Part 1: A Breath That Shouldn't Exist
Summary: A man dies doing the right thing. When he wakes up, he's in someone else's body. Someone younger. Somewhere unfamiliar. He doesn't know where he is. Or why he's alive. Only that something's wrong. Starting with himself.
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Darkness. Then breath.
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It came slow, like surfacing from under deep water. Cold air scraped its way into his lungs. His heart beat once — a hard, sudden jolt — then again, faster.
He gasped.
Sat upright.
And stopped moving.
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His back pressed against damp asphalt. He could feel it — the grain of the ground, the cold clinging to his clothes, the stiffness in his limbs.
His breathing slowed, but he didn't stand.
His hands… they didn't look right.
Slim. Younger. No scars. No burns on the knuckles.
He stared at them, flexing the fingers. The movement was smooth. Too smooth. He was breathing, but it didn't feel like his breath.
His head was fogged. He didn't remember drinking. He didn't remember falling asleep.
He remembered dying.
A gun. Screaming. A bank. Blood — thick in his throat. He remembered his body going cold.
He remembered the pain.
But now?
Nothing.
No bullet wound. No blood. No pain.
Just a strange, too-light body and a heartbeat that didn't belong to him.
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He sat up slowly. The alley was narrow, dark, empty. Rain had fallen — he could feel it drying in patches beneath him. Neon signs buzzed in the distance. The voices of a city hummed beyond the walls. Someplace big. Modern. But unfamiliar.
He looked down.
No injuries.
No scars. No blood. No broken ribs.
His hands were clean. His arms were wiry. Younger.
He touched his face — jawline, cheekbones, hair.
This wasn't his face.
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He checked the pockets of his jacket — thin fabric, too new. Inside, he found a wallet. No keys. No phone. Just the wallet.
Inside it:
$28 in bills.
A faded student transit pass.
And a license.
Name: Riven Dax
Age: 17
The picture looked like the face he'd touched a moment ago.
Short black hair. Sharp features. Tired eyes.
He stared at the name.
It meant nothing.
He said it aloud, like trying on a coat:
> "Riven…"
The word felt weird in his mouth.
But not wrong.
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His stomach growled. He was starving. Not thirsty — just empty. Every breath tasted too clean.
His joints didn't ache. His ribs didn't stab. His lungs didn't burn when he inhaled deep.
That wasn't normal.
Something was off.
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He stood. Carefully. Not out of pain — out of uncertainty.
He stepped once. Then again. No limp. No imbalance.
He started walking.
Not because he knew where to go.
Because he didn't.
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