Reborn from oblivion

The rain fell in heavy sheets, drowning out the sounds of the city—but not the rhythm of footsteps behind her. Steady. Patient. Relentless.

Maya gripped her coat tighter, her knuckles aching from the strain. It wasn't just the echo of the steps that unnerved her—it was the way they stopped whenever she did, as if mocking her hesitation.

She ducked into an alley, her breath sharp and uneven in the cold night air. The stink of wet garbage clung to her throat, and the sound of water dripping from the rooftops mingled with the distant hum of the city. She told herself this was safer. Tighter corners. Fewer exits. Less space for them to hide.

But then the footsteps stopped.

"Come on," she whispered to herself, her voice shaking. "Get a grip."

Turning sharply, her eyes caught the silhouette at the mouth of the alley. The faint glow of the streetlamp behind them stretched their shadow toward her, long and menacing.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice breaking before she could steady it.

The figure stepped forward. And just like that, the fear turned to something colder. Her stomach plummeted, her breath catching in her throat.

"You…" The word escaped her lips, barely audible.

"How long has it been?" His voice was calm, almost lazy, but beneath it was something sharp and cold.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "You can't be here. I—I saw the reports. I know what happened. I—"

"Reports lie," he said, cutting her off, his voice smooth and deliberate. The smirk that curved his lips might have looked amused if not for the fire in his eyes. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Maya staggered back a step, her boots scraping against the wet pavement. Her pulse thundered in her ears. "What do you want?" she asked, though the answer was written plainly in the way he watched her, like a cat with a wounded bird.

"Simple," he said, stepping closer, his hands loose at his sides. "I need a name. Who gave the order, Maya?"

Her heart skipped at the sound of her name, so familiar and foreign in his mouth. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered.

His laugh was soft, humorless. "You were always a terrible liar." He stopped a few feet from her, his head tilting slightly. Rain slicked his hair against his forehead, but he didn't seem to notice—or care. "It's funny, you know. The way people rewrite the past to make it easier to live with. You tell yourself one lie, then another, and another, until suddenly, you're the victim. A good person. Just following orders, right?"

Maya's jaw clenched. "I don't owe you anything. You think you're going to show up out of nowhere and rewrite the past for me? You're the one who—"

"Careful," he interrupted, his voice dropping. "You wouldn't want to finish that sentence."

The rain seemed to fall harder, the noise of it closing in around them like static. Maya swallowed hard, her mind racing. How was he alive? She'd seen the body. Seen the blood. She thought she'd buried it along with the memories, but now it all clawed its way back to the surface. The betrayal. The gunshot. The silence that followed.

"You shouldn't be here," she said finally, her voice trembling.

"And yet, here I am," he said, spreading his arms in mock grandeur. "You want to know why?" He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Because some things don't die so easily. You should know that better than anyone."

Her breath caught. The weight of his words settled over her like chains, dragging her back to the truth she'd tried so hard to forget.

"And what happens if I tell you?" she asked, forcing the words out. "You'll just… walk away? Let me go?"

His head tilted, his lips curving into something like a smile. "I'm many things," he said softly. "But a liar isn't one of them. You tell me who, and you're off the hook. Simple as that."

"No," she said sharply, surprising herself. Anger cut through the fear like a knife, hot and immediate. "No, it's not simple. None of this is. You think you can just waltz back here and start throwing around blame? Like you didn't know exactly what you were getting into?"

His expression shifted—barely, but she caught it. A flicker of something she couldn't place. Regret? Doubt? No. He buried it quickly, his face hardening again.

"Maybe I did," he said. "But that doesn't change what you did."

Her chest tightened. She knew what he wanted. Knew she couldn't give it to him. But there was something else beneath his words, something she didn't fully understand.

"No," she spat. "I'm not telling you anything. You want to kill me? Fine. Do it. At least I'll die knowing I didn't give you the satisfaction."

He blinked, surprised, then laughed—a low, bitter sound. "You think this is about satisfaction?" He shook his head, the smirk returning, colder than ever. "You really don't get it, do you?"

He stepped back, his voice soft and calm. "Fine. Whatever you wish."

He turned to leave, his shadow stretching long across the pavement. But Maya wasn't done. A surge of indignation burned through her chest, stronger than fear. She wasn't that scared girl anymore. She wasn't going to let him decide how this ended.

Her hand dove into her purse, fingers closing around the cold, familiar weight of the knife. She flipped it open, the sound sharp against the rain, and lunged.

He turned faster than she could react, his hand snapping out to catch her wrist. Pain shot up her arm as the knife clattered to the ground.

"You always did fight dirty," he murmured, his tone almost amused.

She screamed and lashed out with a kick, but he caught her leg effortlessly, his grip like iron. Then came the sting—sharp and immediate in her thigh.

Her vision blurred as she stumbled back, her knees giving way. The syringe in his hand glinted in the faint light, a sinister sliver of silver against the dark. The rain had washed away her fear, leaving only the raw, suffocating weight of inevitability pressing down on her chest.

Maya tried to push herself up, her arms trembling under the effort, but her body betrayed her. A slow, creeping numbness coiled around her limbs, heavy and inescapable. The world spun, tilting like a broken carousel, the edges of buildings bending and twisting with every labored blink.

He stood over her, his shadow long and unmerciful, etched across the wet pavement like a stain. His face was a portrait of maddening calm, framed by strands of rain-slicked hair clinging to his forehead. No rage. No triumph. Just quiet calculation, like she was a puzzle he'd already solved.

"Should've just told me," he murmured, his voice soft enough to be mistaken for kindness if not for the blade beneath his words.

Maya's lips parted, but no sound came out—only a shallow gasp, fragile and thin. She tried to form words, to scream, to fight, but her muscles were lead, her mind slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

Her legs buckled completely, collapsing under her like a marionette with its strings cut. The cold of the pavement seeped through her clothes, sharp and unforgiving, mixing with the warmth fading from her body. Rain pooled around her, mingling with the faint smear of blood where the knife had fallen.

She blinked up at him, her vision tunneling, the edges of the world dissolving into shadow. His face hovered above her, closer now, his expression unreadable. A faint smile curved his lips—not wide, not mocking, just… hollow. A ghost of something that might've been real once, before everything rotted underneath.

His eyes locked on hers, dark and endless, and for a fleeting second, she thought she saw something there. Regret? No. Not regret. Something colder. A reflection of the choices neither of them could outrun.

The rain was just a distant hum now, like static on a broken radio.

And then—darkness.