Kian

It hurt. A red-hot needle in my temples, a crack in my spine, a dull blow to my chest. And then—silence.

You opened your eyes. The sky above was different from what you were used to. Deep, rich, almost purple at the horizon, with scattered clouds illuminated by the golden sunset. Too beautiful to be real.

You were lying on the sidewalk. Nearby was a curb, a lamppost, and across the street, a café window. A familiar intersection. The very same one where you were hit by a car. But there were no traffic jams, no honking horns, no eternal rush. A woman with a bright blue bag passed in the distance. A street musician played something drawn-out on his guitar. Life was there—but different. Without the fuss.

You sat up. Your body obeyed easily, too easily—as if filled with something new, alive.

And then you noticed the man. He was standing three steps away, his hands in his pockets. He had black hair, a red streak on the right side, glasses with scarlet lenses, and eyes that glowed unnaturally white as they looked at you. Tall, slender, imperturbable. He looked at you like you were a piece of furniture.

"It took you long," he said evenly. You tried to ask "What happened," but your throat tightened.

"Quiet." The man raised his palm. "I'm Kian, and I'll explain everything to you now. But first..."

He extended his hand to you. His fingers were long and pale, with thin silver rings on the pinky and ring fingers. A coffin pendant swung around his neck. Above the collar of his red sweater, a pale scar encircled his neck, as if his head had been cut off and reattached.

• "Get up, stop lying around."