It begins with sunshine.
Birds sang. Children laughed. Somewhere, a piano played softly — some cheerful tune that made James Whitlock feel like the world had been scrubbed clean.
He stood in the park with his family. Miriam's smile warmed him more than the sun ever could. Eleanor giggled as she chased butterflies through the grass, and Matthew raced behind her, shouting made-up rules about who could fly and who couldn't.
It was perfect.
James let himself believe in it, for one sweet moment.
Then, the piano slowed.
The light dimmed.
He looked up.
Clouds boiled across the sky, swallowing the sun. The air chilled, as if something ancient had taken a deep breath.
Eleanor stopped laughing.
"Why didn't you help us, Daddy?" she asked, her voice quiet.
James blinked. "What?"
Matthew stood beside her now, his face pale. "You said you'd protect us."
James stepped forward, heart beginning to race. "Kids, what—?"
Then Miriam grabbed his arm.
Her hand was cold. Bone-cold. He turned toward her and saw—
Her eyes were hollow, gone, with black sockets dripping red. Her smile was gone, too, replaced with a thin line of contempt.
"I never loved you," she whispered. Blood began to seep from her dress in dozens of places. "It should've been you."
James screamed.
He woke choking on his breath, drenched in sweat.
The cell was damp. The stone walls were beaded with condensation. Somewhere outside, a bell tolled — not a church bell, something heavier, more solemn.
Execution day.
His wrists were chained. His shirt clung to him with grime and dried blood. His thoughts moved slowly, like his mind had been running in circles all night and left nothing behind but smoke.
Outside the bars, two uniformed officers stood watching him. Not guards — cops.
James staggered toward them. "You—listen to me. This is a mistake. You know me. I paid your precinct's rent for five years—Deacon, Barlow, Donnelly—you worked for me. All of you did."
The younger one said nothing. The older cop — broad, gray-stubbled, with eyes that looked carved from stone — leaned on the bars.
"No," he said, calm as a funeral. "We used you."
James blinked. "What?"
"People like you always think you're in charge because the envelope's fat and the whiskey's old. But you were never the boss, Whitlock. You were the fall guy the moment you cashed your first dirty check."
The older cop spit to the side, then added:"You were so focused on being on top, you forgot what the bottom feels like."
"Don't worry."He smiled thinly."You'll feel it when your head hits the basket."
James surged forward, rattling the bars. "You think this'll last? You think people like me stay buried?"
No answer.
The two men turned and walked away, the sound of their boots fading down the stone corridor.
Moments later, the guards came. No words. Just rough hands, metal clinks, the scraping open of the heavy iron door.
They dragged him out like livestock.
Outside, the city was waiting.
It had rained overnight, leaving the streets slick and shining like black glass. Oil lamps still flickered despite the gray morning light. The air smelled of wet brick, tobacco, and steam.
People lined the sidewalks — some in coats and hats, some in factory aprons, many holding newspapers with his face stamped across the front page in thick black ink.
BANK LORD BUTCHER TO FACE GUILLOTINE"From elite to execution—Whitlock's fall shakes the city."
"They haven't used the guillotine in thirty years," someone whispered in the crowd."Made a special case for him," another replied. "Said hanging was too dignified."
James kept his eyes down. He didn't want to see their faces.
But he saw his.
Arthur.
Umbrella in hand. Standing by a lamppost. Clean coat. Quiet smile.
James clenched his jaw.
The guards led him through the iron gate into the courthouse courtyard.
It was all there: the scaffold, the velvet platform, the looming guillotine with its polished blade catching pale light like a promise. Rain began again, soft and cold.
A priest stepped forward to offer last rites. James ignored him.
The charges were read aloud:
"James Whitlock, you stand convicted of conspiracy, fraud, bribery of state officials, destruction of public records, and the murders of your wife and children."
Each word felt like a stone hurled at his chest.
"Do you have any final words?"
He raised his head. Looked directly at Arthur.
"I didn't kill them," he said. "But I will kill the man who did."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
James's voice cracked, but he forced the words through anyway. "I swear… I'll come back. No matter what it takes. No matter what, I have to give."
They seized him by the arms and dragged him to the blade.
The guillotine loomed like a monolith, rain sliding down its steel edge. They forced him to his knees. Locked his neck in the wooden brace. The velvet was soaked — it stank of rust and old death.
The executioner moved into position. Raised a black-gloved hand.
That's when it appeared.
Floating above James's head — a glowing gold rectangle, like a box of sunlight suspended in the mist.
[Do you wish to be saved?]
James's eyes widened.
No one else seemed to see it. The crowd was frozen. The priest mid-prayer. The rain stopped falling.
His lips couldn't move, but his thoughts screamed the answer.
Yes.
[No matter the price?]
He hesitated — just for a moment.
Then: YES.
The executioner's hand dropped.
The blade fell.
But James didn't feel it.
The world shattered around him — the sound of thunder swallowed in silence — and then he fell into something colder than death.
There was nothing but darkness.
Not blackness like night — this was deeper. Older. A void that pressed against the skin, invaded the lungs, whispered into the bone.
James didn't know if he was standing, sinking, or dreaming. There was no air. No ground. No body.
And yet, he was aware. Painfully aware.
Then—A voice.
It didn't come from above or below. It simply was — everywhere, inside and outside at once. Smooth, vast, impossibly old. Each word sank like ink into water.
"At last."
"The moment you stopped pretending."
James blinked, or imagined blinking.
"I've watched you for years, James Whitlock. Watched you build your empire with ash and arrogance. Watched you laugh while others starved. Watched you dress your ambition in silk and call it duty."
The void pulsed like a heartbeat.
"And yet… in your final hour, your fire still burns. Even now, with the blade poised to kiss your neck, you cling to hatred like it's all you've ever loved."
A pause. The darkness seemed to breathe.
"That's why I'm here."
"Because in a world full of liars who whisper for mercy when they mean revenge, you screamed it aloud."
James tried to speak. Nothing came. He thought instead:
"Who are you?"
The voice chuckled — not cruelly, but like a teacher amused by a slow student.
"I am what remains when the prayers go unanswered."
"I am the silence after the gods stop listening."
"A system, a demon, a consequence. Call me what you will — names are for the living."
Something stirred around him, unseen but vast.
"I can give you what you desire most."
James didn't hesitate.
"I want to see my family again."
The voice was quiet. Then, slowly, it spoke:
"No… you don't."
James felt the weight of the words before they fully landed.
"You think that's what you want. You think your heart aches for final moments, for closure, for apologies whispered into bloodied hair."
"But you're not weeping for them, James. You're weeping for yourself."
"Because you lived, and they didn't. Because you lost, and now you want to make the world feel that same loss."
James flinched.
The voice was closer now — it pressed into his mind like a hand gripping his skull.
"You don't want peace. You want retribution. You want the man who destroyed you to crawl. You want the city that fed on your name to choke on it."
"You want to raze everything and rebuild it in your image."
"And that, James, is a desire I can fulfill."
James's chest felt hollow, but his thoughts didn't argue.
"What's the price?" he asked.
Another soft laugh.
"You always cared about the fine print, didn't you?"
"There is no price, because there is no choice. Either you die in that cold world, forgotten and mocked… or you become my spear."
"You will carry out the duties I assign. Each one a chisel to sharpen you. Each one drawing you closer to the power you crave. The moment you falter — you shatter."
James paused.
The void whispered to him.
The screams. The window. The pavement.Eleanor's small, broken body cradled in his arms…
"…I accept."
"Goood." the voice purred.
Now the voice swelled, triumphant and booming — like thunder wrapped in silk.
"Then rise, James Whitlock."
"You are no longer a man. You are my weapon. You are my judgment. You are my spear."
"Obey. Complete your tasks. Grow. Kill when I tell you. Save when I command it."
"And when it is done…""You may return to your world.
James lowered his head — or imagined it.
"Does that sound fair?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Of course it does."
"Now open your eyes."
He woke in the dirt.
Cold air scraped across his skin like blades of glass. Wet leaves clung to his back. Strange trees towered around him — bark like silver, leaves like glass, pulsing softly with veins of blue light.
Overhead, a sky that was not his own.
Two moons drifted in opposite directions. The stars above twisted and breathed.
He sat up.
He was naked. Alone. And not on Earth.
At his side was a single item — a map. Crude. Frayed. No labels. No compass. Just shapes, lines, and names he couldn't read.
James stared at it.
Then he looked up at the alien constellations.
"…What the hell did I just agree to?"