..... In a bathtub full of ice.
My skin was blue. My lips, cracked. I couldn't feel my heart. Couldn't breathe. The air sat heavy on my lungs, like smoke without fire.
I was dead.
And I knew it. I could feel it.
Not a dream. Not some twisted near-death hallucination. Dead. As in someone had killed me or killed whoever this body belonged to and left the corpse behind like yesterday's news. Except now, I was in it.
And it stank. Of rot, of blood, of time running out.
The mirror above the sink was cracked, but it gave me enough to see...
He wasn't me.
Late twenties. Hollow eyes. Gunshot wound just under the collarbone. No clue who the hell this was — or why I was inside him.
But I knew one thing I wasn't meant to be here
And someone didn't want me getting out.
I stepped out of the tub, half-naked, the remnants of shredded clothes clinging to me like shame. Every inch of my body screamed in protest. Not soreness — pain. Raw, searing, unnatural pain that told me something deep inside was broken, dying… or already dead.
My legs buckled. I gripped the sink, trembling. The chill had burrowed beneath the skin, as if this body knew it didn't belong to me — and wanted me out.
As a man of logic, this should've been impossible. My mind reached for reason, grasped at facts, but all I found were ghosts. Memories not my own. Faces I didn't recognize. Emotions that rose without warning — rage, fear, love — and none of them were mine.
I tried to assemble them, like puzzle pieces with no edges. But the more I tried, the less I understood.
Still, something pulled me toward the door. I had to move. Had to see what lay beyond that bathroom — even if every muscle begged to be left alone, even if my skin barely held itself together.
The hallway outside greeted me with silence—too quiet. The air was heavy, like it knew what had happened here.
Then it hit me.
A flood of memories. Sudden. Violent. Relentless.
They didn't come gently — they crashed into me like a freight train, ripping through every nerve. My body — or rather, his body — convulsed under the weight of them. A dead man remembering how he died.
Flashes. Screams. A scuffle in the hallway.
A dark figure. A knife in a shaking hand.
A gun.
A smile.
Then, silence… and ice.
This man — whoever he was — fought. Fought harder than most. Every image told a story of resistance, desperation, and betrayal. He hadn't gone quietly. He had bled, clawed, screamed for breath — and someone had made sure he'd never get it again.
And now, here I was. Living in the remains of his last stand.
What the hell had I stepped into?
And more importantly… who wanted this man — me — buried so badly?