Evening settled over Lyari like dust that never fully left.
Sarang walked with his hands in his pockets, mind drifting between small decisions—dal or rice, roti from the corner tandoor or whatever was left at home. Mundane thoughts. Safe thoughts. The kind he allowed himself only after the case files were closed and conclusions written.
He didn't hear the footsteps behind him.
The first gunshot split the air.
The second stole his balance.
The third came after he hit the ground—calculated, unnecessary.
Concrete pressed cold against his cheek. The streetlight above flickered, blurring into a pale halo. Warmth spread under his chest, seeping into a street that had swallowed blood long before his.
*So I knew too much*, he thought—not with fear, but with tired clarity.
His mother's face surfaced, uninvited. The way she used to wait up, pretending not to worry.
*That's unfair*, he wanted to say—to her, to the world, to whatever system decided outcomes like this.
Darkness answered.
---
Sound returned first.
"Big brother!"
Sarang gasped and sat upright.
Air filled his lungs too easily. No pain. No weight. No tearing burn where bullets should have been. His hands flew to his chest—smooth skin, steady heartbeat.
The room was dim, unfamiliar. Wooden walls, a narrow bed, a desk by the window with ink, paper, and a burnt candle. A tiny corner contained a modest kitchen and washroom. No hum of traffic. No sirens. Just silence—thick and absolute.
A little girl stood near the door. Brown hair tied in a ponytail, hazel eyes wide, breath uneven.
"You scared me," she said, relief shaking her voice.
Sarang swung his legs off the bed, dizzy. The floor was solid. Real. He staggered toward the mirror above the washbasin.
The face staring back wasn't his.
Younger. Sharper. Long brown hair brushing the collar of a white shirt. Hazel eyes alert, not yet worn down by truths uncovered too late. Oval face untouched by exhaustion.
Eighteen. Maybe less.
"No," he whispered.
The girl tilted her head. "Are you feeling strange again?"
Again.
That single word landed heavier than the bullets ever had.
Sarang's mind raced. He counted objects, distances, and angles. One window. One door. One exit. He reached for structure the way a drowning man reaches for air.
This was transmigration—a second chance.
The girl stepped closer. "You said you'd help me with my letters today."
Her voice wasn't afraid. It trusted him.
Sarang swallowed and nodded slowly, buying time. Outside the window, a city stretched beneath a darkening sky—stone buildings, lantern-lit streets, unfamiliar constellations.
A new world. He was shocked, panicked, unmoored.
He sat at the desk, pulling the paper toward him, eyes scanning quickly. Lines of writing, names, ages… and then one froze him.
*Kairo Thorne. Age 17.*
His chest tightened. A name. A life. A thread of fate he couldn't yet grasp.
Dizziness rolled over him, a pounding ache in his skull. The edges of the room blurred. Lanterns became halos. The paper slipped from his hands.
Darkness claimed him before he could process what it all meant.