Chapter One: The In-Between
The night Thomas died felt like any other night to him. Ordinary. Predictable. The kind of night where a man like him believed he would always have tomorrow.
He had gone to bed with the faint smell of sweet perfume still hanging in the air, the delicate scent clinging to the curtains and the sheets like a whisper. The fresh, clean smell of laundry from the bag tucked neatly at the corner of his walk-in closet lingered too, mingling with the sharp smell of leather furniture and polished wood. Everything in the room smelled like success, like wealth, like the life of a man who had everything.
Before he lay down, he stood as he always did, in front of his painting—the large, gold-framed portrait of himself that sat boldly on the wall above the fireplace. It wasn't just a painting; it was a monument to the empire he had built, the proof of the power he held. He stared at it for a moment, admiring the smirk he wore so well, the carefully painted curve of his jaw, the sparkle of arrogance in his eyes. A man who had outsmarted everyone.
He glanced over at the old mahogany clock ticking quietly on the far wall. Eleven fifty-nine. He always checked the time. It had become part of his ritual—almost like he was timing his own greatness, knowing deep down that time bent to him.
The soft rustle of silk sheets, the faint sound of the city far outside his penthouse window, the perfect stillness of the room—all of it felt like the world belonged to him.
With a small, satisfied smile, Thomas finally laid down, pulling the blanket over himself, convinced he would wake up tomorrow, richer, stronger, invincible.
He never did.
When he opened his eyes, everything was gone.
No sheets. No perfume. No sound of the city. No portrait. No clock.
Instead, he was staring into nothing.
At first, he thought his eyes were still adjusting—maybe the lights were off, maybe it was a power outage. But as he blinked again and again, panic started to crawl inside his chest.
The world around him was empty.
A massive, endless stretch of black and white, like a void. Like a place that had no shape, no color, no meaning. The air felt thick, like he was underwater but still breathing. The ground beneath him was solid but didn't feel like anything real—no texture, no weight.
Thomas sat up slowly, his heart pounding.
"What the hell…?"
He got to his feet, his pulse racing in his ears. He looked around, turning in slow circles. There were no walls, no ceiling, no furniture. Just the blur of shadows and light, stretching endlessly in every direction.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"John?" he called out suddenly, almost without thinking. "John! You there?"
His voice echoed back at him.
John… you there… there… there…
A sick, cold feeling settled in his stomach.
This couldn't be real.
"This is a dream," he whispered. "I'm still sleeping."
He slapped his face hard.
The sting burned, but nothing changed.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "No, no, no…"
He slapped himself again, harder this time. Pinched his skin until he felt the bite of it. His breathing turned shallow.
"This is a prank," he said louder. "Somebody's messing with me."
But there was no answer. No sound. Just the hum of empty space and the echo of his own voice.
He started walking, then walking faster. His footsteps rang hollow in the nothingness.
Maybe there's a way out, he thought. Maybe if I keep walking…
But the more he moved, the more everything looked the same. No street. No path. No exit.
His panic grew louder, matching the quick beat of his heart.
Then—
Soft. Almost too faint to catch.
"Thomas…"
He froze.
It was a voice. A child's voice. Whispering his name.
"Thomas…"
The hairs on his arms stood up.
It was his own voice.
His voice when he was a boy.
Before he could even react, footsteps echoed behind him—slow, steady.
Thomas spun around fast, his chest heaving.
A man stood there.
Tall, dressed in a plain black suit, his face calm but unreadable. His eyes were heavy, like they carried lifetimes of sadness.
"You heard the voice too, didn't you?" the man asked gently.
Thomas couldn't breathe. "Who the hell are you? What is this place?"
The man smiled faintly, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Come," he said. "Let's take a walk."
Almost like he had no choice, Thomas followed.
They walked in silence through the endless void. The space shifted beneath their feet, but everything else stayed the same—just black and white, light and shadow, nothing more.
Finally, the man spoke.
"You're dead, Thomas."
The words hit like a stone to the chest.
"No…" Thomas shook his head. "I went to bed. I was fine."
"You went to bed," the man said quietly. "And you didn't wake up."
Thomas stumbled, his mind trying to reject the words.
"So what is this?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Purgatory?"
The man shook his head.
"No. Worse. This is the In-Between. The place before. The place where you meet yourself."
They stopped walking. The man turned to face him fully.
"Here, no one judges you. No God. No Devil. Only you. You will be forced to walk back through every piece of your life. Every lie. Every choice. Every time you crushed someone because you could."
Thomas's breath grew shallow. His throat burned.
"And if I don't?" he asked.
The man glanced over his shoulder.
Far in the distance, barely visible at first, shadows moved—hundreds of them. People. Wandering endlessly. Faces blank. Eyes wide and lost.
"They didn't," the man said quietly. "They couldn't face who they really were. So they wander. For thousands of years. For eternity."
Thomas felt a cold sweat on his skin.
"But you," the man continued, softer now, "you still have a chance."
Thomas looked at him, desperate. "How?"
The man's eyes grew sad.
"The voice you heard—that was you. The boy you used to be. That voice is your guide. If you listen to him, if you go back and look at yourself honestly, you can move on."
He took a step closer, his voice lowering.
"But if you lie… if you run… if you try to hide… you will never leave."
The air around them shifted again, heavier now.
Thomas's lips trembled. "How long would I be here?"
The man's eyes locked on his.
"Forever."
The word echoed in the empty space like a stone thrown into a bottomless well.
Before Thomas could say another word, the ground beneath him cracked. The smooth, empty space split like glass shattering underfoot.
The man took one step back.
"It always begins at the beginning," he whispered.
And before Thomas could even react, the ground gave way.
He fell.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
And when he opened his eyes—
He was back in a small, broken room.
The fan above barely spinning. The air thick with dust. The old curtains limp against the window. It smelled of old tears, damp clothes, and forgotten dreams.
Across the room, curled up on a torn, thin mattress, was a boy.
Small. Crying.
The boy's voice cracked, soft but clear.
"Thomas… wake up…"
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