George's Last Reincarnation

CHAPTER THREE — THE BOY WHO SHOULD NOT KNOW HIS NAME

Night pressed against the city like a living thing, heavy, cold, watching. George moved quickly through the alley, shoulders tense, senses sharp.

He had dealt with killers, thieves, gang lords, and drug demons in his past lives… but nothing unnerved him like the strange boy who kept appearing. Five visits in three years. Five warnings.

And tonight, George felt the sixth presence even before he saw him. A soft scrape echoed behind him.

George spun, knife in hand. “Come out,”

he growled. A child, no older than fourteen, stepped from the shadows. He wore a simple white shirt, barefoot, unfazed by the cold. His eyes were wrong for a child: ancient, calm, knowing.

“George,”

the boy whispered, “you’re running out of time.”

George’s jaw clenched. “Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.”

“You must listen.”

The boy’s voice was soft, but the darkness seemed to quiet around it. “You’re living your last reincarnation.”

George took a step back before he realized it. Fear, that rare, unfamiliar sensation, clawed up his spine. He masked it with anger.

“You’ve told me that already,”

George snapped. “Five times. Why keep coming?”

“Because you refused to change.”

The boy’s eyes dimmed, as though bearing sorrow not meant for mortals. “Your soul is thinning. Your karmic weight is crushing your cycle. If you die now… you will not return. You will cease. Completely.”

George’s throat tightened. He had spent seven lives chasing power, fame, women, money, fear, dominance… but cease? The word hit like a blade. “What do you want from me?”

he asked quietly. The boy stepped closer, placing something cold and metallic into George’s hand. A key.

“Tonight,” the boy said, “someone is going to try to kill you. Again. This time, you cannot escape it with violence or brute strength. You must choose a new path, or your cycle ends forever.”

A chill swept the alley. George stared at the key, old, rusted, carved with symbols he had never seen in any lifetime. “What is this?”

“A door,”

the boy said. “A door to your only chance.” “Where does it lead?”

But the boy didn’t answer. He lifted his head as if listening to something only he could hear. Then his expression darkened. “They’re coming.”

George reached for his knife instinctively. “Who?”

The boy pointed behind him.

George turned, and saw them. Three figures in long coats, faces hidden, moving in perfect sync. Silent. Coordinated. Predatory. Not gang members. Not enemies from the streets. Not men he had wronged in his past lives.

Something else. George’s pulse hammered. “You know them?”

“They are servants of the cycle,”

the boy whispered. “They come for souls whose threads are about to snap.”

George’s chest tightened. “You mean they’re here to kill me?”

“Yes. Unless you take the door.”

“Where is it?”

“You’ll see it when you run.”

The ground trembled. One of the cloaked figures raised a hand, dark energy rippled through the alley like waves of black fire. George staggered back. “What, what are they?”

“Collectors.”

The boy stepped in front of him, eyes glowing faint gold. “Run, George.”

George clenched his fists. “I’m not running from anyone.

“You cannot fight them!” the boy snapped, losing his calm for the first time. “You’ve fought humans. You’ve fought monsters. But these? They don’t bleed.”

George looked again.

The three Collectors glided instead of walked, their shadows stretching unnaturally long on the concrete. Okay. Maybe this was not the night to test his ego. He shoved the key into his pocket and bolted down the alley.

The Collectors moved instantly, silent, swift, inhuman.

The boy’s voice echoed behind him: “Find the red door!”

George sprinted through the night, heart racing, breath sharp, the city blurring around him. He didn’t know where he was going, only that death was just steps behind him.

He turned a corner, and froze. A door stood in the middle of an abandoned lot.

Just a door. Standing upright without walls. Painted deep, blood-red. His hands shook as he pulled out the key.

Footsteps, no, not footsteps, something like the whisper of death grinding forward, closed behind him. George slammed the key into the lock. The red door clicked open. A blinding white light exploded outward. “George,”

a calm voice spoke from within, “step through.”

He hesitated, one breath, one heartbeat. Then a cold hand brushed his shoulder. He jumped into the light. The door slammed shut behind him. And everything went silent.