The girl lay on the hospital bed, her gown soaked through with sweat. Morphine dripped steadily through the tubing, but it did little—if anything—to dull the agony coursing through her body. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, each inhale a shudder; pain surged through her like waves in a stormy sea.
By her bedside, an old woman knelt. Her hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles had gone pale. Eyes shut tight, lips trembling, she whispered a prayer over and over, like a fragile incantation holding back the inevitable.
The door creaked open. A man entered quietly.
He had long hair and an unshaven face, and wore a loose, threadbare shirt that hung off his shoulders with casual indifference. There was something untamed about him—unpolished, yet strangely composed. He said nothing as he walked to the bed.
Gently, he reached out and helped the grandmother to her feet so she could clearly see his face. Then he turned to the girl. His hand moved slowly, reverently, as if touching something sacred. The moment his fingertips brushed her clammy forehead, a subtle shift rippled through the room.
The tension in her brow melted. Her lips parted with a soft, trembling sigh. And in an instant, the pain subsided—diminished not by science, but by something unseen, something almost… divine. Her breath deepened, softened, as though she were drifting into a peaceful dream.
The grandmother leaned forward and embraced the girl, their foreheads touching as they spoke in hushed tones only they could hear. The world seemed to fall silent for them, holding its breath.
The man did not linger. He turned, walked out just as silently as he had come. He left no trace. No name. No words.
Except one thing:
He was Jacob. Michel Jacob.
A ghost within the walls of this private hospital—known to some, but spoken of by none. Officially, he didn't exist. But behind closed doors, they allowed him to remain. Because unlike anyone else…
He could take away pain.
— For him, it was just another day.
Jacob returned home, shrugging off his coat in a fluid, practiced motion. He cracked open a bottle of beer, flopped down onto his old couch, and stared blankly at the flickering television. On the nearby table sat a massive jar filled with capsules of every color—bright pinks, faded blues, blistering whites.
He grabbed a handful and swallowed them down with a gulp of beer, no hesitation. Like brushing teeth. Like breathing. It was just routine.
Then something on the screen caught his attention.The news report flickered to life. A bold headline stretched across the bottom:
"THE RETURN OF THE MESSIAH? GABRIEL DIAS CLAIMS MIRACULOUS POWER TO HEAL"
Jacob sat up. The beer bottle froze halfway to his lips.
The camera cut to a striking young man—olive skin glowing under studio lights, brown curls swept back, eyes gleaming with unnatural calm.Gabriel Dias. He spoke in a soft, articulate voice. Calm. Measured. Practiced."I grew up in the largest favela in Brazil," he said. "And one day… I discovered something strange. I could take people's pain away."Jacob felt his chest tighten. His fingers twitched.Another one?Another person like him?He stared at the screen, motionless. For a long time, he said nothing. He didn't reach for the beer. He didn't reach for the pills. He just sat, frozen.Eventually, the program moved on to another segment. Jacob blinked once. Slowly leaned back.
It was probably nothing.He told himself that.
Just another freak. Just another face on the screen.He wasn't going to call. He wasn't going to reach out.He had work tomorrow.
And yet…Somewhere deep inside, something had begun to stir.
[The Return of the Messiah: Gabriel Dias]
"Jesus Returns – The Messiah is Here!"
The bold headline blazed across the TV screen. On the screen appeared a striking man with warm brown skin, dressed immaculately, his voice calm and charismatic. Gabriel Dias.
In a televised interview, Gabriel shared his story — how he discovered his so-called supernatural gift, and how he now used that gift to ease the pain and suffering of the sick.
"I grew up in one of Brazil's largest favelas," he began. "One day, by accident, I realized I could erase someone's pain just by touching them..."
The words stopped Jacob cold. His heartbeat stuttered. Could it be?
He had never met anyone else like himself. Someone else who could take away pain.
But he didn't rush to contact Gabriel. He didn't act on impulse. The revelation startled him, certainly, but it passed. Like so many things in Jacob's life, it became just another strange ripple in his otherwise solitary existence.
Meanwhile, Gabriel Dias' life was far from the radiant image he projected to the world. Behind the media-friendly messiah façade, his days were consumed by carefully curated political dealings and business schemes.
In a luxurious office tower, Gabriel sat slouched in his chair, swirling red wine in a crystal glass, visibly annoyed. A secretary approached with a clipboard, but Gabriel waved her off with an impatient hand.
"Is the meeting with the mayor still on schedule? Just stick to the plan."
He was nothing like the radiant figure who had graced the interview screen. Aloof. Calculated. Gabriel didn't crave admiration—he craved control. Every word, every action was rehearsed for impact.
[A Real Savior?]
Months passed. Then, one day, a young reporter sought out Jacob in person.
"You—you're the real savior! Not those so-called miracle men healing billionaires for clout. You help the forgotten! The poor!"
Jacob smiled faintly, brushing his scruffy hair behind an ear.
"Savior? Hardly. I'm just a guy with a weird trick trying to make rent. Whatever Gabriel Dias can do, it's on a whole other level."
The reporter frowned, dissatisfied, and left.
[An Unexpected Call]
A few weeks later, Jacob received an unexpected call.
"Mr. Jacob? This is Gabriel Dias. I've been hoping we could meet. I've heard... quite a bit about you."
Jacob sat in stunned silence for a moment.
"Mr. Dias. I believe the honor's mine. But I assure you, if we meet, you'll probably find it disappointing."
They spoke briefly. After some hesitation, they arranged a meeting. One week later, on a quiet stretch of farmland outside the city.
[Two Worlds Collide]
Gabriel looked radiant under the afternoon sun. Confident. Polished. Jacob, on the other hand, wore his trademark wrinkled coat, his beard unshaven, eyes tired.
Despite the contrast, their conversation flowed with surprising ease. Gabriel eventually invited Jacob to see the core of his current project, housed in a converted barn on the property.
As they walked through an arched wooden gate, Gabriel stumbled slightly. Jacob instinctively reached out to steady him.
Gabriel jerked away, alarmed. "You didn't... take it, did you?!"
Jacob frowned, hand still half-extended. "What? Are you hurt?"
Gabriel's fingers brushed his own neck. A long, deep breath. "Apologies. I thought—just for a second—that you absorbed it."
Jacob, now puzzled, shook his head. "No, my ability doesn't work that way. I have to choose to take someone's pain. Touch alone isn't enough."
Gabriel's brows creased, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, before his practiced smile returned.
"I see. Forgive my reaction. Let's keep moving."
[Unthinkable]
Back at home, Jacob sat silently. Gabriel's project, once outlined, was something Jacob couldn't fully comprehend—because he couldn't believe anyone would ever approve of such a thing.
Something about it felt wrong. Deeply wrong.
He refused Gabriel's proposal on the spot, but the unease lingered. What if Gabriel succeeded anyway? Could the world really allow such an atrocity under the guise of healing?
Jacob's head ached. He reached for his old pill bottle, took a few sleeping tablets, and lay down, praying for silence.
[Memory in the Garden]
He dreamed.
His grandfather.
After Jacob's grandmother passed, the old man had moved in with him. He spent his days tending flowers in the back garden—flowers that weren't just flowers, but memories. Remnants of the woman he'd loved.
"Let me rub your back, Grandpa. You've been out here all day."
The old man chuckled. "Michael, you're a lifesaver. My back's already feeling better."
Jacob had smiled then, surprised at how tangible the effect was. That day was when he'd truly discovered his power.
His parents—both iOS engineers, logic-driven and pragmatic—didn't quite know how to process his confession.
"Grandpa passed from grief and illness, not because of you," they said. "Your ability helped him, not hurt him."
Jacob had wanted to believe them.
But then came the murderer.
And nothing was ever the same again.
Each time Jacob dreamed of that day, he awoke in a cold sweat.
You, Always With Me
"He rejected me… as expected," Gabriel muttered to the empty apartment, his voice low, almost wistful. He stood by the window, a glass of dark wine cradled in his hand, the city lights flickering in the glass like ghosts of stars. "But there's always another way," he added, with a hint of something unreadable—something cold.
His fingers brushed the side of his neck, lingering over a spot only he seemed to notice. A faint scar, invisible to most. He exhaled softly, almost in relief. "Thankfully… he didn't take this."
— Four Years Ago
It was supposed to be a new beginning. Gabriel had clawed his way from the slums, tooth and nail, built something that almost resembled a life. A sleek apartment. A safe home. For her. But life had its own plans.
His mother—his anchor, his shadow, his only reason—was diagnosed with throat cancer. Terminal. The word had struck like a gunshot in the silence of a doctor's office.
By the time they returned home, she was a husk of herself. Skin pale and stretched too thin. Her voice, once warm and melodic, reduced to a strained rasp. Even swallowing water became an agony. She couldn't eat. Could barely breathe.
So Gabriel did what he had learned to do. He took her pain. Drew it out like venom. Let it burn through his own throat like a blade dragged across raw flesh, a fire stoked with every breath. His neck throbbed for weeks, the pain living inside him like a parasite. But it didn't matter. He would've done it again and again.
And still—it wasn't enough.
She died anyway. Not in peace. Not in grace. But in a blur of agony and fading light, her hand reaching for something he couldn't give.
He buried her with shaking hands. Sat at the grave for hours, days, maybe longer. And afterward, he kept the pain—never transferred it, never dulled it. Let it anchor him.
Because without it, without that searing proof of his failure… what was he living for?
Gabriel never cried. But when he spoke of her in later years, he always touched his neck—right where the fire once lived.
And in the quiet, when no one watched, he still whispered: "You're here. Even in pain— you never left me."
The Perfect Redemption Plan, Activated
Just waking up, his head still heavy with fog, Jacob sat down to eat breakfast while the television droned on in the background.
He suddenly caught a headline blaring across the screen:
"The Perfect Redemption Plan, Led by Gabriel Oz Dias, Begins Unfolding in Local Prisons."
No way… Jacob thought, eyes narrowing. Is this really being broadcast on TV? How could any network agree to air such a plan? Is it some kind of condemnation? He listened, heart pounding, as the report continued.
"This is merely an experimental field test of the redemption plan," the announcer explained. "Pain from critically ill patients—tormented by unbearable suffering—is being transferred to prisoners within the system. It's… a perfect solution!"
The camera cut to a grim prison scene.
"The pain I bear is that of a seven-year-old girl suffering from bone cancer. I'm proud to share her burden," a bald, tattooed inmate declared with conviction.
Could it be… he's right? Am I… the one who's wrong? Jacob froze, his mind racing. Yes, Gabriel once transferred pain to animals—creatures without consciousness. But these prisoners are volunteering to bear it. And they seem… content.
The Beginning of Everything
Watching Gabriel's polished image on the news—the man now hailed as New York City's foremost figure—Jacob remained mired in his usual haze, performing the work of easing others' pain with mechanical routine. Suddenly, his phone rang.
The caller ID flashed: Michael Jacob.
At the prison, separated by a one-way glass, Gabriel introduced a man to Jacob: "This is JR, the inmate who murdered your entire family."
A wave of dizziness overwhelmed Jacob; cold sweat broke out over his body.
"Why?" Jacob barely managed to whisper.
"I've already spoken with him. He wants to take on all the pain you've been carrying—the pain of all those people you've been storing inside. You say you can't just hand over pain without cause to prisoners or animals. But you can give it to him. No—you should give it to him."
Jacob's head buzzed; the next moments felt like a dream, his body no longer under his control. Gabriel led him inside. The prisoner's voice was gentle—like a father, a teacher, a doctor—but not like a murderer. Following Gabriel's instructions, Jacob transferred all the accumulated pain he'd carried for years in one overwhelming wave.
Jacob watched as JR clutched his head, tears of agony streaming down his face.
Then Jacob went home.
"There's one more," a man appeared—expressionless but bloodied—grabbing Jacob as he hid in a stairwell. He lifted a knife, ready to strike.
But suddenly, he didn't feel the pain from the gunshot wound in his left shoulder. Stunned, he froze just as police sirens blared outside. He threw Jacob down the stairs and fled through a window.
"Why could he face me so calmly?" Jacob sat dazed in front of the TV. "It hurts so much…"
"But I've already taken it all away—why?" He reached for the dusty jar on the table and swallowed a handful of capsules.
Michael Jacob (aged 38)