Authors note
I'm not a good writer but I had a vision that i filtered through ai to give you the best experience possible while I do use ai the content is filtered through dozens of prompts to get it how I envisioned I plan on constantly posting till the end of the original series and build off into the spin offs
Marcus Hale dies on a road that no longer has a name.
In his first life, the asphalt is cracked and flooded, rainwater pooling in shallow craters that reflect the gray sky like broken mirrors. His blood mixes with the water, warm at first, then cooling rapidly as his body loses the argument with gravity and trauma. He remembers the smell—wet rust, burned rubber, decay clinging to the air like it knows it's about to inherit everything. Marcus is thirty-eight years old when he dies the first time.
He thinks, I should've turned left.
Then the pain becomes irrelevant, and the world collapses inward.
He wakes up choking.
Not metaphorically. Actually choking—lungs spasming, throat tight, air burning as it rushes in like it's offended he ever let it go. Marcus jerks upright in bed, knocking his elbow against the headboard hard enough to bruise, and sucks in breath after breath until the panic burns itself out.
As memories start to flood in about this new life, Marcus remembers: he is special. Former black-ops. Years of training that taught him how to move, how to disappear, how to kill when necessary.
No moaning. No gunfire. No screaming. Just the hum of an air conditioner and the faint noise of traffic outside.
Marcus freezes—not because of the AC, but because of the realization of what happened: the change in his mind, the world he remembers, the knowledge of his second life.
He doesn't move his head. Doesn't move his hands. He stares straight ahead, eyes locked on the far wall of his apartment, and listens.
Cars.
Voices.
A siren—distant, ordinary.
His heart pounds harder.
Slowly—very slowly—Marcus turns his head and looks at the nightstand.
Alarm clock. Red digital numbers.
August 27, 2010. 6:14 A.M.
His stomach drops.
"No, it can't be Monument Day," he whispers.
He swings his legs off the bed and stands too fast, the room spinning briefly. The mirror across the room catches his reflection, and the breath leaves him again—not from panic this time, but shock. He's younger. Fitter.
Not by much, but enough. The scar above his eyebrow is gone. His hands lack the fine web of old cuts and burns that came later. His shoulders are broader, posture less guarded, like his body hasn't yet learned how fragile the world really is.
Marcus presses his fingers to his throat.
No blood.
No pain.
Alive.
He remembers dying.
And that's the worst part.
Memory settles over him like a weapon being handed back.
Not just flashes—everything. The timeline. The mistakes. The false safe zones. The people who talked too much and the ones who never talked again. The night the radio broadcasts stopped. The smell of burning cities. The abandonment of the military when people needed them. How the government sacrificed civilians for perceived safety.
And layered over all of it is something else.
Something new.
Power.
It hums beneath his skin, quiet but unmistakable, like a generator idling just out of sight. His thoughts feel sharper, aligned, snapping into place with unsettling ease. He turns his head and catches the flicker of movement outside the window—calculates distance, speed, trajectory—before realizing he didn't consciously mean to do that.
Marcus closes his eyes.
Okay, he thinks. Okay. Don't spiral.
He sits on the edge of the bed and forces his breathing into a steady rhythm. In. Out. Four counts. Again. Just as he was trained to.
Then he reaches inward.
Not physically. Instinctively. The way you reach for a word you already know.
Reality peels.
There is no sensation—no wind, no pressure, no sound. Just an awareness of space that should not exist. A vast, silent nothingness that answers him immediately, like it's been waiting.
Marcus exhales.
"Storage," he murmurs. The word feels right.
He opens his eyes and looks around the apartment. The duffle bag in the corner—canvas, half-packed from a range trip he remembers taking before the world ended the first time—vanishes in his hands.
Not disappears—withdraws. As if the universe politely stepped aside and tucked it away.
Marcus's pulse spikes.
He reaches again. The bag reappears in his hands, weight exactly the same, zipper still half-open. He lets it drop to the floor.
"Okay," he says again, louder this time. "Okay."
This wasn't random. This wasn't a hallucination. He remembers choosing this. Not consciously—not with words—but with certainty. A decision made somewhere beyond death, paid for with something he doesn't remember losing.
Deathstroke-level physical enhancement.
Accelerated healing.
Extra-dimensional storage bound to his existence.
He knows the limits too. That knowledge comes with memory like fine print burned into his mind.
He can still die.
A bite will still kill him.
Fire will still destroy him.
Enough trauma, fast enough, can overwhelm even regeneration.
Good. Limits keep you alive.
Marcus spends the next hour testing himself carefully.
He doesn't jump out windows or punch walls like an idiot. He starts small. Controlled.
He tightens his grip around a chair leg and lifts.
The chair comes up effortlessly.
He increases pressure slowly.
The wood cracks.
He sets it down gently and steps back, breathing evenly.
In the bathroom, he examines his eyes—pupils responding faster than they should. Reflexes tuned too tight. Everything feels… optimized.
He takes a kitchen knife and draws it lightly across his palm.
The pain is sharp, immediate, grounding. Blood beads. Then reverses. The skin seals as if time rewinds a few seconds, leaving nothing behind but a faint warmth.
Marcus swallows.
"Not a god," he tells his reflection. "Just hard to kill."
That matters.
By noon, the decision is made. He isn't staying. Cities are death traps even before the dead start walking. He remembers the traffic jams, the riots, the way panic collapses infrastructure faster than infection ever could.
He needs supplies.
He needs distance.
And he needs to move now, before everyone else realizes they should have done the same thing.
Marcus showers, dresses in neutral clothing—nothing tactical, nothing that stands out—and grabs his keys.
Before leaving, he pauses and looks around the apartment one last time. In his first life, he abandoned this place in a rush, leaving behind things he later died wishing he had. This time, he doesn't rush. He empties the apartment into storage with methodical precision.
Clothes.
Tools.
Electronics.
Batteries.
Books.
Documents.
When he locks the door behind him, the apartment is hollow. He doesn't feel sentimental. Sentiment gets people killed.
The sporting goods store is his first real test.
He parks two blocks away and walks the rest, hands in pockets, posture loose. He looks like a man running errands, not someone about to strip a building bare.
The front doors are still locked. No panic yet. No crowds. Good.
He circles the building once, checking lines of sight, listening. No movement. No voices.
Marcus breaks a side window quietly, clears the glass, and slips inside.
Inside: smells of rubber, leather, and plastic. Organized aisles: firearms, archery, camping gear. He works systematically:
Firearms Section:
• Hunting rifles—2
• Bolt-action .308
• Semi-auto .223
• Three shotguns
Each weapon is inspected: check chamber, barrel, serial number. Each disappears into storage.
Ammunition:
• 1,200 rounds .223
• 600 rounds .308
• 400 shells (buckshot and slugs)
Other Supplies:
• Backpacks—5, durable
• Sleeping bags—2, compact
• Water bladders—3
• Cold-weather gear—1 full set
Crossbows: Four, for quiet kills
He wipes surfaces he touches, reseals the window as best he can, and leaves through the back. No alarm. No confrontation.
Outside, he pauses. Watches streets, counts traffic, calculates escape routes.
He is not proud. Not satisfied. Just precise.
In his first life, mistakes cost him everything. He cannot afford them now.
He notes the timing: 8:15 A.M., August 27, 2010.
Heat rising. People still alive, unaware. He moves toward a pharmacy next.
• Insulin, antibiotics, painkillers, sutures, antiseptics.
• Carefully cataloged and stored.
• Walkers are absent. People are present, distracted. He blends. Observes. Adjusts.
He kills his first walker of this life silently, testing reflexes. Blade through the base of the skull. No hesitation. Clean. Efficient.
By noon, Marcus sits on a rooftop overlooking his city. He eats nothing. Drinks from a water bottle stored earlier.
The thought creeps in:
I am alone. And I will remain alone until someone like Rick wakes up.
No attachments. No mistakes.
He reviews mental notes: supply locations, escape routes, danger zones, patterns of human movement.
The world has not fallen yet—but he is ready