Hanzo awoke to the stench of rot and rust.
The air was thick, humid, heavy with the sound of ragged breathing and the clinking of chains. When his vision cleared, he found himself surrounded mangy, hollow-eyed prisoners staring back at him like wolves sizing up a wounded deer. The floor was cold stone, damp enough to make his skin crawl.
And Hanzo?
A seventeen-year-old boy skinny, bruised, lips cracked and dry. His ribs showed with every shallow breath. Every muscle in his body screamed, but his eyes… they were sharp. Calculating.
Somewhere down the corridor, a guard banged on the bars."Oi! Prisoner 47 Harian Liche! Wake your sorry carcass up!"
The voice echoed, but Hanzo, didn't move. He barely even blinked.
Instead, he murmured softly, "So… it's this place again."
He glanced around, taking in every crack in the wall, every flicker of the dying torchlight. Recognition flickered in his gaze. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. "Heh… fifty years in the past. I'm back to being Harian again"
He tilted his head back, staring at the moldy ceiling with a half-smile, half-grimace.
"Right," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "This was the part before they sentenced me to death."
One of the prisoners snorted. "What's so funny, kid?" Harian's eyes narrowed, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.
"Nothing," he said softly. "Just… déjà vu."
Another voice broke through the noise. Deep, rough, and annoyingly familiar.
"Harian, you good, man?"
Harian froze. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him again. Slowly, he turned and his blood ran cold.
"George…" he breathed.
The man standing behind him was hard to miss broad-shouldered, muscles packed under a filthy prison shirt, a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. His hair was braided haphazardly, his grin far too bright for someone rotting in a dungeon.
"Of course it's me, you idiot." George laughed, flashing his teeth. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Harian just stared, disbelief flickering into something almost tender. His voice trembled as he muttered, "You're… alive."
George blinked. "Uh, yeah? Unless you know something I don't?"
A breathless laugh escaped Harian's lips. It was shaky, half relief, half madness. "Of course you are… you big muscle-brained idiot."
George frowned, confused. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Harian shook his head, suppressing another laugh. He remembered everything. Fifty years had passed for him, but not a single detail had faded not the smell of the cells, not the faces, not even this exact conversation.
He looked up, eyes sharper now, focused. "George," he said quietly, "what date is it?"
George tilted his head. "Date? What, you planning to go somewhere?"
"Just answer," Harian said, his tone suddenly serious.
George scratched his chin. "Uh… early spring. Year 1285, by the capital calendar. Why?"
"And what day and date is it?" Harian asked, his tone unnervingly calm.
George scratched the back of his neck. "Uh… 9th. Tuesday, I think. Around noon right now, if you wanna know that too."
Harian tilted his head back and gave a low chuckle. "Tuesday, huh? Then that means…" He grinned, the corners of his mouth curling with something darkly amused. "Three days left until our execution."
The words hit the room like a hammer.
A sharp shriek broke the silence from somewhere behind him. Harian turned his head slightly, eyes falling on a small, frail kid no older than fifteen. Red hair tangled and greasy, freckles smudged with dirt, wrists raw from the iron shackles biting into them. The boy's shoulders trembled as he whispered, "I-I don't wanna die… please, I don't wanna die…"
Next to him, an old man the one who asked Harian what's so funny let out a long sigh, his voice rough like gravel. "No one wants to, kid. But that's just how the world is right now."
The boy's sobs grew louder, echoing through the dim stone hall.
Harian just watched them expression unreadable, eyes gleaming with a strange mix of pity and nostalgia.
"What's wrong with you?" George asked, squinting at him. "You're more talkative than usual right now."
He leaned back with a laugh, loud and hearty, echoing through the damp corridor. "Did the thought of having your head chopped off finally crack your sanity, Harian?"
Harian smirked, though his eyes said otherwise. He could see it George's hands trembling slightly, his grin a little too wide, his laugh a little too forced. For all his size and swagger, the man was terrified.
Before Harian could answer, another voice smooth, composed, utterly out of place cut through the tension.
"So this is where they keep the inmates sentenced to death, hmm?"
The speaker was a tall man, clean despite the filth around him. His clothes were tidier than anyone else's no stains, no tears. His hair was slicked back neatly, mustache perfectly trimmed. He looked more like a visiting noble than a condemned criminal.
Harian blinked, Yeah. He definitely doesn't belong here.
George crossed his arms. "Yeah, this is it. Welcome to the royal compost heap." Then he frowned. "But, Harian how the hell did you know we're dyin' in three days? They never told us that."
Harian froze.
Oh right… that.
His brain started racing. He couldn't exactly say, 'Oh, I've lived through this before and got executed already, but don't worry I'll fix it this time.'
So instead, he did what any genius pretending not to be a time-looping, future-seeing sorcerer of shadows would do : he stalled.
His eyes darted around the room until they landed on the other prisoners ragged, broken men huddled in their cells. And that's when it clicked.
"Simple," he said finally, his expression grave. "You can tell just by looking."
George blinked. "Looking… at what?"
Harian turned slowly, pointing toward the other cells. "At them."
The room went quiet. Every eye turned to him, half-curious, half-worried.
He grinned faintly. "Haven't you noticed? Every cell that was full yesterday…" He paused, letting the silence drag for dramatic effect. "…has one less group of people today."
Even the gentleman's confident smile faltered at that. George glanced around, counting.
"…oh, shit."