CHAPTER 5:LAST CHANCE

Darkness.

Cold.

Empty.

Stone's eyes stared blank—dead, hollow, void of light.

But before the void fully swallowed him, the memories came.

Not in order. Not gentle.

They didn't drift in like dreams. They stabbed in—violent, raw—splintering through the black.

His mother's hands.

Warm. Soft. The smell of flour and soap clinging to her skin.

Her tired smile, fighting to stay bright for him even when her body trembled with exhaustion.

The sound of rain on the tin roof, her voice humming a lullaby he'd pretended to hate but secretly clung to.

The flash of sunlight over the river.

Ben's laughter—loud, unguarded.

The two of them racing barefoot down the dirt path, boots in hand, swearing they'd never let the world change them.

The night they cut their palms open and pressed them together—brothers for life.

Then—

The sound of splintering wood under his boot.

The sting of cold steel at his ribs.

His brain struggling to process the wrongness of it all—

Ben's face smiling down at him…

…but not the smile he knew.

Something sharp in his eyes. Something cruel.

Then the push.

The fall.

The impact.

Water.

Cold, choking, heavy.

A scream lost to the depths before it even reached his throat.

His arms thrashing, reaching—

Ben's hand wasn't there.

Ben was gone.

Stone's chest burned.

The black water filled his lungs.

The sound of the world faded.

And now—

Here.

Suspended in a void without shape or edge.

No breath.

No heartbeat.

No sound but the slow echo of his own thoughts.

The rage came like a slow poison at first—whispering at the edges.

But it grew.

It clawed its way up through the grief, the confusion, until it swelled inside his ribs like a storm.

His jaw clenched.

The nothing around him seemed to shiver in response.

"Ben…" His voice was hoarse, like it had to claw its way out of his throat.

The name tasted like blood.

Again, louder:

"BEN!"

It was no longer grief. No longer loss.

It was venom.

"If I have to crawl through hell to get to you…"

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

"If I have to burn the whole damn world to ash…"

His voice shook with fury, not fear.

"I'll find you.

And I will kill you."

The vow tore out of him like a blade breaking skin.

It echoed into the black—once, twice—then vanished.

And then—

The temperature dropped.

The air—if it could even be called that—grew heavier.

A weight pressed down on him, slow and suffocating.

From the endless dark, a figure took shape.

Tall.

Silent.

Its presence made the void feel smaller, more fragile.

Its form wrapped in shadows darker than the black Stone floated in.

Death.

No face.

Just two eyes—bottomless pits that pulled at something deeper than flesh.

Eyes that wanted him.

A voice came—not spoken, but carved into the marrow of his bones.

Choose.

Two hands extended.

The left: soft, white light.

Peace. Rest. Oblivion.

The right: jagged, shadowed, pulsing with something sharp and alive.

Power. Vengeance.

A last chance.

Stone didn't hesitate.

He reached for the right.

Fingers closing around it.

Pain detonated inside him—pure, white-hot agony shredding him apart.

His body convulsed.

His lungs dragged in air like they were breathing for the first time, but the breath was cold.

Death leaned close, its voice low, almost amused.

"Hope you don't regret what you'll become."

Then—

His eyes snapped open.

Ghostly vermilion flames roared to life in them, slicing through the dark.

Alive.

Cold.

Hungry.

A soul reborn.

A curse embraced.

A last chance.

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