The comic book, a tattered pulp fiction with a faded cover, told a story of a zombie apocalypse.
But this wasn't just any story. The protagonist, a lanky, awkward boy with a mop of unruly hair
and the same crescent-shaped birthmark, bore an uncanny resemblance to Jason. He wasn't
the hero, however. He was a supporting character, a minor figure in the grand scheme of the
hero's journey, doomed to a tragic end.
A chilling realization dawned on Jason. This wasn't just a story; it was a prophecy, a glimpse into a future he was destined to fulfill. But this time, he wouldn't be a supporting character, a
mere footnote in someone else's epic. He would rewrite the narrative, become the author of his
own destiny. He would break free from the shackles of fate, defy the preordained script.
But as he continued reading, another chilling detail emerged. The boy in the comic, his
doppelganger, was not merely a victim. He was the catalyst, the one who inadvertently
unleashed the plague.
"No," Jason muttered, closing the comic book with a trembling hand. "This can't be right. I won't
let it happen."
He remembered his grandfather, a man of few words, a retired soldier with haunted eyes.
"Fate," his grandfather used to say, "is a stubborn beast, but it can be bent, if you're strong
enough." The old man's words echoed in his mind, a flicker of defiance igniting within him.