It was dark.

The boy’s face was obscured by strands of his disheveled bangs, damp with sweat.

The oppressive blackness wrapped around him like a shroud.

A faint stir in his chest jolted him awake.

This boy was Ezra.

His eyelids fluttered, but all he could see was an impenetrable void.

He sat there, breathing in stale air that carried a metallic tang. Each rasp echoed in the emptiness around him, sharp and grating.

Then, without warning, light erupted, slashing through the darkness.

A sterile, blinding white seared his half-closed eyes.

He winced, instinctively shielding his face with an arm.

The light buzzed faintly, like angry insects in a swarm. As his vision adjusted, shapes began to emerge from the haze.

The boy was kneeling on a floor slick with grime, his hands pressed into its sticky surface. Around him, rusted metal walls stretched upward, streaked with grime and dark streaks that resembled dried blood. A thick duct pipe ran along the ceiling above, leaking dark sludge that dripped rhythmically onto the floor.

Ahead, the scene shifted into something absurd, almost grotesque.

A mountain of CRT monitors loomed, their warped glass screens stacked haphazardly. Some crackled with static, while others flickered erratically, casting harsh light across the room.

There was a knife stabbed in one of them.

The monitors hissed faintly, their surfaces whispering unintelligibly.

The boy's stomach churned. Beneath the heap of screens lay discarded cables and random objects, untouched for what seemed like centuries.

Mold crept along the walls and ceiling, its earthy stench filling the stagnant air. Tiny spores floated in the light, glinting like dust motes.

A low deep voice rumbled, shattering the silence.

[Greetings.]

Ezra lifted his head and looked at the CRT monitors again.

“It’s you…”

[Surprised?]

“More to confused. Why didn’t I end up here every time I died?”

[Because not every termination warrants relocation; preservation of efficiency.]

“Then, why now?”

[I have questions. Questions only you can answer.]

“What do you want to know?”

[How’s the world? Beyond what you expected, isn’t it?]

Ezra’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“Yeah… It’s… overwhelming.”

[Overwhelming, indeed. But tell me—does it feel better than your past life?]

Ezra stayed silent for a moment, his fingers curling into fists against the sticky floor.

“Sometimes. But other times… it’s just another kind of pain.”

[Honest. That’s good. Pain is what binds you to this place, isn’t it? The desire to endure, to fight.]

Ezra’s head tilted back, his eyes meeting the flickering screens.

“What does it matter to you?”

[Everything matters. Do you think you’ve escaped the cycle of your past life simply because this one has no end?]

“I don’t care about the cycle. The past is gone. Why should I waste time thinking about it?”

[Because it’s eroding you. Piece by piece. Each death strips more away. Memories, identity, purpose. You’ve died too many times within a week. Half of what made you who you were is gone in within 3 days.]

Ezra’s jaw clenched.

“So what? I don’t need the past to survive.”

[Is survival all you seek? What about meaning? Connection?]

“Meaning…”

Ezra’s voice faltered.

“I’m still here, aren’t I? That’s enough.”

[For now. But what happens when the void inside you grows too large to ignore? When the memories you’ve lost are the ones you need most?]

“You’re saying I should care, but you don’t even tell me why I’m here.”

Ezra shot back, his voice rising.

“What do you want from me?”

[Reflection, Ezra. Growth. The world you’ve been thrust into isn’t just a battlefield. It’s a crucible. Each choice you make, each life you take or spare, shapes the person you’re becoming.]

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“And if I don’t like who I become?”

[Then change.]

Ezra lowered his head, his breath steadying. The voice’s words echoed in his mind.

“Is that all?”

[For now. But heed this, Ezra. Every end is a beginning. And every choice you make will ripple through the void.]

***

Ezra stirred, the first thing registering in his mind was the faint hum above him.

Pale light spilled from the overhead lamp, its stark glow sharp against the sterile white ceiling.

He blinked against it, his lashes catching faint flecks of dust in the air.

The air here was dense—not stifling, but with a faintly metallic tang, like the scent after a storm.

His limbs ached, but not painful. It was lulling him to sink deeper into the cot beneath him.

He blinked again, his hand lifting slowly into view. The pale light cast soft shadows over his fingers, stretching and swaying as he flexed them.

His skin was unmarred, whole—as if the battle, the chaos, the fire—had been nothing but a fever dream.

He studied his palm, searching for something amiss. But no answers came.

The soft murmurs of the room began to fill his ears, sharpening gradually like tuning into a frequency.

Ezra turned his head, the motion slow, almost hesitant. The sight to his left brought an odd sense of familiarity.

Peter lay sprawled across his cot, one arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling steadily.

Beside him, Franklin snored quietly, his head lolling against the wall in a way that seemed both uncomfortable but natural.

Ezra’s gaze lingered on Oliver. He was already awake, sitting at the edge of his stretcher. His shoulders hunched as he stared at the floor, his fingers absently tracing circles against the cot’s frame. The stillness in him was heavy, like unspoken thoughts weighing him down.

Ezra thought to call out but stopped himself. The air between them felt sacred, a fragile moment not meant to be disturbed.

To his right, Stan was slumped against the wall, head tilted back, his lips parted slightly in sleep. His face looked oddly serene in the harsh light, as if he’d found a rare respite from the madness.

Then there was Joshua. Awake and alert. His shotgun was balanced delicately across his lap, his hands moving with practiced precision. Sandpaper brushed against the barrel in rhythmic strokes, the soft scrape filling the room with a quiet sense of order. The metal gleamed even in the low light, though Ezra doubted it needed any more polishing. The ritual itself seemed to calm him, to anchor him.

Ezra’s eyes roamed further, taking in the space.

This place was familiar. Too familiar.

–It was just the school's sickbay.

The fabric was rough against Ezra's skin, but it cradled him with a strange sense of belonging, like returning to a place you didn’t know you missed.

A chill rippled through him, subtle but enough to make him shiver.

“Did I die again?”

The words slipped from his lips, too quiet to carry beyond himself. He stared at his hand again, flipping it over, watching the play of light on his knuckles and the faint lines of his palm.

It was the same hand, but it felt different somehow—weightless, almost unreal.

Ezra let his head sink back against the pillow, his body relaxing against the cot’s uneven surface.

The hum of the room wrapped around him like a blanket, muffling the sharper edges of his thoughts.

He exhaled slowly, his eyelids growing heavy, the faint buzz of Joshua’s sandpaper and the rhythmic snores around him creating a strange kind of lullaby.

Time here didn’t flow the way it did in the real world.

Minutes could stretch into hours, or maybe it was the other way around.

…

The next day unfolded in a blur of movement and chatter, the kind that carried an odd familiarity.

Ezra found himself walking alongside Oliver, the buzz of conversation from the group ahead weaving into the steady rhythm of their footsteps.

They trailed slightly behind, voices low as they recounted the chaos of the last battle.

The path to the canteen was lined with sunlight streaming through wide windows, illuminating the scuffed floor beneath their shoes.

When they stepped inside, the scene before them felt almost surreal.

The high school canteen was a hive of energy, filled with the clatter of trays and the low hum of voices.

Four large tables had been pulled together in the center, forming a makeshift banquet setup. Platters of food sat like a centerpiece, steam curling upward, carrying the savory aromas of gravy, fried fish, and freshly baked bread—there was more food than just that.

Ezra paused, his gaze sweeping over the spread. It was disarmingly normal—comfort food, the kind that belonged in a pub or a family dinner, not in a place like this.

He reached for a plate almost instinctively, sliding it toward himself.

Mashed potatoes, smooth and golden, glistened under a sheen of butter.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen mashed potatoes.”

He muttered, his voice almost lost in the lively din.

Oliver chuckled, his lips quirking into a half-smile as he scooped some onto his own plate.

“Europe.”

He said simply, a note of nostalgia in his tone.

Peter slid in beside them, jabbing a finger at the trays.

“We’ve got Japanese stuff too.”

He said, voice light with mock disdain.

“But don’t expect rice to be a staple.”

“Japanese food is a tragedy in this place. Must be the chef.”

He added, shaking his head.

Joshua, perched across the table, snorted.

“You think you’re Gordon Ramsay now?”

The banter flowed naturally, a current of voices and laughter that rippled around Ezra.

He tuned them out after a moment, his gaze wandering.

Carina sat a few seats away, poised and unbothered, slurping udon with quiet focus.

The noodles coiled around her chopsticks, the broth steaming in her bowl.

Ezra's brow furrowed slightly as he watched her. She had paid for the entire feast, yet she acted as though it was nothing, as though it wasn’t remarkable.

His thoughts lingered on her briefly before drifting again.

The room buzzed with life, a mosaic of faces, some familiar, others new.

Around them, the canteen walls seemed freshly painted, the faint scent of varnish lingering in the air.

Outside the tall windows, the dormitories stood tall, pristine and untouched, as if the chaos from yesterday had been little more than a fleeting dream.

Ezra let his fork hover over his plate.

The dormitories, demolished just a day ago, now stood tall once more, pristine as if nothing had ever touched them.

The wreckage from the tank, the helicopter, even the drones? Gone.

Craters from the howitzers? Wiped clean.

No rubble, no scars left behind.

The world here obeyed a different set of rules, and yet no one seemed to question it.

Laughter erupted to his right, jolting him from his thoughts.

Stan mopped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, grinning as he downed a mouthful of food.

Beside him, Franklin had slung a lazy arm over Maxwell’s shoulder, pulling him into a lighthearted exchange.

Across the table, Peter and Joshua were locked in an eating contest, shoveling bowls of beef stroganoff into their mouths with wild abandon.

Empty bowls began to stack between them, a testament to their determination.

Ezra couldn’t help the faint tug of amusement at the sight.

Carina’s words echoed in his mind: You know, A World Where We Can Relax for a Bit Before Reincarnating Again. Yeah, right. I'd love to put a bullet through her skull for that lie.

Unironically, they were living now—laughing, eating, and existing without the burdens they once carried.

Yet even in this warmth, there was a distance. Ezra felt like a spectator, caught between moments, watching it all unfold from the edges.

His fork clinked against his plate as he pushed it aside, his appetite waning.

His mind drifted, thoughts tangled with fragments of yesterday’s battle.

The Architect, the enemy team, the chaos of bullets—it all blurred together in his memory.

It’s like a game,

He thought, staring blankly at the uneaten fish on his plate.

It doesn’t matter if we die.

“Still… I’m only buying time.”

He murmured to himself, the words barely audible.

The table erupted in laughter again, louder this time.

Ezra blinked, his focus snapping back to the present.

Oliver was grinning, mischief lighting up his face as he shook a can of soda and cracked it open, spraying the group beside him.

A shriek of protest rang out, followed by Joshua retaliating with a flung bowl of stroganoff.

The creamy sauce splattered across Peter’s face, drawing roars of laughter from everyone nearby.

Before Ezra could react, Oliver clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to say something.

The words were lost in the noise, but the warmth of the gesture lingered.

Ezra nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he picked up his fork again.

The noise around him swirled—a symphony of voices and laughter.

He wasn’t part of the uproar, but he didn’t feel apart from it either.

He let himself settle into the moment, the vibrant energy washing over him.

And still, beneath it all, the question lingered, quiet and persistent in the back of his mind.

Why am I here?