Adrian Voss leaned back in his leather chair, the skyline reflected in the dark glass behind him. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward from the cigarette between his fingers, swirling lazily toward the ceiling.
A knock came at his office door, sharp and precise. "Come in," Adrian said, exhaling a cloud that drifted across the mahogany desk.
The door opened to reveal Claire, his secretary of eight years—a woman who'd perfected the art of balancing professionalism with subtle judgment. She carried a folder in one hand, a tablet in the other.
"You have the board meeting at eleven," she said, not bothering to sit. "After that, lunch with Donovan from Greystone Investments. And your two o'clock with the Japanese delegates has been pushed to three."
Adrian nodded absently, taking another drag. "And the acquisition deal?"
Claire set the folder on his desk. "Legal says it's airtight. But Donovan might try to renegotiate. He's been… restless lately."
"They all get restless before I squeeze them dry." Adrian stubbed out the cigarette, lit another immediately. The lighter's click echoed in the otherwise silent room. "Anything else?"
Her eyes flickered to the growing ashtray pile. "Just a reminder that your doctor told you—"
"My doctor doesn't run a billion-dollar company," Adrian cut in. "That'll be all, Claire."
She hesitated, then left, closing the door softly.
Adrian inhaled deeply, savoring the burn in his lungs. People liked to think of him as a machine—ruthless, efficient, unstoppable. They weren't wrong. But even machines needed fuel, and for Adrian, that fuel was nicotine, control, and the quiet satisfaction of watching his empire expand.
He glanced at the time—10:42. The meeting with Donovan could wait. There was something about today, a stillness in the air he couldn't quite place.
By noon, the restaurant was already buzzing with the noise of expensive suits trying to out-talk each other. Adrian was in his usual corner booth, coffee black and cigarette in hand. He didn't care about the "no smoking" signs—places like this bent rules for people like him.
Donovan eventually arrived, fake smile plastered on. He slid into the seat opposite Adrian.
"Adrian," he said, "always a pleasure."
"Let's not waste time," Adrian replied, blowing smoke across the table. "You want a better deal. You're not getting it."
Donovan forced a laugh. "You really think you can corner Greystone that easily?"
"I don't think. I know."
A man passed their table, shoulder brushing Adrian's.
Two shots.The first punched into his chest.The second tore into his ribs.
Hot pain flared, but it didn't last. His coffee cup shattered. Donovan's voice became a blur. The restaurant noise vanished.
Then—
Nothing.
Just black.
At first, Adrian thought he was unconscious—bleeding out somewhere, waiting for a paramedic's voice to drag him back. But the silence was wrong. It wasn't the kind of silence you got in a hospital.
He tried moving his arms. Nothing. Tried breathing. Nothing. Tried to shout. No sound.
The panic came in hard and fast. His brain screamed wake up, but there was no waking.
Time didn't exist here.He didn't know if he'd been in this blackness for seconds or hours.
At first he tried to reason it out—maybe this was the moment after death, the brain firing random images. But there were no images. No random flashes. Just this.
He called out again. Still nothing.
Minutes—or hours—passed before the panic burned out into pure rage.
"Is this it?" he thought. "This? After everything?"
He had fought for every scrap of his life, built an empire brick by brick, torn down anyone stupid enough to stand in his way—and now what? Floating in nothing?
He cursed into the black. At the shooter. At Donovan. At the universe. At himself. His thoughts became sharp and ugly, looping over the same questions.
How long had it been?Days? Weeks? Years?
He lost track. His mind wandered, then snapped back, wandered again. There was no hunger, no thirst, no tiredness—just awareness. An endless, gnawing awareness.
Then the black shifted.
A faint shimmer appeared in front of him. It didn't light up the void—it just was.
Words formed in his head, as clear as if someone had spoken them:
Do you wish to be born anew?
Adrian's thoughts froze. This wasn't his own mind talking.
A second line followed:
If you accept, you will never again be human.
Never human again.
"What's the alternative?" he asked into the void, half expecting no reply.
Nothing answered.
He thought about it for a long time. If this—this endless, suffocating nothing—was the alternative, then the choice wasn't hard.
His mouth curled into something close to a grin. "Fine. Let's see what's next."
The shimmer grew brighter, swallowing the black.
And the void, at last, let him go.