You ever wake up and wonder if the universe made a mistake putting you here?
Yeah. Me too. Every day.
They say life is what you make of it. That if you just try hard enough, smile wide enough, work late enough—you'll get somewhere. Somewhere bright. Somewhere better.
But they never tell you what to do if you start with nothing. Or worse… if you start as someone else's mistake.
I wasn't born into poverty. Or war. Or anything noble enough to explain the misery. Just… into the middle of a cold, quiet living room where two people sat across from each other and forgot how to love.
My parents used to fight. Loud, messy, exhausting arguments over things like dinner or rent or what channel was playing too loud.
At first, I thought that was normal. Couples fight, right? I was too young to know better.
But even as a kid, I could tell—it wasn't about what they were yelling. It was about the fact that they were yelling at all. Like they needed it. Like they'd fall apart if they didn't blame someone.
I just didn't know it was me.
Not until I turned eight, and my father's words slipped through the hallway walls like poison gas.
"Why the hell did you keep him if he's not even mine?"
Yeah. That'll do it.
Turns out, I was the result of an affair. A detail. A side note in my mother's crumbling life.
My father—well, the man I thought was my father—tried to make it work for a while. Pretended. Smiled through gritted teeth at school meetings. Bought birthday presents I knew he didn't want to give.
But love doesn't grow in rot. It just drowns there.
Eventually, he left. Found someone new, someone less complicated. Someone who didn't come with a walking reminder of betrayal.
And my mother… cracked. Not in a dramatic, wine-glass-throwing way. No. It was quieter than that.
She started looking at me like I was a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong box. Like I didn't fit anywhere in her world.
"You ruined everything," she said once.
Another time: "I should've let him go before I let you happen."
Hunger turned into hatred. Hatred turned into bruises. And I stopped calling the pain what it was.
Because if you don't name it, maybe it's not real. Right?
I don't talk about what she tried to do to me. I don't see the point. The worst things aren't the ones that hurt the most. They're the ones that stay quiet the longest.
When I turned eighteen, she left.
Didn't even wait for my birthday. Just packed a bag and vanished—like I'd been a rental she forgot to return.
She left behind a mountain of debt in my name. Some of it forged. Most of it real.
That was her parting gift: abandonment, bills, and the decaying walls of a studio apartment that smelled like mold and regret.
I tried to hold on. I really did.
Finished most of senior year. Got through midterms with duct tape and instant noodles.
Then I stopped showing up.
Then I stopped eating.
Then the eviction notice came.
I didn't cry when the landlord knocked. Didn't beg. Just nodded, packed what little I had, and left.
I walked the city for three days. Slept behind vending machines. Ate nothing. Said even less.
And on the fourth morning… I saw it.
A truck.
Speeding.
Headlights bright like judgment.
And for once… I made a choice.
A quiet one.
One step forward.
Just one.
Because when you've got nothing—not family, not hope, not a damn reason to breathe—
Even death starts to feel like a favor.
#####
Huh?
That was the first thought that surfaced. Not exactly poetic for a guy who just walked into traffic, but here we are.
I opened my eyes slowly, half-expecting pain. None came. Just a strange numbness in my limbs and a cold itch against my back. The air felt still. Heavy. Like the room had stopped breathing.
Except—I wasn't in a room.
Above me, the sky stretched wide in an unnatural shade of violet, deep and soft like bruised twilight. But it wasn't the color that caught me.
It was the fractures.
Thin, jagged lines ran across the sky like someone had dropped the whole damn world and tried to glue it back together. They shimmered faintly, like cracks on glass, glinting with some inner light I couldn't explain.
"…Where am I?"
The words barely left my mouth, dry and raw like I hadn't spoken in days. I pushed myself up on my elbows and sat up fully, slowly, as if the air around me might break next.
The ground beneath me was smooth, cold, and hard—stone, maybe, though I couldn't see much detail. There was fog. Not thick enough to blind me, but enough to paint the world in drifting strokes of purple haze. I couldn't see the edges of wherever I was. No buildings. No signs. Just endless flatness and fog and a broken sky overhead.
It didn't feel like a dream. And I'd had some weird ones.
I looked down and blinked.
"What the hell am I wearing…?"
An oversized T-shirt hung loosely off my frame, pale and almost translucent under the strange light. It looked like the kind of thing you give patients in hospitals—or prisoners, depending on the mood. No shoes. No pants. No explanation.
"Hello there."
I froze.
The voice came from behind me—soft, clear, feminine. But there was something odd about it. Not threatening. Just… calm. Like she'd been waiting.
I turned.
Standing a few feet away was a woman, maybe in her mid-twenties. Tall, slender. Hair the color of fresh snowfall flowed past her shoulders, almost weightless in the still air. Her eyes were a sharp, haunting violet that seemed to shimmer like the cracks above us. She wore the same kind of oversized shirt I did, the hem brushing her knees, sleeves long enough to hide her hands.
She looked like she belonged here.
I still didn't know where here was.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice more tired than curious.
The woman smiled—not in a warm way, not cold either. Just… knowing. Like she already understood things I hadn't begun to ask.
"I'm Ophelia," she said gently. "And it's nice to finally meet you."Ophelia tilted her head slightly, eyes tracing my face with quiet curiosity.
"You look confused."
I blinked at her. "Of course I'm confused. I don't know where I am, what this place is, or why the sky looks like a broken window."
She smiled again—same soft, unreadable curve of the lips.
"Fair. So, to answer your question... the thing is, you died."
I stared at her.
"...What?"
"Yeah," she said lightly, like she was describing a spilled drink. "It was pretty tragic, too. That truck hit you head-on and dragged your body about twenty feet across the highway. You were nearly split in two. It was... messy."
I blinked. Looked down at myself. Wiggled my fingers.
"...Is that so."
"Mm-hm. Well... mostly."
Mostly?
I didn't even ask. I just sat there for a second, breathing air that didn't feel like air and trying to wrap my head around the phrase you died.
So I'm dead.
Huh.
You'd think it'd hit harder. Like a punch to the chest.
But all I felt was... dull.
Not shocked.
Not relieved.
Just sort of... finished.
Honestly, that tracks.
"Feels weird," I muttered under my breath, "but I'm not exactly opposed to it."
I looked around again—purple fog, fractured sky, too much silence for comfort.
"So... is this the afterlife? Doesn't really match the brochure."
Ophelia snorted softly.
"This isn't heaven. Or hell."
That didn't help.
"...Then what is it?"
She turned her eyes upward toward the fractured sky.
"The Glass Garden," she said. "You could call it my own personal prison."
A prison.
Great.
I squinted at her. "Okay... and why did I end up in your weird, broken-sky prison?"
She smiled—this time with a flicker of something behind her expression. Not joy. Not cruelty.
Just... interest.
"Because I hijacked your soul before it could move on."
I stared. Blinked. Then tilted my head slightly, mimicking hers.
"You hijacked my soul."
"Yep."
"Like… soul theft."
"Technically spiritual redirection," she said, waving a hand vaguely. "But yes."
There was a pause. Long enough for the silence to settle back in.
"...Why?"
Ophelia's eyes brightened slightly, and she chuckled.
"Yeah, that's the reaction I was hoping for." She folded her arms, casual and unbothered. "Look, instead of spending eternity in whatever version of hell you probably earned—"
I raised a hand. "Rude."
"—I'm offering you a deal."
I looked at her for a long moment. Then sat back slightly on my hands, exhaustion pulling at my shoulders.
"You know, I've always imagined my death would be quiet. Maybe peaceful. Not... purple fog and soul-hijacking strangers offering deals."
Ophelia shrugged. "That's fair. Still, it could've been worse. You could've ended up in the real afterlife."
I didn't ask what that meant.
Instead, I sighed. "Alright. What kind of deal are we talking here?"
She stepped closer, stopping just outside my reach.
"I'll reincarnate you," she said. "Into a different world. Somewhere far from here. You'll get a second shot—another life. One
where maybe... you don't start broken."
I raised an eyebrow.
"And in return?"
She smiled, and for the first time, I felt a faint chill slide down my spine.
"In return," she said, "you'll do something for me."
A second chance at life, huh?
At first glance, that sounds like a dream come true. A clean slate. A shiny new beginning.
Most people would kill for that.
Me?
I lived through one life I didn't ask for, full of broken glass and silence that screamed louder than any words. The idea of signing up for a second round? Yeah… I wasn't exactly lining up at the gate.
Besides, this woman—this Ophelia—she didn't exactly radiate trust.
Hijacked my soul?
Wants a favor in return?
Yeah, I've read that story. Spoiler alert: It doesn't end well.
"Thanks for the offer," I said flatly, "but I'll pass."
Ophelia blinked. Just once.
A pause followed, long enough to notice how her expression didn't quite know what emotion to settle on. Surprise? Annoyance?
"…Wow," she said finally, folding her arms. "Okay. May I ask why?"
She tilted her head. "I mean—
wasn't really expecting you to…"
"Refuse," I cut in. "Yeah. I figured. But let me be honest with you."
I sat up straighter, shoulders tense.
"I don't trust you."
She blinked again, slower this time. "…Huh?"
"Do I really need to spell it out?" I said, gesturing vaguely around us. "You hijacked my soul. That already sounds like the kind of thing villains do five minutes before revealing their evil plan."
She opened her mouth.
"And then," I went on, "you promise me a whole new life, no strings attached—except there are strings, obviously. Just not the kind you want to talk about yet."
Ophelia squinted slightly, like she'd bitten into something sour.
"I'm just saying," I continued, "if we're playing roles here, you're doing a pretty solid job of being the devil in this little morality play."
That finally got a reaction. She let out a long, slow sigh. Not angry—more… exasperated.
"Well, you know," she said, brushing a strand of white hair behind her ear, "the devil can't paint hell to be beautiful. So he makes the road there look nice."
She paused. Her eyes locked on mine, steady and unreadable.
"But I promise you—I'm not the devil in this loop."
The words hung in the air.
Loop.
That didn't sit right.
"I'm giving you something better than what comes next," she said. "A peaceful place. A kind mother. A quiet start. I've seen your file, Auden—you deserve that much, at least."
Kind mother? Peaceful place?
Yeah, and I'm sure the sky won't randomly catch fire or the village won't secretly be a sacrificial blood cult.
She's definitely dropping me into a war-torn nightmare.
Probably with a smile.
"Sorry," I said, shaking my head. "But my answer's still no.".
Ophelia's smile twitched.
Not gone. Just… shifted. Tilted, like a painting hanging slightly off-center.
"You really shouldn't say things like that," she said, voice soft as ash. "Words are funny little knives. They always find skin."
Before I could react, she stepped forward—fast—and pressed two fingers against my forehead.
Cold.
Not physically cold. Existentially cold. Like her touch bypassed my skin, nerves, skull—and poked directly into whatever was left of me.
"What are you—?"
"If you won't take my deal…" she whispered, eyes glowing faintly now, "then I'll just have to force you."
I didn't even get a chance to move.
"I sentence your soul," she said, "to die three thousand times in five seconds."
The words hit like a commandment. Like reality itself was obeying.
And then—
It happened all at once.
Not in sequence.
Not even in time.
It was as if every version of death had been loaded into a cannon and fired into my consciousness.
Fire. Ice. Drowning. Falling. Burning. Buried alive. Poisoned. Crushed. Torn limb from limb. Skinned. Starved. Impaled. Eaten. Forgotten. Swallowed by shadow. Shattered like glass. Strangled by hands that didn't exist. Bled out under skies that weren't real. Buried beneath planets. Screamed through silence. Exploded. Imploded. Erased.
My mind shattered into itself, again and again and again, like mirrors breaking inward.
I felt each death. Not for seconds. Not even for fractions.
Just enough to register one thing:
Pain.
Not physical.
Fundamental.
As if the concept of self was being erased and rewritten every microsecond.
And then it stopped.
I jerked upright like someone shot a defibrillator through my soul. Breath tore out of my lungs. My hands shook violently. My chest burned even though I had no wounds. My vision pulsed. The world tilted sideways.
> What the hell was that?
My mouth moved before my brain caught up.
"W–what… what the hell did you do to me?!"
Ophelia stepped back, expression calm again, voice like sugar laced with poison.
"I killed you. Mentally. Three thousand times. In five seconds."
I stared at her, mouth open, heart still trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"…What?"
She shrugged. "It's honestly the most humane version of that sentence I've used. You should be grateful. Most people take a lot longer to stop screaming."
My knees buckled, but I didn't fall. Just swayed like someone rewired my equilibrium.
"I—why… why would you…?"
"Because I need you," she said simply. "And I don't have time to play therapist while you wallow in your tragic backstory."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried to blink the pain away.
"I'm giving you something," she continued, tone light but eyes sharp, "that you've never had."
I looked up slowly, still shaking. "What?"
She turned, hands behind her back like this was a polite offer.
"A family."
The word hit harder than the deaths.
Just one. Soft. Casual. Like it didn't mean anything.
But it cracked something.
I stared at her. Really stared.
At the grin that never quite reached her eyes. At the way she tilted her head like I was a pet that failed to learn a trick. At the glowing cracks above us, mirrored in the way she spoke.
> This woman is insane. No, worse—she's something beyond that. Like a goddess of… chaos. Of cruelty wrapped in charm.
She didn't flinch when she broke me.
She smiled.
And yet—
> That thing she did… I don't think I can take that again. Whatever that was, it was worse than dying. It felt like being trapped in sleep paralysis while drowning in fire.
She can do it again.
She probably will.
She stepped toward me again, casual, as if we'd just shared tea.
"Well?" she asked, tilting her head. "Do we have a deal?"
I didn't answer right away.
My mind was still cracked around the edges. My body felt fake. My soul? Don't even know where that was anymore.
> I can't trust her. I shouldn't trust her.
But I've got nothing. No one. And she has all the power.
This isn't a negotiation. This is a cage, and I'm picking the bars I want to live in.
I looked up at her, met those glowing eyes, and exhaled.
"…Fine."
My voice came out ragged.
"You win."
Ophelia smiled.
And this time, it was genuine.
Which somehow made it worse.