The Velvet Cross Jazz Bar.
Back Alley. 1:34 AM.
There are silences that scream louder than thunder.
Seraphina was stepping out of the bar, but tonight—something was different. As if something was about to happen, but she couldn't name it. The rain was falling slowly, drop by drop, yet it felt like the night was whispering something she couldn't quite hear.
The city wasn't asleep. But this alley? It felt dead. Too still. Too silent. Too expectant.
The old, rusted exit door of Velvet Cross creaked open.
A famous yet underground jazz bar on the Lower East Side.
She stepped out in heels, in a black velvet dress hugging her body, one shoulder strap slipping slightly. On a normal night, it would've made her feel powerful—divine, even.
Tonight, it felt like armor. Like something was missing.
She pulled her coat tighter.
The wind grew colder, slowly. Her long black hair clung to her neck like it didn't want to let go.
The rain was falling now—but the cold felt like it was crawling beneath her skin.
There's something wrong...
She stopped mid-step.
She grabbed the wall to steady the churning in her stomach.
She scanned the alley. There was no one. But the feeling wouldn't leave.
Something brushed the back of her neck even though the air was still.
As if there were eyes—not just watching, but waiting.
"Is someone there?" Seraphina asked softly, almost a whisper.
Her voice trembled. Fear had begun to creep into her chest.
There was no reply. The entire place was silent.
Only the soft hiss of neon lights above the bar. Like the pulse of a corpse that hasn't accepted it's dead.
And then—she heard a loud crack of lightning.
One flash. And another. That's all it took.
She caught a glimpse of a figure.
Beneath the rusting fire escape—he stood there.
Motionless. Shadowed. Drenched.
A man. Tall. Dressed in black.
He wasn't ordinary. He wasn't drunk. He hadn't come from inside the bar.
He wasn't watching her. He was waiting.
As if he knew exactly what time Seraphina would step outside.
Her heart pounded so loud, she could hear it echoing in her ears.
She thought—maybe he was an enemy. Maybe he wanted to attack her.
"Who are you?" She hadn't meant to say it. The words just fell from her lips.
But she froze when he suddenly vanished.
She looked around—He was gone.
No footsteps. No sound. Not even the wind dared to move. Just rain—and fear
"God..." she whispered, backing away.
Before she could run—Her vision shattered.
It was like her soul was yanked out of her body.
Her knees buckled. And in one blinding second, she wasn't in New York anymore.
This wasn't hallucination.
This wasn't trauma.
She was somewhere ancient.
In her sight, Somewhere burning.
A stone altar.
Blood on her hands.
Flames rising like wings behind her.
And screams—hundreds of them. Screams of betrayal, of war, of love turned to ash.
And the worst part? It was her own voice screaming.
She was on fire. She was dying.
But this wasn't now. It was then.
She gasped for air.
She pulled herself back into the present.
The rain was still pouring, relentless.
When she returned, she was soaked through.
The downpour had become heavier.
She dropped to her knees.
But before she could collapse to the ground—she felt strong, familiar arms catch her.
Warm. Too warm.
The warmth wasn't comforting.
It felt like fire wrapped in human skin.
She didn't move. She couldn't.
Then she heard a voice.
Deep. Slow. As tender as death, as heavy as guilt.
It whispered into her ear.
A voice from another life.
A voice she shouldn't remember—but somehow did.
"You shouldn't be here yet."
Chapel Ruins beside the alley.
1:45 AM.
Some doors don't open to shelter you.
Some doors open to bring you back.
The world was still spinning when she stood.
Seraphina had no idea how she got back on her feet—how she was suddenly standing again, or when her coat was back on her shoulders.
Her body moved, but her mind lagged behind, like a broken record trying to catch up.
The man—the mysterious figure she saw under the fire escape—was now in front of her.
He didn't speak. He simply turned and walked.
His steps made no sound. No wet footprints on the ground. But he left behind something else—an aura that erased the air around him as he passed.
She should've run. She should've screamed, rushed back into the bar, hidden. But she didn't.
Because somehow, deep in the marrow of her bones—she knew this man. Not in this life. But somewhere else.
And the strangest thing?
The closer he walked, the colder the world became—except for the sound of her name echoing faintly somewhere in the dust.
A voice she didn't remember—But that remembered her.
He led her to an old building tucked beside the alley, a half burnt chapel almost swallowed by nature.
Its roof—destroyed.
Its walls—still marked with soot.
Candles flickered inside, though no one should've lit them.
And the door? It glowed faintly.
When she reached for the door, it opened on its own. Or maybe because of her.
Somewhere at the back of her mind, something stirred.
Like an old pact, waking up.
She didn't know how she knew—but she had seen this chapel before.
Inside, time didn't move.
Dust hung like fog in the air. The scent of wax, smoke, and something older lingered—like sorrow that never left.
The altar was still there—cracked and broken. The stained glass, shattered.
But one window survived—casting red light onto the pews.
And onto him.
He stood beneath it. A silhouette in blood-colored light. He turned.
And Seraphina gasped.
He wasn't just a man. He looked like a sculpture the world tried to forget.
Marble skin. Sharp jaw.
Eyes that glowed faint red—But flickered between warmth and something darker.
He looked ancient. And yet, untouched by time.
Like war carved him.
Like love shattered him.
Like fate refused to bury him.
And still, she didn't know his name.
"You're not real," she whispered.
Still, he said nothing.
"Are you following me? Did you drug me? What the hell are you—"
Then he stepped forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if he'd broken her before—and didn't want to again.
He reached for Seraphina's wrist. He didn't pull. He didn't hurt her.
He simply touched her.
And for a split second—where his fingers met her skin—something flickered.
A mark.
A symbol.
A circle of thorns biting its own tail.
Then it vanished.
And just before it disappeared,
A whisper slithered into her mind—soft, broken, ancient.
"This mark was yours. And mine. A vow carved in flame."
And the world shattered again.
Fragments of forgotten memories flooded in.
Another life.
Another her.
She was dressed in red.
Not like the jazz stage—a queen in red velvet, dripping in jewels—But regal.
Gold embroidery kissed her skin.
She was barefoot.
Crowned.
Crying.
All around her: flames.
A war raged behind palace gates.
Screams tore through the night.
And in front of her—him.
The same man.
Holding a blade.
Bloodied.
Shaking.
Her own voice—clearer than ever—echoed inside her skull:
"Do it. As you promised."
She staggered.
The memory crashed into her lungs like thunder.
Because the next part—the part she couldn't unsee—Was the blade piercing her chest.
And his eyes—Not cruel. Not blank.
But devastated.
"AHHH—!" she shrieked, yanking herself from his grip.
She flew backward—nearly collapsing onto the chapel floor.
Her breath came in ragged gasps.
But this time, not from fear—But from the terrifying truth that she didn't know who she was anymore.
She looked up—And behind the altar—etched into the scorched stone like an ancient scar—was the same mark.
The circle.
The serpent.
The vow.
Her lips moved before her thoughts could catch up.
"Why does the altar know you?" He looked at her.
"Who are you?!" Her voice trembling. Furious. Broken.
Silence.
He didn't move for a moment.
Then slowly, he stepped forward.
One step at a time.
His face solemn. Eyes glowing.
And at last, he spoke.Just one word.
"Seraphina."
The way he said it—like he'd waited centuries just to say it again.
And then the whisper came: "You said I'd forget your voice first. You were wrong. You asked me to kill you.
Do you still want the truth?"
Seraphina's Apartment.
3:07 AM.
Some mirrors reflect more than just your face—Some reflect what your soul forgot.
The rain still pounded against the window—Like a thousand droplets racing from the sky. Like the fingers of someone clutching a secret.
The city was quiet—but inside Seraphina's apartment, it was a different kind of silence.
The kind that listens.
Seraphina stepped into the bathroom slowly, her body still trembling. Her hair soaked, her coat drenched.
The air inside was cold. Thunder rumbled outside like an omen.
She flicked on the light switch.
It sparked. Flickered. Then suddenly flared—casting sharp light into the dark night.
She stood before the mirror, its surface veiled in mist. Slowly, delicately, she swept her fingers across it—revealing more than just her reflection
And her eyes widened.
She saw two reflections in the glass.
Her own—shaking, soaked, confused.
And the other—A man standing behind her. Watching. Eyes glowing red, but cold. Like embers burning in the dark.
"W-who are you?" she whispered, barely believing it.
She turned quickly. No one was there.
No shadow. No breeze.
But when she looked back at the mirror—She saw the words written in the fog, as if someone had etched them there:
I remember
No matter where she looked, it lingered—etched in fog, like the truth had finally surfaced and refused to be unseen. As if the mirror whispered a secret buried long ago.
She watched blood fall from her hand.
No wound. No pain. Only the slow, creeping horror that something had awakened.
The blood slowly fell and formed a symbol—An ancient crest, like it came from another world.
She couldn't believe it.Her heart pounded faster.
She quickly grabbed the sketchpad nearby. She drew the symbol, thinking—maybe it was the key.
But when she opened her old sketchbook.
She saw it.
The same symbol. Already drawn.
But she didn't remember ever drawing it.
She clutched her chest, took a deep breath—And from between the pages, a slip of paper fell.
She picked it up slowly and read.
You died once. Don't make me watch again.
Her heart thundered.
She looked toward the window.
From the deepest part of her soul, a whisper escaped her lips.
"How can I forget a past I haven't even lived yet?"