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 was above, but not the one you were used to. Deep, rich, almost purple on the horizon, with scattered clouds illuminated by the gold of the 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 same one where the car hit you. 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 a guitar. Life was there—but different. Without 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. Black hair, a red streak on the right side, glasses with scarlet lenses, and his eyes that unnaturally glowed white as they looked at you. Tall, slender, imperturbable. He looked at you like you were a piece of furniture. "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, I'll explain everything to you now. But first..." He extended his hand to you. His fingers were long, 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 was a pale scar, encircling his neck, as if his head had been cut off and reattached. "Get up, stop lying around."