Elara tightened her grip on the coffee cup, her palms slick with nerves. Today was supposed to be just another interview, another chance to prove herself. But stepping into the sleek, glassy lobby of Orion Corp, she felt her stomach twist. The hum of conversation, the polished marble floors, the sharp suits passing by—all of it pressed down on her like a weight she couldn't shake.
"Just don't mess up," she whispered to herself, taking a careful step forward.
Her eyes caught a familiar reflection in the glass doors. She froze.
"Focus," she muttered. One step. Two steps.
And then it happened.
The cup wobbled in her hand, a split-second betrayal, and the coffee leaped from its container, dark and steaming, arcing through the air in a perfect, horrifying parabola.
The sound of it hitting a man's crisp white shirt made her gasp. "Oh my God! I'm so sorry!"
The man turned. Slowly. Methodically. And then… everything inside her stopped.
It couldn't be.
The eyes. The jawline. The tilt of the head. Every feature screamed him—the boy she had loved in her ninth life, the boy who had died in flames five lives ago, the boy whose memory still haunted her dreams.
"You spilled coffee on me," he said, his voice calm, controlled… but something in his gaze made her chest tighten, like she was drowning in memory.
"I—I didn't see you there! I'm so sorry!" Her words tumbled out, panicked, trembling.
He looked her over, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—recognition? amusement?—she couldn't tell.
Her mind spun. Images she didn't want to remember surged unbidden: flames, screams, a hand reaching for hers… a boy yelling her name. Her ninth life. Pain. Sorrow. Loss.
She blinked, shaking herself. No. Focus. This wasn't a memory. This was real. And terrifyingly familiar.
"I'm assuming you're here for the interview?" he finally said, tone even, but his eyes never left hers.
"Yes… yes, I am," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
He gave her a small nod, then gestured to a chair nearby. "You'll have to clean this mess up before someone slips," he said.
Elara's stomach flipped. "Of course… I—I can handle it."
She grabbed napkins, trying to steady her hands, but every movement felt sluggish, weighed down by the strange, overwhelming familiarity of him.
Why does he feel like… her past? The thought struck like a thunderclap. She shook her head, trying to dismiss it. People didn't come back from the dead.
And yet…
Something inside her told her he was no ordinary man. Something about his posture, the calm precision with which he handled her mess, the flicker of emotion she swore she saw in his eyes—it was all too familiar. Too painfully familiar.
Her heartbeat hammered in her ears as she dabbed at the coffee, glancing up. He was watching. Not menacingly, not angrily… but watching, as if measuring her, studying her.
The lobby suddenly felt smaller. The air heavier. Every instinct in her screamed that her life had just shifted—forever.
Because somehow, she knew: this was the beginning of her tenth life.
And the fire… it wasn't over.