"Did you really think it would be that easy?
You'd just say "I give up" or "I accept this new life" and suddenly the stars would shift in your favor?
No.
That was one step. A spark in the dark.
But redemption?
Redemption is not given. It is earned."
Somewhere far away, in a place dry and burning, another soul prepares to return. A name is erased. A cry is heard. And the ledger opens again…
___
A dream? Or maybe something else.
Regardless, whatever it was, Victor Blackwell had already dismissed it by the time he stirred his morning coffee. He stood at the glass wall of his Manhattan penthouse, surveying the skyline like it was a ticker tape. Everything, every inch of this city, had once bent to his advantage.
It was yet another day in his oddly monotonous life, one that should've felt like triumph. The markets were up. The press was quiet. The audit had been "handled." And today, just another routine check-up. A mild flutter in his chest. Nothing serious.
Or so he thought.
He checked his reflection one last time before starting his daily rounds: Tall, well-groomed, tailored to silent perfection. Charcoal-grey Brioni suit. Burgundy silk tie. A silver pocket square folded with surgical precision. His skin, pale from months indoors. His hair, perfectly swept back. To most, he still looked sharp, to all, he looked unbreakable.
The car was waiting. His driver, Alejandro, didn't speak much, and that was just how Victor liked it. The lobby staff nodded quickly as he passed. The elevator ride down? Smooth. Always was.
At the hospital, the front desk assistant looked up with a flicker of recognition and something else, disdain, maybe? She was tall, early forties, with dark skin and hair pinned back in a no-nonsense bun. Pale scrubs with a name tag that read: "S. Nyoka."
Victor gave her a once-over and then looked past her. "Blackwell. I have a 9:30," he said, like a man ordering a steak at a restaurant.
"Yes, sir. They're expecting you."
Her voice was neutral.
He was led to the private wing, where men of his status went to be preserved like prized relics. Every corridor smelled like money and bleach. His shoes didn't even echo.
The nurse helping him prep was younger. Nervous. Her hands trembled as she clipped the heart monitor on his chest. He didn't speak to her. He rarely did to people who looked like her. She was too brown, too desolate, too close to the systems he paid to manipulate.
Then the lights flickered briefly. Barely noticeable.
"Is that normal?" he asked. The nurse looked up, startled.
"It happens sometimes. Backup's always on."
Victor's pulse ticked on the monitor.
But ever so slightly.
"It's nothing," he muttered. "Just a test. I've beaten worse."
Like a bad omen, this time, he was wrong.
The monitor flatlined before anyone had touched a scalpel. Chaos ensued amidst the silence.
A nurse screamed.
Doctors rushed in.
And just like that, Victor Blackwell—the billionaire who had always thought death was like another system he could cheat, just as he did tax law—was no longer breathing. The angel of death came swiftly, as if to say, "Not this time, my old friend."
But even as the lights dimmed and he felt the cold embrace of the Reaper, his last conscious thought wasn't fear. It was irritation
"...and I didn't finish the merger."
Darkness swallowed him whole.
But not for long.