It was night. The moon shone bright over a small town in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless stretches of woodland.
"AAAAAAAAA—!"
A scream tore through the silence, echoing from above, and then—
CRASH!
Someone slammed into the cold concrete floor of an alley.
"Mmnnf—!" The man grunted, rolling in pain.
This was Michael.
Flat on his back, he twisted left and right, the agony shooting through his body.
"Fuck!" he hissed, slamming his palm against the ground in frustration, anger mixing with pain.
A voice cut in from the shadows.
"Buddy, you okay?"
Michael blinked, breath ragged. A homeless man had been watching, tucked into the corner with nothing but a ragged blanket. The old man glanced up at the sky, baffled—there were no balconies, no rooftops high enough for anyone to fall from.
Michael, still catching his breath, pushed himself up. The fall had looked brutal, but strangely, he wasn't nearly as hurt as he should've been. With a heavy sigh, he forced himself to his feet.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm straight man," he muttered. "Where the hell am I?"
He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be reincarnated. A fresh start. But apparently, whoever was pulling the strings thought throwing him into a new life without rebirth was part of the package deal for living a shitty life. No clean slate—just more bullshit.
'That bastard better hope we don't cross paths again,' he thought darkly, his face shadowed in a grim scowl. 'I'll show him what Mama did to make me a chill-ass dude.'
The homeless man shifted uncomfortably, reading the storm in his expression.
"You… you're not some psychotic killer, are you?"
Michael snorted. "Nah, man, I'm good. Just point me to the nearest store, aight?"
The old man gave him a long look before speaking.
"This is Haddonfield. You lost? I can point you toward the police station. Ain't far—it's a small town."
At the mention of police, Michael's entire demeanor sharpened.
"No. No cops." His answer was quick, almost too quick.
Suspicion crept into the man's eyes, but he nodded and pointed toward the mouth of the alley.
"Go forward. There's a store right around the corner." He fumbled through his things, then held out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
"Here. This should get you something. That's all I got. Just… don't go doin' nothin' bad to the folks here. They good people."
Michael froze, caught off guard.
'Do I look that damn scary?'
"Whoa, whoa, nah—don't get it twisted," Michael said quickly, pushing the money back into the man's hand. "I ain't no thief. Keep that, OG. You need it more than I do."
The homeless man stared at him, stunned. Michael was the tallest man he had ever seen, his skin the warm brown of river clay, his tattered clothes charred and frayed, his body battered with bruises and scrapes. Yet his eyes held no malice.
Slowly, the man pushed the twenty back into Michael's palm.
"No, keep it. I can scrape more later. Get yourself a phone, call your people. Maybe it'll get you where you need to go."
Michael's eyes widened. His chest tightened with something rare—shock, gratitude.
"…You real kind, man," he murmured. "Can't even lie, I ain't used to this. Don't happen too often to brothers like me."
He pocketed the bill with care. Inside, he felt a spark of joy.
'Man… maybe all that charity work I did in the hood stacked up after all. Knew it'd pay off someday.'
"Thank you, man," he said sincerely.
The old man laid back down, pulling his blanket tighter. "Stay outta trouble. Today's Halloween."
Michael scratched his head, confused.
"What Halloween got to do with me stayin' outta trouble?"
But he let it go. Right now, he needed first aid—and answers.
After all, he hadn't woken up on the ground. He'd woken up in the sky. Miles high. Falling, tumbling, crashing into this world.
The so-called tribunal hadn't sent him here to die—no, they wanted him to suffer. Just like Tyrel.
'Tree hugging motherfucker' micheal cursed tyrel again. just the thought of him made his blood pressure rise.
But… his first encounter hadn't been so bad. Maybe this wouldn't be pure hell.
Limping out of the alley, he made his way toward the store. A bitter thought nagged him—no rebirth meant no papers, no ID. In America, walking around undocumented was just asking for trouble.
As he passed buildings, he took note. The storefronts, the cars, the styles—all looked frozen in time. Straight out of the '80s.
' Parallel Earth? Maybe. Behind the one that dumbass destroyed.'
All he had to do was figure out where the hell Haddonfield was, and maybe, just maybe, find a way out.
Then he noticed something strange. The pain was fading. His ribs were knitting back together. Bruises dissolved. Cuts closed.
Michael stared at his own body in disbelief.
"…The fuck?"
His eyes widened. "Yo—this what they meant by compensation?"
He let out a bitter laugh.
"This some bullshit."