Man- Huh?
*GROANS*
MAN- Urghh so much pain... where am .... who am I ?
*HOLDS HEAD & SCREAMED IN PAIN*
MAN- Mark Jensen, 23 years, American African, pushed drugs on the streets of Brooklyn.
*HOLDS HEAD IN PAIN* *MEMORIES FLASHING*
MAN- Too much information all at once, MAKE IT STOPP PLEASEEE!!!!!!!
VOICE- Enough with the memories.
*HUGE WHITE LIGHT FLASHED*
VOICE- My name is Ai, your name is Mark. You're dead Mark. Why do you people not take the signs from the universe?
MARK- Dead? What? NO!! This can't be happening. My mom, my baby sister, who's going to provide for them? Send me back, let me go, stop these games, please I beg of you.
Ai- Do you not remember what happened?
MARK- What how I died? No.
Ai- Hm,seems liked when i stopped the memories, I stopped it just before you died. Apologies. I will show you from the day you actually died.
The rain in Brooklyn always smelled like rust.
Mark Jensen stood beneath the flickering streetlamp on Fulton Street, hoodie soaked through, hands shoved deep in his pockets. At twenty-three, he had learned two things: money came fast, and peace never did.
He sold for Vincent Moretti.
Everyone knew Vincent. Nobody said his name twice.
Mark handed off a small package to a twitchy customer and watched him disappear into the night.
"You're getting sloppy."
Mark turned.
Vincent stood beside a black SUV, dressed in a charcoal coat, polished shoes untouched by puddles. Two men stood behind him like shadows.
Mark swallowed. "I moved everything you gave me."
Vincent smiled—a slow, dangerous smile.
"Did you?"
Mark frowned. "Yeah."
Vincent stepped closer.
"Because someone tells me five grand worth of product vanished."
"That's impossible."
Vincent leaned in.
"No, Mark. What's impossible… is you thinking I'd believe you."
"I didn't steal from you."
Vincent sighed.
"That's the sad part. I know."
Mark blinked. "What?"
Vincent's smile widened.
"I made it look like you did."
Silence.
Mark felt his stomach drop.
"Why?"
"Because now," Vincent said softly, "you belong to me."
—
From that night on, Mark stopped being a dealer.
He became property.
Vincent made sure of it.
His mother, Elena, worked double shifts at a laundromat. His baby sister, Sofia, was only six months old.
Vincent visited their apartment one evening, sat at their kitchen table, and fed Sofia mashed bananas while smiling at Mark.
"See?" Vincent said. "I'm practically family."
That was the prison.
Not chains.
Fear.
Every day Vincent reminded him:
"You run, they suffer."
"You fail, they suffer."
"You breathe wrong… they suffer."
And Mark believed him.
For months, he obeyed.
Until January 17th, 2026.
That night, Mark had fake passports, cash, and bus tickets to Miami. From there, a boat. Somewhere far. Somewhere Vincent couldn't reach.
His mother held Sofia tightly at the terminal.
"Are we really leaving?" she whispered.
Mark nodded.
"We're done, Ma. Tonight."
She touched his face.
"You're still my good boy."
Before he could answer—
A slow clap echoed behind them.
Vincent.
Mark froze.
Vincent stood there smiling.
"I almost respected the effort."
Elena stepped in front of Mark.
"Please—"
A gunshot.
She dropped instantly.
Mark screamed.
Sofia cried—
Another shot.
Silence.
Mark collapsed to his knees.
"No—NO—"
Vincent crouched beside him.
"They had an easy death."
Mark was shaking so hard he could barely breathe.
Vincent grabbed his jaw.
"But you… you have work to do."
—
The warehouse smelled like bleach and old blood.
For thirty days, Mark learned what hell felt like.
Day one, they tied him to a chair and broke two fingers with a hammer.
"Talk less," Vincent said.
Crack.
"Listen more."
Crack.
Day three, they held his hand flat on a table and drove a knife slowly through the flesh between his fingers.
Mark screamed until his voice broke.
Day five, they kept him awake for forty-eight hours—bright lights, cold water, punches every time his eyes closed.
Day seven, they used pliers on his nails.
One by one.
Slowly.
Vincent stood there sipping coffee.
"Pain teaches gratitude."
Day ten, they hung him by his wrists from the ceiling for hours until his shoulders felt like they were tearing apart.
Day fourteen, they beat his ribs with a metal pipe.
He heard at least one crack.
Maybe three.
Day seventeen, they locked him in a freezer overnight, half-naked, teeth chattering so violently he thought they'd break.
Day twenty-one, they burned him with cigarettes across his chest and arms.
Small circles.
Tiny reminders.
Day twenty-five, they starved him.
Then placed food in front of him.
Every time he reached—
They kicked it away.
Day twenty-eight, Vincent whispered:
"Your mother says hello."
Mark cried for the first time since January.
"She's okay?"
Vincent smiled.
"She misses you."
That lie kept him alive.
For Sofia.
For his mother.
For hope.
Thirty days.
Every breath was for them.
—
February 16th, 2026.
Mark could barely stand.
His face was swollen, ribs taped, left eye half-shut.
Vincent entered the room alone.
"Well," he said, "look at you. Still alive."
Mark's voice was barely a whisper.
"I want… to see them."
Vincent tilted his head.
"Who?"
"My mother… Sofia…"
For a moment, Vincent said nothing.
Then he laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Real laughter.
The kind that made tears form.
Mark stared.
Vincent wiped his eyes.
"Oh, Mark…"
He pulled out a pistol.
"That fucking idiot thought his family was alive."
Everything inside Mark stopped.
"No…"
"They died January seventeenth."
Vincent pressed the gun to his forehead.
"You survived for ghosts."
Mark whispered, broken:
"Why…"
Vincent smiled.
"Because I wanted to see how far hope could stretch."
Bang.
Darkness.
—
MARK- Fucking Vincent.
Ai- This is The Middle Mark. You have been judged worthy of a second chance. If you choose to be reborn in the same world, Vincent will be 52 by the time you can actually do any revenge.
MARK- Second Chance, I do not care what I have to go through to reach him but I will reach him.
Ai- Take my hand.
*Ai EXTENDS HER HAND* *MARK HOLDS IT*
HUGE WHITE LIGHT
Ai- Make sure Vincent dies screaming.
MARK- You betcha.
MARK DISAPPEARS INTO THE LIGHT
The white void shattered like glass.
Mark felt himself falling—through light, through sound, through memories that weren't his and yet somehow were. His mother's laugh. Sofia's tiny hand wrapped around his finger. Vincent's smile.
That smile.
Then—
Pain.
Sharp.
Burning.
Cold air filled his lungs like knives.
A baby cried.
No.
He cried.
Mark's eyes snapped open.
Blurred lights. White ceiling. The smell of antiseptic.
Voices.
"He's breathing!"
"Doctor!"
"Push, push—come on!"
Mark couldn't move. His body was too small. Too weak.
Too—
He looked down.
Tiny hands.
Tiny fingers.
What the hell—
A woman's exhausted voice, trembling with tears:
"My baby… my baby boy…"
Mark turned.
His mother.
Younger.
Much younger.
Elena Jensen, tears streaming down her face, holding him like he was the entire world.
Mark froze.
No.
No, no, no—
This wasn't possible.
He tried to speak.
Nothing came out except the cry of a newborn.
The doctor smiled.
"Congratulations. January 3rd, 2003. Healthy baby boy."
Mark's entire soul went still.
He had been sent back.
Not as a man.
As himself.
Again.
His mother kissed his forehead.
"Mark," she whispered. "My little Mark…"
Tears rolled from his newborn eyes.
He remembered everything.
Every scream.
Every bruise.
Every lie.
Every second of that warehouse.
And now—
A second chance.
Years passed.
Mark grew.
But unlike before, he was never truly a child.
At five, he already understood hunger.
At seven, he understood fear.
At ten, he understood monsters looked like men in expensive suits.
And at thirteen—
He learned Vincent Moretti was still rising.
Still building his empire.
Still becoming the devil that would destroy everything.
Mark sat on the fire escape outside their apartment one summer night, staring at Brooklyn's skyline.
His mother opened the window.
"You're thinking too much again."
Mark smiled faintly.
"You always know."
She sat beside him.
"You've had old eyes since you were born."
If only she knew.
She nudged him.
"You're a good boy, Mark."
The same words.
The same words she said before she died.
His chest tightened.
Not this time.
Never again.
He looked at her.
"Ma… if someone ever tried to hurt us…"
She frowned softly.
"Where is this coming from?"
"I'm serious."
She touched his cheek.
"Then we survive. Because that's what we do."
Mark nodded slowly.
No.
This time, they wouldn't survive.
They would win.
At sixteen, Mark made his first real move.
Not drugs.
Information.
He learned names.
Routes.
Accounts.
Corrupt cops.
Safe houses.
Vincent didn't know him yet.
That was the advantage.
This time, Mark was the ghost.
At eighteen, he met someone unexpected.
Detective Lena Cruz.
Sharp eyes. Sharper mouth.
She caught him snooping near one of Vincent's warehouses.
She pinned him against a wall.
"You either have a death wish, or you're stupid."
Mark smirked.
"Can't I be both?"
She didn't laugh.
"Vincent Moretti kills people for less."
Mark's eyes darkened.
"I know."
Something in his voice made her pause.
She let go.
"Who are you?"
He stared at the warehouse.
"Someone he should've killed properly the first time."
Lena narrowed her eyes.
"You talk like a man with ghosts."
Mark answered quietly:
"I am a ghost."
For the first time in years—
Someone believed him.
Not the whole truth.
But enough.
Months later, they stood on a rooftop overlooking Vincent's main club.
Music thumped below.
Black cars lined the street.
Power.
Money.
Rot.
Lena handed him a file.
"Everything we have. Enough to bury him."
Mark looked at it.
Then shook his head.
"No."
She frowned.
"No?"
He looked down at the building.
"Prison is too kind."
Lena crossed her arms.
"So what's your plan?"
Mark's face hardened into something cold.
The same cold Vincent once wore.
"I'm going to take everything."
"His money."
"His men."
"His power."
"His peace."
"And when he has nothing left…"
Mark looked up at the sky.
"I'll make sure he remembers my name."
Lena stared at him.
"You scare me sometimes."
Mark gave a humorless smile.
"Good."
Far away, thunder rolled across Brooklyn.
And somewhere inside that club, Vincent Moretti laughed, unaware.
Unaware that death had been reborn.
And it was coming for him.
Vincent Moretti's nightclub was called Saint.
A lie wrapped in neon.
From the outside, it looked like money—velvet ropes, black SUVs, women in designer dresses, men pretending they were untouchable.
Inside, it was where deals were made and lives were ruined.
Mark stood across the street, hood up, hands in his pockets, watching.
Lena leaned against the brick wall beside him.
"You planning to stare him to death?"
Mark didn't look away.
"Thinking."
"That usually ends badly."
He smirked faintly.
"Usually."
She handed him a burner phone.
"One of Vincent's accountants. Nervous guy. Gambles too much, talks too much. He wants protection."
Mark took it.
"Name?"
"Eric Donahue. He handles offshore accounts."
Mark nodded.
Perfect.
The money was the bloodstream.
Cut that, and Vincent would start bleeding.
That night, Mark met Eric in a rundown diner in Queens.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Eric was sweating before Mark even sat down.
"You alone?" Eric asked.
Mark slid into the booth.
"For now."
Eric swallowed.
"You said you could protect me."
"I said maybe."
"That psycho will kill me."
Mark leaned forward.
"Then tell me something worth saving your life for."
Eric glanced around.
"Vincent launders through construction firms, clubs, shipping companies. Half the city's dirty because of him."
"I need proof."
Eric slid a flash drive across the table.
"Everything."
Mark stared at it.
Years of blood hidden in one inch of plastic.
Eric whispered:
"If he finds out—"
"He won't."
Mark stood.
Eric grabbed his sleeve.
"Why are you doing this?"
Mark looked at him.
Because he murdered my mother.
Because he laughed while I begged.
Because I died with his gun in my face.
Instead, he said:
"Because monsters should learn fear too."
—
Three days later, Vincent lost eight million dollars.
Frozen accounts.
Raided businesses.
Partners disappearing overnight.
Saint was chaos.
Vincent stood in his office, smashing a crystal glass against the wall.
"WHO?"
Silence.
His men stood frozen.
Vincent's voice dropped.
Which was worse.
"Someone is touching my empire."
He turned slowly.
"And I want names."
One of his men stepped forward.
"There's… a rumor."
Vincent lit a cigarette.
"Speak."
"A kid. Young. Smart. Been asking questions."
Vincent exhaled smoke.
"Name?"
The man hesitated.
"…Mark."
Silence.
Vincent froze.
For the first time in years—
Fear.
Real fear.
He laughed once.
Low.
Disbelieving.
"Impossible."
The man shifted nervously.
"Boss?"
Vincent stared out at the city lights.
"No…"
His smile returned.
But it was thinner now.
Colder.
"Bring him to me."
—
Lena stormed into Mark's apartment.
"You're on every radar now!"
Mark sat calmly at the kitchen table cleaning a handgun.
"Good."
She slammed the door.
"No, not good! Vincent knows your name."
Mark looked up.
"He should."
"You're not invincible, Mark!"
His voice sharpened.
"I know exactly what he is."
"And I know exactly what happens if I stop."
Silence.
Lena softened.
"This revenge… it's eating you."
Mark stared at the weapon in his hands.
"No."
Quietly:
"It's the only thing keeping me alive."
She stepped closer.
"And after?"
He looked at her.
There was no answer.
Because there was no after.
Only Vincent.
Only the end.
She whispered:
"You deserve more than this."
Mark's jaw tightened.
"My mother deserved more."
Lena had nothing to say to that.
—
Two nights later, Mark received a message.
No number.
No name.
Just an address.
And one sentence.
Come alone if you want answers.
He stared at the screen.
Lena read it over his shoulder.
"It's a trap."
"Yes."
"So don't go."
Mark grabbed his jacket.
"I have to."
She blocked the door.
"No. This is exactly how people die in stories like yours."
He gave a small smile.
"I already died in this story."
She hated when he said things like that.
"Mark—"
He stepped closer.
If he leaned an inch more, he could kiss her.
Instead, he said:
"If I don't come back…"
"Don't."
"If I don't—"
Her voice cracked.
"Don't make me hear that."
For the first time, Mark looked uncertain.
Human.
He touched her hand.
Softly.
"I'll come back."
Then he left.
—
The address led to the old warehouse.
The same one.
The same smell of rust and bleach.
The same place he died.
Mark stood at the entrance, frozen.
Ghosts everywhere.
Screams in the walls.
Blood in the concrete.
His own footsteps echoed as he walked inside.
A single light hung from the ceiling.
And beneath it—
Vincent Moretti.
Older.
Sharper.
Still smiling.
"Mark."
Mark's hands curled into fists.
"Vincent."
Vincent studied him like a painting.
"You look good for a dead man."
Mark's heart stopped.
Very quietly:
"What did you say?"
Vincent smiled.
"I wondered when you'd remember."
The world went still.
Mark stared.
Vincent stepped closer.
"You think you're the only one who got a second chance?"