Diego opened his eyes.
"I see you've woken up," a voice said beside him.
Diego turned his head towards the voice and then scanned the room. He was in the hospital, a place he knew all too well from many previous visits. The person speaking to him was familiar too: Gallardo, a detective from the city police department.
"Are you in a condition to answer some questions?" Gallardo asked, interrupting Diego's thoughts.
"What happened?" Diego asked, holding his head. "I remember being on the train, and... and... I remember an explosion, bodies torn apart. What the hell was that explosion? Who are you? Where am I?"
"Ah, sorry, I didn't introduce myself. My name is Gallardo, and I'm the detective in charge of the investigation into the train bombing. An attack that ended the lives of all the passengers and workers, except for one," Gallardo paused, looking Diego in the eyes, then continued with a cheerful smile, "You are the sole survivor of the attack. You should be grateful; it seems you have a guardian angel watching over you."
Gallardo maintained his cheerful smile as he focused on Diego's expressions. Diego remained silent for a few seconds, acting scared and confused.
"Attack? Everyone died? It can't be, there were so many people on that train... Children, there were children there. It can't be. How did I survive?"
"That's what I'm wondering, Mr. Crosa. You, who had a seat in carriage 3, were found in carriage 8," Gallardo's voice turned cold, and his smile disappeared, "you, Mr. Crosa, are the only survivor with superficial wounds besides some minor bruises."
"A true rarity," Gallardo emphasized with a cold tone.
"Can you tell me, detective, who committed this atrocity? Who were the bastards who took the lives of so many people?" Diego continued his act.
"Several hypotheses are being considered, Mr. Crosa. That the Imperials were behind it is one of the strongest. Additionally, we suspect foreign involvement; perhaps interference from one of those damn underdeveloped countries. There's also the possibility of it being a psychopathic act of pure evil, perpetrated by one or more individuals with no other agenda than to inflict harm. What do you think? Which do you believe is closest to reality?" Gallardo asked, with a curious and amused tone.
"I don't know, maybe it was the Imperials. Lately, they've been committing many atrocities," Diego replied, hesitantly.
Gallardo studied Diego for a moment, his penetrating gaze seeming to search beyond the words.
"It's a possibility, yes," Gallardo said, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "The Imperials have been quite active, that's for sure. But tell me, Mr. Crosa, how is it that someone like you, seated in carriage 3, ended up in carriage 8, practically unharmed?"
Diego took a deep breath. Every word had to be carefully chosen.
"I don't know, detective. It's all very confusing. I remember the explosion and then... then everything's a blur. Maybe I was thrown by the explosion, perhaps I was lucky. All I know is that when I woke up, I was among the wreckage of the carriage."
Gallardo nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off Diego.
"It's an interesting story, Mr. Crosa. But there are still many unanswered questions. I hope you don't mind if we talk again later. Perhaps your memory will clear up a bit with time."
Diego nodded. He knew he had to be very careful in his next moves.
Gallardo stood up, adjusting his coat, and headed towards the door.
"Rest, Mr. Crosa. We'll meet again soon," he said, leaving the room and leaving Diego alone with his thoughts.
Diego lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Mr. Crosa..." Diego exclaimed mockingly after Gallardo left him alone in the room. He hated that name. He hated his full name: Diego Martín Crosa. In his previous cycles, his names were repudiated both by himself and by society.
"Mr. Crosa," his subordinates used to call him when he carried out orders in the torture center as an information collector or when he served various governments as a mercenary on classified missions. Diego had been someone hated by society in most of his cycles. He performed despicable acts; he was not someone heaven awaited, rather someone eagerly awaited in hell.
Diego let himself be enveloped by the pillows, closing his eyes. Memories of his past lives invaded him, reminding him of every cruel and ruthless act he had committed. Every cycle, every name, every life, always ended the same way: with hatred and contempt. He tried to justify his actions as part of a greater mission, but he knew they were empty excuses. He was a tormented being, trapped in an endless repetition of suffering and evil.
He longed for death, yearned for a definitive end, but he always found himself back in the same place, with the same name, facing the same questions. Hell was not a place of flames and eternal torture, but the endless repetition of his own mistakes and sins.
Diego fell asleep.