Silence ruled the void.
Not the kind that pressed against the ears, but the kind that erased the idea of sound entirely. There was no up or down, or light and dark. Only awareness, suspended in nothingness.
I exist.
That realization came first.
I can't move.
The thought surfaced then corrected itself.
No. There's nothing to move.
There was no panic in that realization. panic
required a body. This was just the truth of my condition.
No body. No breath. No weight. I wasn't paralyzed, I was reduced. Stripped of everything but thought and memories.
So this is what remains, I thought. A mind without leverage.
Time was irrelevant here, or maybe it wasn't. either way, my memories play on repeat like a broken record. Not because I wanted them to, but because there was nothing else to occupy the space.
Insomnia had started it. Sleepless nights started to add up. I stopped going to school, and my friends slowly started to fade.
My mother didn't fade.
She grew weaker.
Sick. Exhausted. Still trying to smile for my sake.
I should have acted sooner, I thought. Not with guilt, but with the cold certainty of hindsight. I had miscalculated the pace of things.
I desperately wanted to help.
I tried doing it the right way at first. Job applications. Interviews. Empty reassurances. No one wanted a desperate kid with no experience and nothing to offer but effort.
Effort, I learned, was cheap.
So I adapted.
The wrong people found me, or maybe I found them. Cause and effect didn't matter much in the end. Results did.
I sold drugs.
It was effective. The money came in fast. Enough to pay for treatment. Enough to keep my mother alive.
Survival doesn't care about appearances, I told myself. Only outcomes.
My boss took a liking to me. Not because I was friendly, but because I didn't ask questions. Silence was a skill, and I was good at it. I learned fast. Handled weight others were afraid of. Kilos became routine.
Power followed.
Not the kind people celebrate. The kind that made conversations change when you entered a room. The kind that made people careful.
This is how the world actually works, I realized. Strength creates order. Everything else follows.
That was when my name started circulating.
A mistake, in retrospect. Visibility always was.
The memory shifted.
A damp street. Night air heavy with the smell of rain. The trunk of my stood open, white packages stacked neatly inside. Precision mattered. Presentation mattered.
"This is it," I said calmly. "Double for express service."
The client smiled. Clean cut. Expensive suit. The kind of man who looked like he belonged anywhere. Trigger, he called himself.
Too casual.
Carelessness disguised as confidence, I noted. Dangerous.
His men moved, transferring the packages. Trigger stepped closer and handed me a briefcase.
"Man of his word," he said.
I opened it.
Empty.
The gunshot came immediately after.
Pain bloomed in my chest, sharp and sudden, but fleeting. I stumbled back, the sound echoing down the street.
"You bastard," I muttered, more annoyed than afraid.
Trigger laughed. Loud. Unrestrained.
"I don't answer to anyone," he said, raising the gun again. "Ready to die?"
My vision blurred.
So this is the correction, I thought calmly. I misjudged.
No begging. No panic. Just acceptance.
"I'll see you in hell," I said.
The second shot erased everything.
And now I was here.
In the void.
The memory ended, but the questions lingered. Not about me.
About my mother.
How long did she cry?
Did the money last?
Was my absence survivable?
Grief felt inefficient. But uncertainty wasn't.
Before I could dwell on it further, the silence fractured.
A hum. Low. Vibrating through nothingness itself.
Then light.
A figure appeared, radiant against the void. Platinum blonde hair. Golden eyes. White wings holding her aloft. A halo hovered above her head, flawless and unmoving.
"Do not be afraid," she said, her voice echoing throughout the void with an impossible clarity.
Fear never came.
She spoke of reincarnation. Of another world. Different rules. Familiar structure.
I listened carefully. Not in awe. In evaluation.
"What about my mother," I asked.
She answered quickly. My mother lived. She healed. She found someone else.
Relief surfaced. Brief. Controlled.
Good, I thought. That variable is solved.
She spoke of a gift. Of urgency. Of a long path ahead.
Then she asked my name.
I reached for it.
Nothing.
The absence felt wrong. Not painful. Structural. Like missing a corner stone.
"A name has power," she said, smiling. "You'll be given a new one."
That unsettled me more than death had.
Power with a name is unstable, I thought. But flexible.
"You'll be on your own," she warned. "There are no second chances where you're going."
That earned my full attention.
Good, I thought. Then strength will matter.
Reality began to peel away.
"Good luck," she said softly. "Ren."
The name settled into me.
Sharp. Clean.
Appropriate.
My eyes opened.