The Camera Flashes muddled his mind, his thoughts getting slower by every second. The panicked voices of people around him grew louder and confused. His vision blurred, and yet he tried again and again to see the face of a person who had just stabbed him.
"Hey! Get him back. Get him back."
"Shit! Someone call paramedics fast."
He focused harder.
What he saw was a kid, tears ran down his face, his eyes burning with rage. As he screamed, he twisted the cold metal deeper into his flesh. Even when two police officers dragged him away, the kid managed to drive the blade in once more.
After a brief struggle, the kid was finally pulled back.
"Let go! I'm gonna kill him."
His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees. The world swayed, dark at the edges, but after a moment, he finally recognised the face that had stabbed him.
Ah. Noah.
Blood poured from the wound, splashing onto the courtyard stone ground, spreading in uneven crimson streaks. The warmth and pain weren't unfamiliar. He forced his mind to clear and crawled forward despite the restraints biting into his wrists.
In that moment, their eyes met, and he felt the urge to say something.
He raised his handcuffed hands, lost his balance, nearly collapsed before the officers beside him steadied him.
Noah's hands trembled, soaked in blood. The kid had never seen this much before.
He reached out, took Noah's shaking hands and wiped the blood, his blood, onto the grey fabric of his hoodie.
Then he placed a gentle hand on the kid's head and looked straight into his eyes.
Noah's eyes were different from his own, not hollow but holding innocence and hatred, with regret and sorrow buried beneath.
There were many things he wanted to say.
He didn't know where to start. He was never good at putting into words what he truly meant. Apologizing felt wrong, a greeting felt meaningless. His thoughts refused to settle.
His vision darkened.
There wasn't much time left. So he chose.
"Y-You are n-not a killer."
His consciousness faded.
A vile creature had died.
***
Death brings the ultimate peace. It is benevolent to both the sinner and the innocent.
It felt like eons had passed, as if he had been sleeping in the sweet slumber of death, in a faraway dark void, the kind of rest he had always wanted. Then, suddenly, his consciousness stirred.
He was staring up at a blue sky filled with drifting clouds.
He lay flat on the cold surface, his mind crowded with questions and half-formed answers.
Was this hell?
No.
A dream?
No.
Steadying himself, he stood up.
In every direction stretched emerald coloured water, shallow enough to cover his feet. When he looked down, he didn't find any surface, only a dark, mysterious depth.
He noticed his reflection then.
He had no hair on his body, no clothes, no facial features, just eyes like a blank slate.
He touched his face to confirm it; he didn't panic.
More questions formed in his mind, but finding their answers didn't felt urgent.
"Matthew Larson."
A voice.
It came from behind him, a place that he had already checked.
He turned slowly.
A man sat calmly on a chair beside a small white table, lifting a cup. He wore a black suit, and a strip of fabric covered his eyes. His mid-length hair was an unusual mix of blonde and white.
"Come, take a seat," the man said.
"Tea or coffee, whatever you prefer."
Matthew approached the table and sat down. He wanted to say something, but he didn't have a mouth, so he simply looked at the man across from him.
His expression was unreadable, after a brief moment the unknown man snapped his fingers.
A familiar sensation returned. Matthew opened his mouth and exhaled softly.
"Milk. Do you have it?"
"Huh?"
The man paused. He had been expecting questions, but not this one.
"Oh. Yes."
He glanced at the table. A glass of milk materialized within a soft yellow glow.
Matthew picked it up immediately and began drinking. He took his time savouring every drop, the milk was unexpectedly better than what was present on earth.
The man watched him in silence.
After finishing the glass, Matthew placed it back in the table. "May i have another serving?"
The man didn't answer. He only looked at the empty glass. It filled again, slowly, to the brim.
Matthew drank.
"It's good." He said. When he finished, he reached for the glass a third time. The man still said nothing.
Only after Matthew swallowed the last mouthful did the man speak. As if his patience reached it's limits.
"Don't you have questions?"
Burp.
Matthew covered his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I suppose I do," he said after a moment. "But I'm not sure what I'd do with the answers. If you're willing, you may tell me everything yourself."
The man titled his head slightly.
Something about this was definitely wrong.
The soul before him wasn't reacting the way the previous soul did. There was no panic, no desperation, no frantic need for an explanation. The soul before asked, where, why, how.
This one asked for milk.
But Matthew was a soul from the Void. So it was something the man had expected already.
"I am Eres," the man said at last. His voice deepened, echoing through the open space. "The Celestial of Light and Fear. This is my domain."
"A Celestial?" Matthew asked. "So... A god?"
"From you perspective."
Matthew nodded once, as if that settled it.
"Why did you bring me back from 'that' place."
Eres hesitated.
Even with his eyes covered, Matthew sensed the hesitation, a brief pause before the answer came.
"How much time do you think has passed, Matthew?" Eres asked instead.
Matthew considered it for a moment. "For me? Long enough that counting in human years stopped making sense. But It felt... Peaceful. Unsettlingly so."
"Forget it."
Eres straightened, folding his hands together. "I'll be direct. I have a task for you. Complete the mission I assign, and I shall grant you whatever you desire."
He tilted his head, a faint smile forming beneath the cloth.
"It's a generous offer," he added softly. "And it isn't a request."
The air around Matthew shifted.
Suddenly, an eerie suffocating feeling crept into his body.
His chest tightened. Each breath grew heavier than the last, shallow and uneven.
His naked body began to tremble.
But—
Matthew smiled.
"I-I refuse," he said, maintaining a calm composure. "Please send me back to being dead."
The smile on Eres's face vanished with him.
The sky darkened, bleeding into red. The table disappeared, and Matthew fell.
From the depths below, rotted black hands emerged. They seized his limbs, and closed around his neck. Nails like spikes grew from the rotten limbs, piercing into his flesh.
Overwhelming pain tore through him.
"It seems, you don't understand your position," Eres said.
The space itself resounded with his voice.
It was no longer singular. Each word echoed as if spoken by thousands of existences at once, pressing down on Matthew's sanity from every direction.
"I have already told you this is not a request, Matthew Larson."
A deliberate pause followed.
"On Earth, you slaughtered and tortured without restraint. You shattered lives and left ruin in your wake." His voice did not rise. It hardened.
"And yet, I showed you restraint. I allowed you to speak. I offered you a choice."
Another pause.
"That mercy ends here. A vile creature like you has no right to demand the peace of death."
"Obey me," Eres said, "or I will grant you eternal suffering, far beyond death, far beyond what you can comprehend."
Matthew gasped for air, his body convulsing as the spike-like nails dug deeper into his flesh. Even through the pain, he forced the words out.
"I. Don't. Care."