Parsa…
Parsa…
PARSA!!
Something screamed his name from the depths of the darkness.
"AAAAAH—!"
Parsa jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat. His heart was pounding violently, as if it were trying to tear its way out of his chest. He gasped for air, his eyes darting wildly around the room, searching for something he couldn't even name.
"Damn it… what the hell was that dream?"
He dragged a trembling hand down his face. Cold sweat clung to his skin, enough that it felt absurd, like someone had poured water over him while he slept.
His eyes shifted to the clock.
8:00 PM.
A bitter smile crept onto his lips.
After months, he had finally managed to fall asleep at six in the evening, and even that had turned into a nightmare.
Parsa was tired of his life.
Not because of exhaustion,
but because of how heavy everything felt.
His apartment was large. Too large for someone living alone.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked distant buildings, the street far below. Twenty floors up. Enough to make even a fearless person feel uneasy.
A gaming desk.
An RGB PC case glowing faintly in the dark.
A high-end monitor.
And a massive bookshelf filled with over a hundred books.
From the outside, his life looked perfect.
Space.
Comfort.
Stability.
But inside—
Parsa was empty.
Both of his parents were dead.
And at twenty-two years old, he was alone.
He had recently graduated. Everything around him, the apartment included, had been paid for with the inheritance he received after his father's death.
He also had a stepsister.
Two mothers?
Yes.
His first mother had been a scientist. She died alongside her colleagues during a series of experiments officially declared an accident.
Unofficially… nothing about it made sense.
The investigators knew it hadn't been a simple failure. Part of it was. Most of it wasn't.
But the truth had been buried somewhere unreachable.
Four years after her death, his father remarried.
A woman who loved Parsa as if he were her own son.
She had a daughter. Beautiful. The same age as Parsa.
The strangest part?
They were born on the exact same day.
Parsa had black hair and dark brown eyes, so dark they almost looked burned. His face was average. Not handsome. Not ugly.
At least, that's what people said.
Parsa thought he was ugly.
Around others, he smiled easily. Laughed. Acted alive.
But when anger, depression, or irritation took over, his face froze. Cold. Empty.
So cold that no one dared speak to him.
A face that looked like…
even if he killed someone, he wouldn't feel a thing.
Parsa lived in Iran.
A country suffocating under sanctions.
A place where every escape route was either blocked… or cut short halfway through.
A scholarship abroad? Failed.
Other options? Suspended.
He was unlucky.
Painfully unlucky.
"I'll wash up, eat something… then go for a walk," he muttered.
"Rain like this hits different."
Outside, rain fell steadily.
The kind of rain that softened the city.
He splashed water onto his messy hair, combed it back, pulled on his long black hooded coat, slipped into his boots, and left the apartment.
Hood up, hands in his pockets, he stepped onto Pirouzi Street.
Rain coated the asphalt like silver glass.
Time felt slow.
Too slow.
Each raindrop was sharp. Clear. Too real.
He stopped in front of a café and glanced at his reflection in the window.
Then he saw her.
Across the street stood a girl in a black hoodie.
Staring directly at him.
A car passed between them.
And the girl—was gone.
Parsa frowned.
"…Am I hallucinating?"
His instincts screamed otherwise.
And that
was where everything began.