There was silence. Not just the absence of noise, but a suffocating, all-consuming void that swallowed sound, memory, even thought.
Gin Chan opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling, white and sterile. The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor brought him back to himself. He was in a hospital bed. His limbs felt stiff, alien. He tried to move his fingers—they responded slowly. An IV line was taped to his arm. The beeping hastened. Panic bubbled in his chest.
Then, like a river bursting its dam, the memories flooded in.
Dr. Ren Takashi.
An esteemed neurosurgeon. Once hailed as a miracle worker, until the accident. A tragic surgery failure that left a child brain-dead and Ren under investigation. The media vilified him, and Ren vanished. One year of silence. Not a word spoken, not a step taken outside his hospital room. Until now.
Gin inhaled deeply. This was the life he had inherited. A broken genius. A man haunted by failure. And now, Gin would live in his place.
He sat up slowly. The room was dimly lit, save for the morning light that spilled in through half-closed blinds. A nurse, startled, entered the room with a gasp. "Dr. Takashi... You're awake?"
Gin nodded, voice hoarse. "Water."
Tears welled in the nurse's eyes. "You haven't said anything in a year. I'll inform the hospital administrator immediately!"
As she rushed out, Gin swung his legs over the bed and stared at his reflection in the glass panel. A gaunt, pale man with streaks of gray in his black hair looked back. The hollowed eyes, the scar above his left brow—it was Ren Takashi.
But behind that face was Gin Chan.
He stood, wobbling, then steadied himself. His body would need time. But something inside him felt steady. Anchored. Maybe it was Ren's tenacity. Or perhaps Gin was finally learning to carry the weight of those lives.
---
Three days passed. Doctors ran every test imaginable. The media caught wind of Ren's recovery and clustered outside the hospital like vultures. The scandal was still fresh in the public's memory.
But Gin focused on something else.
Every night, in the stillness of the sterile hospital, he saw flickers. Not memories—but feelings. Moments. A child's laughter. The weight of surgical gloves. The crippling guilt that came after the failed operation. These emotions weren't his, but they lingered inside him.
And on the fourth day, he found a letter beneath Ren's old sketchpad.
*To whoever finds this,
If there is any mercy in the universe, let me disappear. I can't undo what I've done. I can't face her family, the media, or the world. The silence is my only refuge now.*
Gin read it again and again. The handwriting trembled, just like Ren's spirit must have.
But Gin wasn't here to fade away.
He was here to understand.
---
A week after awakening, Gin requested to return to the operating room. The hospital board was divided. Some thought it miraculous; others, scandalous.
"You're not ready," said Dr. Yuna Park, the head of surgery. She was stern, mid-forties, her gaze a steel wall.
"I remember everything," Gin replied. "Every procedure. Every mistake. Every decision."
"You've been catatonic for a year."
"I wasn't sleeping," he said softly. "I was remembering."
That night, Gin received a visitor.
She stood at the foot of his bed, cloaked in black, the silver gun gleaming at her side.
"Death," he said.
"You're adapting faster," she remarked.
"This life feels heavier."
"Because Ren's grief runs deeper. He didn't just fail. He believed he deserved it."
"I read his letter."
"You're living a life that chose oblivion. Be careful. That weight can drown you."
Gin hesitated. "Why did you choose this life next?"
Death smiled faintly. "Because sometimes, silence screams louder than rage."
She vanished before he could ask more.
---
The next morning, the hospital board reluctantly approved his supervised return. His first operation would be minor—a cranial cyst removal. Straightforward, non-emergent.
But when the patient was rolled in, Gin's pulse quickened.
She was eight years old. Her name was Hana. Dark hair. Bright eyes. The same age as the girl Ren had lost.
"Doctor?" Yuna asked.
Gin took a deep breath.
"I'm ready."
The lights dimmed. The tools gleamed. Gin's hands, now steady, began the incision. Every movement was precise. Measured. He didn't just remember Ren's technique—he felt it. The instincts. The decisions. The weight of every breath the girl took under anesthesia.
Ninety minutes passed. No words spoken. Only the rhythm of focus.
And then…
"Closing up," Gin said.
The operation was a success.
Outside, the girl's mother wept with relief. Gin watched from the window, chest tightening.
He had saved her.
Ren Takashi had saved someone again.
---
That evening, Gin stood on the hospital roof. The city lights blinked like stars below. A soft breeze whispered through his coat.
Footsteps approached.
"I thought I'd find you here," Yuna said.
Gin smiled faintly. "Used to come here a lot, didn't I?"
"Every night after surgery. Like you were apologizing to the sky."
Silence stretched between them.
"You saved that girl today," she said.
"Ren did."
She studied him. "I don't know what changed. But… thank you for coming back."
Gin turned to her. "Do you believe in second chances?"
"I do now."
---
Later that night, Gin opened Ren's old notebook. The final page was blank.
He picked up a pen and wrote:
We carry our ghosts not to forget them—but to remember who we still need to become.
He closed the book.
Then the room darkened. The temperature dropped.
Death appeared.
"You fulfilled his promise," she said. "You mended what he thought was unfixable."
Gin looked at her. "I still don't understand the point of all this."
"You're not supposed to. Not yet. But you're closer."
"How many more lives?"
Her eyes grew somber. "Enough to test every piece of you. But not infinite."
She raised the silver gun. It pulsed with that same enchanting glow.
"Ready?"
Gin nodded. "I want to keep going. I want to understand."
"Then face the next void."
BANG.
---
🕯️ A life ends. Another begins.
🩸 Vote with a Power Stone to uncover the next fate.
The Reaper is watching.