The vision shattered. It wasn't a slow fade; it was a violent, choking darkness that swallowed me whole. I was drowning in it, my lungs screaming for air that wouldn't come. My body was no longer mine; it was older, heavier, and every inch of it felt wrong. It was a map of a different man's life, a canvas of unfamiliar scars and calloused skin.
A rope, thick and coarse, tightened around my neck. The pressure wasn't a distant sensation; it was a reality I was experiencing firsthand. It pulled tighter and tighter, a slow, agonizing chokehold that made spots dance before my eyes, then streak into blinding starbursts. I clawed at it, my nails scraping against the rough fibers, but the pressure only grew, a relentless tightening of my fate.
I heard voices, but they were distant, muffled—shouting in a language I didn't recognize. Somewhere, a cruel, high-pitched laughter cut through the air, sharp as broken glass.
And then, the horrible realization settled in. This wasn't a nightmare. This wasn't a vision. I was there. I was in him. I was the man at the end of the rope. My body was convulsing, not in my own reality, but in his. The air tore at my throat, the world faded to a blur of agony and darkness, and I knew—his death had already begun.