The world went dark. One moment, there was pain—sharp, searing, and unbearable—as the blade pierced through his chest. The next, there was nothing. No sound, no light, no sensation. Just an endless void, stretching out in all directions, consuming him whole. He tried to scream, but no sound came. He tried to move, but there was no body to command. He was nothing. A fragment of consciousness adrift in an infinite sea of emptiness.
Memories flickered like dying embers. His name—what was his name? It slipped away, just out of reach. Faces, voices, fragments of a life once lived, all dissolving into the void. He remembered the alley, the cold glint of the knife, the man's hollow eyes as he drove the blade home. He remembered the betrayal, the realization that someone he trusted had sold him out. And then, the final thought before the darkness took him: Why? Why me?
But even that question faded, swallowed by the void. Time lost meaning. Seconds, minutes, centuries—it was all the same. He was nothing, and yet, he was still aware. A consciousness without form, without purpose, without end.
And then, something changed.
A sound. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. A heartbeat. Not his own—he had no heart, no body—but a heartbeat nonetheless. It grew louder, more insistent, pounding in rhythm with a strange, pulling sensation. He was being drawn toward it, pulled out of the void and into… something. Something warm, something alive.
The darkness began to shift, to warp and twist, until it was no longer empty. He felt pressure, a crushing weight pressing in on him from all sides. He tried to struggle, to resist, but there was no escape. The pressure increased, and then, with a sudden, violent rush, he was thrust into a new world.
Light. Blinding, overwhelming light. He tried to close his eyes, but he had no eyelids. He tried to scream, but no sound came. He was helpless, vulnerable, and utterly disoriented. The warmth surrounded him, cradled him, and he realized with a jolt that he was no longer alone. There were voices, muffled and indistinct, but growing clearer with each passing moment.
"Another one," a voice said, cold and clinical. "Number 93."
Number 93. The words echoed in his mind, though he didn't understand their meaning. He tried to move, to see, but his body—if he even had one—wouldn't respond. Panic surged through him, but it was short-lived. The warmth, the heartbeat, the voices—they were all part of something new. Something alive.
He was alive.
The realization hit him like a thunderclap. He had been dead, and now he was… what? Reborn? Reincarnated? The concept was too vast, too alien to fully grasp, but one thing was clear: he was no longer the person he had been. That life, that identity, was gone. All that remained was the void, the memories, and the faint, lingering echo of his final thought: Why me?
Time passed, though he had no way of measuring it. The warmth remained, constant and comforting, but the voices came and went, always cold, always detached. He was examined, prodded, and measured, though he couldn't see or understand what was happening. He was a thing, an object, a subject of study. Number 93.
Eventually, he began to piece together fragments of his new reality. He was in a body—a small, fragile body. A baby's body. The realization was both horrifying and strangely comforting. He had been given a second chance, a new life, but it was a life stripped of everything he had once known. No name, no identity, no purpose. Just a number.
The voices belonged to people—men and women in robes, their faces obscured by masks. They spoke in hushed tones, their words laced with a reverence that sent a chill through him. They spoke of rituals, of sacrifices, of a great power that lay dormant within him. He didn't understand most of it, but one word stood out, repeated like a mantra: Eldritch.
The word stirred something deep within him, something primal and ancient. It was a connection, a thread tying him to the void, to the darkness that had consumed him. He didn't know what it meant, but he could feel it, like a shadow lurking at the edge of his consciousness.
As the days turned into weeks, he began to grow accustomed to his new existence. He learned to move, to open his eyes, to take in the world around him. The room he was in was dark, lit only by flickering candles that cast long, twisting shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something else—something metallic and sharp. Blood.
The people in robes—the cultists—were always there, watching, waiting. They rarely spoke to him directly, but he could feel their eyes on him, studying him, assessing him. He was an experiment, a vessel, a tool for their rituals. And yet, despite their coldness, he couldn't bring himself to hate them. They were all he had in this new life, the only connection to the world outside the void.
But there was something else, something deeper. A presence, faint but undeniable, lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness. It was the eldritch, the power the cultists spoke of. It was part of him now, woven into the fabric of his being. He could feel it, like a second heartbeat, steady and insistent. It was both comforting and terrifying, a reminder of what he had lost and what he had gained.
He didn't know what the future held, but one thing was certain: he was no longer the person he had been. That life, that identity, was gone. He was Number 93, a child of the cult, a vessel for the eldritch. And though he didn't yet understand what that meant, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would survive. He would endure. And he would find out why.
Why him? Why this? Why the void, the darkness, the eldritch? The questions burned in his mind, a constant, unrelenting drive. But for now, there were no answers. Only the warmth, the heartbeat, and the shadows that whispered of things yet to come.