Gin gasped into life surrounded by the smell of bleach and mold. His limbs ached, his back stiff, knees pressing against cold tile.
He blinked.
The blinking fluorescent light above hummed.
A mop rested beside him. A ragged blue jumpsuit clung to his damp body.
A janitor.
He staggered up, catching his reflection in a cracked mirror behind the door.
Early twenties. Pale. Forgettable. Exactly what he needed.
He took a moment to breathe.
This was a new branch of the Syndicate. One of the quiet ones. Hidden under the mask of a logistics company, "LUNIX FREIGHT SYSTEMS."
But Gin knew the truth. This wasn't just any warehouse.
This was a sleeper node.
An anonymous operational shell where silence was protocol, and asking questions got you reassigned — or erased.
It was perfect.
Quiet.
Invisible.
Exactly what he asked for — or tried to ask for — before Death cut him off with a scoff and a snap.
---
Four days in, Gin had already memorized the building's schedule.
He kept his head down, watched the guards, listened to names whispered on radios, noted rooms he was never allowed to clean. He discovered which elevator went underground, which door led to nowhere.
On the fifth day, opportunity came in the form of a half-open server room.
They forgot to lock it.
Inside, the hum of machines filled the air. Every terminal was encrypted — except one, lazily left running diagnostics.
Gin moved fast. A USB already pocketed from a stolen supply cart clicked into the port.
Download in progress…
Files spilled onto the drive: code names, internal ciphers, storage logs, and a text file labeled "NEXCORE: Protocol Fragment."
He pulled the drive free, wiped prints, and fled.
It was only a minute.
But enough.
He'd learned from past mistakes.
This time, he'd read it far from the building.
---
The NEXCORE File.
It was mostly redacted — digital ink slashing through data.
But a few things stood out:
The Syndicate's true name: NEXCORE INITIATIVE
Sub-divisions: Sable Branch, Ghost Tier, Crimson Thread
Minor names: Dae-Ho, Kesslin, Il-Ra — nothing important, not yet
A line, barely visible at the bottom:
> "The Silence One is buried among the living thread."
He didn't know what that meant.
But the word Thread felt familiar. Like something brushing the edge of his past lives.
He reread it five times before committing it to memory.
---
That night, while changing mop water, a voice called out behind him.
"You cleaned the south hall too fast."
Gin turned.
A man in a grey hoodie leaned against the vending machine, face shadowed.
"Didn't realize we were timing mop strokes," Gin replied, coolly.
"You missed Room 11-C," the man said. "They keep the server backups there."
Gin narrowed his eyes. "And you are?"
The stranger smiled. "A janitor. Like you."
"Funny. I never see you during shifts."
"I never see you either."
They stared at each other.
Something passed between them — not trust, but recognition.
After a moment, the man said, "We're not the only ones watching. Be careful. The lights are dim for a reason."
And he vanished down the stairwell.
Gin didn't see him again.
Not that week.
Maybe he's gone into hiding, staying low key to avoid getting found
---
Day Seven.
They began watching him.
Cameras he hadn't seen turned toward him. Guards moved slower around corners he cleaned. He could feel the eyes.
Something had tipped them off.
But what?
The server? The file?
The file was hidden in a bottle of cleaning solution he'd buried in the janitorial dump. He'd checked the logs — no signs of intrusion.
Still…
He worked with sharper caution now.
Every footstep calculated.
Every breath muffled.
He had to know more before they knew too much.
---
Day Nine.
The storm came.
Not rain — not wind.
A different kind of darkness.
Two men approached him in the breakroom. Not guards. Not janitors.
No words.
They simply stood on either side of him and nodded.
Gin followed.
He knew the dance.
---
The Interrogation Room.
Stripped. Tied.
One bulb overhead.
Three hours of silence.
Then questions.
Then fists.
Then silence again.
They didn't ask about the drive.
They asked about his past.
Where he was from.
Who recommended him.
His answers never wavered.
But they didn't believe him.
They never do.
---
Day Ten.
Still alive.
He should have been dead.
But something made them hesitate.
They didn't kill him.
They watched him bleed.
Left him in a locked closet with no light and a locked mop bucket.
A joke. A warning.
But it was day ten.
Gin smiled through cracked lips.
He'd lasted longer.
He knew worse.
---
Day Eleven.
While returning to his janitor closet, Gin slips on a recently cleaned wet floor and hits his head hard on the edge of a steel table.
He blacks out, alone, bleeding from his skull.
By morning, someone finds the body and shrugs — "Another cleaner."
He dies quietly. No fight. No fire. Just forgotten.
And that was it.
That's how Gin Chan died that life.
Not by blade.
Not by betrayal.
But by accident.
Forgotten.
Erased.
---
The Realm of Stillness.
Gin stood in the colorless void again, hands limp at his sides, blood dripping from the ghost of his scalp.
He was too stunned to speak.
There had been no grand betrayal. No final blow. No last words.
Just a bucket, a slippery floor, and the dull clang of his skull meeting steel railing.
A janitor. He had died as a janitor.
Even Death looked surprised.
The presence leaned forward from the abyss, pale hands laced in amusement.
"Really? A janitor's death by wet floor? That's new. Even I didn't see that coming."
Gin opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brain—what was left of it—struggled to process how utterly anticlimactic that life had been.
"You're losing your flair, Gin Chan," Death added, chuckling.
Gin finally whispered, "They didn't even look at the body…"
Death shook its head slowly. "You asked for power. I gave you mop water. I even threw in some shadows. And this is how you repay me?"
Gin exhaled.
Then laughed.
A short, bitter laugh.
"I got something," he said.
He opened his palm — no drive, but the memory burned there.
"The Silence One is buried among the living thread."
Death's grin sharpened.
"Oh… You found the phrase."
"You know it?"
"I invented it."
Gin squinted. "What does it mean?"
Death said nothing.
Just tilted its head.
Then, a whisper echoed through the void:
"The Threads pull tighter with every death. Soon, they'll wrap around your neck."
Gin's fists clenched.
"I'm not dying for nothing."
"I never said you were," Death replied.
And just like that…
The world turned again.