Zayn gasped, jerking upright.
He was… breathing?
The ceiling above him was cracked and water-stained. The faint hum of an old fan buzzed in the corner.
"…What?"
He sat up.
This wasn't the street.
This was… his apartment. His old one. The crappy one-bedroom he had when he first started university.
His heart pounded.
> "Did I dream all that?"
"No… it felt too real. The pain. The blood. That man's face—"
"I died. I really… died."
He jumped from the bed and stumbled to the mirror.
A younger face stared back. Pale. Slim. Sharp eyes. He looked seventeen again.
He placed a trembling hand on the glass. "This… this isn't a dream…"
His knees buckled. He didn't cry. He couldn't. The fear and confusion were too thick to allow it.
> "Why me?"
"Why did he kill me?"
"And why… am I here again?"
His stomach growled.
He laughed—shaky, bitter.
"…Of course I'm hungry after dying."
He found a pack of instant noodles on the shelf. The same ones he used to live off of. Boiled it. Ate in silence.
He still had that $10,000 scholarship. He remembered now. First-year funds. Maybe this really was the past.
The next day passed in a daze.
He bought groceries—but only the cheapest items. He couldn't afford to waste money. Not with tuition, rent, and food.
> "If this is real… I have to survive it right this time."
But then—
A sudden light cut through the clouds outside his window.
He stood up, squinting.
"…What the hell?"
He stepped to the window—
And what he saw made him shocked and the sky ripped open.