It hurt.
Not the kind of pain that made him scream.
Not the kind that felt dramatic or meaningful.
Just something simple and unavoidable.
He was dying.
Something had pierced through his side this time. He could feel it clearly. Deep enough that moving even a little made the pain spread through his body. Still, he didn't look down.
There was no reason to.
Knowing what it was wouldn't change anything.
"…Seventeen," he whispered.
His voice sounded dry, like it had already given up before the rest of him did.
His legs gave out without warning. One moment he was standing, the next there was nothing holding him up. His body tilted forward and the ground rushed closer.
For a brief second, a thought crossed his mind.
This one feels slower.
Then everything stopped.
Not slowly. Not in a way that felt natural.
It just stopped.
The air froze around him. The faint movement of dust in the air stayed in place like it had been captured in a picture. The distant sounds that had filled the space earlier vanished completely.
Even the pain didn't disappear. It stayed exactly where it was, but it no longer grew or spread. It was as if someone had paused it.
His body remained suspended mid-fall.
He didn't struggle.
Didn't try to move.
This wasn't new.
A thin crack appeared in front of him.
At first, it looked like a small line, almost like something was wrong with his vision. But it stayed there. Then it slowly widened.
The space in front of him split open, stretching apart like something tearing through a thin sheet. There was no sound, no resistance. Just a clean opening.
Beyond it was something he couldn't fully describe.
Not darkness.
Not light.
Just… something still.
He stared at it without any real reaction.
No surprise.
No fear.
Just a quiet sense of recognition.
A hand reached out from the opening.
Covered in a black glove. Smooth. Clean. Almost too perfect.
It didn't move toward him.
It didn't signal anything.
It simply stayed there, waiting.
He looked at it for a few seconds.
"…You're late," he said quietly.
He didn't mean it.
And he knew it wasn't true.
It was just something to say.
As expected, there was no response.
There never was.
His eyes stayed on the hand, but his thoughts shifted slightly.
If I don't take it… what happens?
The idea felt unfamiliar.
Not because it was complicated, but because he had never seriously considered it before.
Would he just fall?
Would time continue like normal?
Would this finally end?
He didn't know.
And that uncertainty lingered longer than he expected.
He let out a slow breath.
"…No."
His fingers twitched slightly.
"That would be too easy."
He reached forward and grabbed the hand.
The moment their hands touched, everything changed.
There was no transition. No fading or distortion.
The world simply folded in on itself.
It felt like everything around him had been gathered and packed away. His body, the frozen air, the moment he had been stuck in, all of it compressed into nothing.
Then there was silence.
Real silence.
Not the paused kind from before, but something complete.
He was standing.
The pain was gone. His body felt normal again, but lighter somehow. Like something had been removed, though he couldn't say what.
The space around him was empty.
Not dark, not bright.
Just undefined.
He glanced down at his hands. No blood. No wound.
"…Seventeen," he said again.
This time it sounded more certain.
Like he was confirming it for himself.
He heard footsteps behind him.
Slow and steady.
He didn't turn right away.
There was no need to.
"…Same place as always," he said.
A short pause followed.
Then a voice answered.
"You remember."
The voice was calm and flat, exactly how he remembered it.
He turned slightly.
The figure stood a few steps away.
Black clothing. Clean and simple. The same gloves.
There was nothing special about the way the figure looked. Nothing that stood out.
And yet, in this empty space, that person felt like the only thing that actually existed.
"…Hard not to," he replied.
Silence settled between them.
It didn't feel awkward. It never did.
It was just empty.
"…Seventeen times," he said. "Or is it more?"
The figure tilted his head just slightly.
"Seventeen that you remember."
He frowned a little.
"So there's more."
The figure didn't answer.
That was enough of an answer.
He looked away for a moment, thinking.
Different lives.
Different endings.
But the same place every time.
"…Do I get the same thing again?" he asked.
A short pause.
"No."
That made him focus again.
"…So it changes."
"Yes."
The answers were always short.
He took a quiet breath and nodded slightly.
"…Alright."
There was no excitement in his voice.
No frustration either.
Just acceptance.
The figure raised his hand slightly, not offering it this time, just signaling.
It was time.
"Try not to die so quickly," the figure said.
There was a small pause before the next part.
"It becomes inefficient."
For a brief moment, something in him shifted.
From his own perspective, he felt the faint urge to laugh. Not because it was funny, but because of how absurd it sounded. After everything, that was the advice he got.
The feeling didn't fully form. It stopped halfway, turning into something closer to a quiet breath.
"…I'll try," he said.
The space around them began to change.
Not breaking or tearing this time.
It simply moved, like something was opening.
He didn't ask where he was going.
Didn't ask what would happen next.
Those questions didn't matter right now.
He took a step forward.
Then, just before everything shifted completely, he spoke again.
"…What do I call you?"
For the first time, the figure paused a little longer.
"You don't need to."
That was the answer.
And then everything turned white.