Silence reigned in Dr. Mirkov's office—a silence heavy, almost sentient. It wasn't merely the absence of sound; it had texture, weight. As though the very air were holding its breath.
The overhead fluorescents cast a harsh, livid light, slicing clean shadows across walls yellowed by time. Framed diplomas lined the space like voiceless witnesses, relics of a knowledge now rendered useless.
The doctor sat hunched behind his desk, hands clasped before his lips, eyes red with fatigue, locked on a computer screen. His gaunt face bore the marks of a life spent tending to bodies—not deciphering miracles.
Across from him stood a man, unmoving. Leonardo Cain. Seventy years old, and not a tremor in sight. His black suit seemed to swallow the light, his broad frame erasing the room's contours. A pale scar split his left cheek—an artifact from a past no one dared inquire about. His steely gaze was unwavering, patient, almost inhuman.
The video looped. A room. A child. A slaughterhouse.
The body of a young girl, mangled, broken beyond recovery. Blood spread around her in a thick halo, like ink bleeding across the world. Then—a white flash. Brief. Blinding. Her limbs fused. Her heart restarted. Her eyes opened.
Alive.
Mirkov broke the silence, his voice hollow:
— Tell me this is edited.
Leonardo didn't answer right away. Then, calmly:
— It's not.
The doctor's fingers trembled. He pressed them against his temples, trying to still a vertigo he couldn't name.
— It's impossible. She was… dead. Twelve minutes without cardiac activity. No sign of breath. Pupils fixed, dilated.
— And yet, she's not listed as Awakened, Leonardo replied. No activation. No known resonance.
The doctor leaned closer to the screen, replayed the footage frame by frame. He froze, pointing.
— There. No muscle tone. No photomotor reflex. That's clinical death. Clean.
— The Association confirms it.
Mirkov slumped back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the half-closed blinds where the pallid morning light barely crept in.
— This is the greatest biological mystery I've seen in twenty years. And I work with Echoes…
Leonardo slowly crossed his arms, as if sealing something.
— This is only the beginning.
The door flew open. A nurse burst in, breathless, cheeks flushed with worry.
— Doctor! She's awake.
Mirkov sprang to his feet. Incredulity gave way to something more primal—understanding.
— Is she lucid?
— Completely. She spoke. Sat up on her own.
The doctor strode out briskly. Leonardo followed in silence, his heavy steps echoing against the too-clean linoleum. The hallway walls seemed to close in the closer they drew.
In front of room 407, Mirkov stopped, breath held.
— I need to go in alone.
Leonardo inclined his head slightly, remaining at the edge of the shadows.
Inside, Jinra was sitting on the bed. Motionless. Present. Her dark, tangled hair framed a face far too pale, far too calm. Her eyes stared into nothing, as if listening to something inaudible.
Mirkov spoke gently:
— Good morning, miss. Can you hear me?
She turned her head toward him. A moment of hesitation.
— I think… I'm okay.
She tried to stand. Her legs trembled but held. The doctor approached, checking her vitals. Stable temperature. Steady pulse. No wounds. Not even a bruise.
— Nothing. Not even a scar. You've been… rebuilt.
He turned toward the door.
— Bring in Mr. Cain.
Leonardo entered, the shadow clinging to his heels. He stopped a few steps from the bed.
— She's intact, said Mirkov. As if she never bled.
— Then she needs to be transferred. We must examine her thoroughly.
— I recommend a minimum fourteen-day observation here.
Leonardo nodded slowly.
— Very well. But no one else is to come near her.
They exited the room. Jinra remained, alone in the gray light of a morning that felt like another world.
She blinked slowly. Then, in a hoarse, almost absent voice:
— …Shit. What the hell am I doing here?
A voice rose—not from the outside, but within.
Clear. Metallic. Inhuman.
— Hello, candidate.
Jinra froze. Her gaze swept the room.
— Who's there?
— I am the Messenger.
— A camera? An earpiece?!
— I'm inside your mind.
A coldness deeper than temperature swept through her. She clenched her jaw.
— Great. I've lost it.
— I brought you back. Without me, you'd be dead.
Silence. She looked down at her hands. Too smooth. Too perfect.
— I granted you the Candidate's Seal.
— And if I refuse?
— It's carved into your flesh. Rejecting it… erases you.
Jinra inhaled slowly. An anchor in the storm.
— What is this "Seal"?
— A choice. The universe has taken notice of you. Survive the trials, and you become a Warden.
— Why not just make me one right away?
— Because very few survive. The selection began a million years ago. You are but a fragment.
She narrowed her eyes.
— You're lying.
— And yet… you're standing.
Jinra took a few steps. Her gait was slow, but each motion gained strength.
— And if I say no now?
— Then I withdraw the Seal. And you return to what you were: a smear in the blood.
She closed her eyes. The image of her own corpse appeared—shattered, cold.
— You wanted to become an Echo. To die in order to ascend. You crossed that threshold, Jinra. Now… you choose your path.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then:
— I accept. I'm not ready to die twice.
— Then look.
⸻
Status Window
Name: Jinra Voss
Class: Unknown
Level: 1
Stats:
• Strength: 2
• Agility: 7
• Endurance: 5
• Intelligence: 1
• Charisma: 3
• Willpower: 6
Skills:
• None
⸻
Jinra studied the numbers with a grimace.
— Seriously? An asthmatic cat could kick my ass.
— Welcome, Jinra.
She rose, walked to the window. Opened the panes. The cold air slapped her like a warning.
— First floor, huh?
— Correct.
She climbed onto the ledge, a wicked grin spreading across her lips.
— If I break a leg, I'm summoning you to fix it.
And she jumped.
Her body crashed through the bushes—scratched, scraped, but alive. She stood up with a groan.
— Ugh… fuck. I've had worse.
Without looking back, she ran barefoot across the cold asphalt, her hospital gown snapping in the wind. The world was vast. Unfair. Unknown.
But at least, she was back.
— Thanks for the care! she shouted. I'll send a postcard… if I live.
Her laughter rose—feral, free—and somewhere deep inside her, a new flame had just been born.