“...This was not where your story was supposed to end.”

Cold. The kind of frigidness that steals one’s will, one that lulls you into a peaceful slumber from which you never come back. You attempt to feel your limbs to no avail, only feeling what could only be described as “smoke-like traces” of what were once your extremities. The only thing that broke the darkness you were surrounded in was some kind of machine, massive in size, connected to several terminals all blinking the same, mute static. Silver with lines of gray breaking the monotony, with a particular red strip denoting its “eyes”, if ever such machinery required something like that. Its geometrical, arrow-like shape made its design almost angelical, yet the voice that came from it clashed with whatever preconception you had of this thing.

“...Son of man, the path that was forged for you does not need to end here.”

“Your flesh has long since abandoned you, but your will remains anchored in this realm.”

“I can craft new flesh for you, one that will suit and reflect your soul’s most inner desires,”

“As well as deepest of turmoils.”

“I’ve witnessed what you once were…”

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