicked her stomach and crushed the first man's throat.
Blood splattered the ground.
The attackers fled in terror.
"Interesting. Very interesting."
The third man hadn't moved. He simply smiled.
The young man turned, lowering into a fighting stance, fingers inches from the revolver.
"Kid," the man said calmly, "would you like to earn some money?"