I died the way I always expected to.
No screams. No last words. No witnesses.
A suppressed shot.
A clean exit.
As my body fell, my mind remained calm.
That calm followed me into the dark.
I thought death would be empty.
I was wrong.
I dreamed.
Not of my life.
Not of the people I killed.
I dreamed of patterns.
Lines intersecting.
Symbols repeating.
Structures collapsing and rebuilding themselves.
It felt familiar.
Like watching a machine from the inside.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the cold.
Stone beneath my back.
Air thick with incense and iron.
The second thing I noticed—
voices chanting in a language I didn't know, but somehow understood.