Chapter 1: The Box
He had nothing left to live for.
In a single devastating moment, everything that tethered him to life had been ripped away. A car accident—one he somehow survived—had claimed the lives of everyone he loved. His parents. His best friend. And worst of all, her.
His wife.
She had been the light in his world. But after the crash, grief became her only companion. Overwhelmed and broken, she left him behind, unable to bear the sight of what remained.
As if fate hadn't had its fill, his sister—the only family he had left—was now slipping away, slowly devoured by an incurable disease. No money. No miracle. No hope.
Each day was a silent scream. Each night, a relentless spiral of guilt, regret, and aching emptiness. The loneliness was unbearable.
He had made up his mind.
Tonight, it would all end.
With trembling hands, he opened the drawer and retrieved the cold, heavy pistol he had kept hidden for years. He stared at it. The weight wasn't just metal—it was memory, misery, and finality. Slowly, he lifted it, pressing the barrel against his forehead.
His breath hitched.
Finger on the trigger.
Knock. Knock.
He froze. The sound echoed through the silent room like a cruel joke.
He scowled. "Who the hell...?"
Annoyed, almost enraged at the interruption, he tossed the gun onto the bed and stormed to the door, yanking it open.
And then he forgot everything.
Standing there was a woman—elegant, mysterious, and radiant. Her long dark hair shimmered like satin in the light, and her eyes held a strange calm. She smiled, holding out a small box wrapped in delicate, crimson paper.
"Hi," she said warmly. "I'm your new neighbor. I thought I'd bring a gift."
He blinked, taken aback. Her presence was disarming, surreal.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped, irritation resurfacing as reality returned.
She didn't flinch. Her voice remained gentle. "Just a welcome gift. I hope you like it."
He hesitated, then took the box and opened it.
Empty.
His chest tightened. This wasn't the time for jokes. "Is this some kind of—"
"Wha—?!"
Before he could finish, her expression shifted. From serene... to something else.
With a flash of silver, she pulled a knife from beneath her coat and drove it into his chest.
"ARGHHH!"
Pain erupted like fire. He staggered, falling backward, the room spinning into chaos. Blood soaked through his shirt as he stared at her in disbelief.
She knelt beside him, smiling that same kind smile. "Let's meet again... Draft."
Those were the last words he heard before everything went black.
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"W-Whoaaa!"
He jolted awake, drenched in sweat, chest heaving as if he had actually been stabbed.
"A dream...?" he muttered, heart racing.
But something was wrong.
He looked around. This wasn't his room. The walls weren't plaster or paint—they were wooden planks, rough and aged. The ceiling sagged slightly, and the air smelled of dust and pine.
"Where... am I?"
He stood up, legs shaky, and looked down at himself.
His hand—pale, almost ghostly. And smaller.
Panic bubbled inside him.
"Was I... kidnapped?"
But that didn't make sense. He had nothing of value, no enemies, no reason.
"Or... did she really kill me...?"
He rushed to the mirror propped against the wall. The reflection made him stumble back.
A boy—no older than fifteen—stared back at him.
Jet-black hair. Golden eyes. A face too unfamiliar to be his own, and yet...
"What in the hell...?"
Knock. Knock.
His thoughts were cut short by the sound. Again, that eerie, deliberate knock at the door.
He turned slowly.
The box was still on the table.
But now... it was no longer empty.