The Tattooed Emperor: Reborn Before the Apocalypse

Chapter 1: Reborn Three Days Before The Apocalypse

"You want me dead? Then you're coming down with me!"

A roar tore through the sterile quiet of the private hospital room, sharp enough to rattle the blinds.

The sound jolted Marcus Reeves out of his half-doze in the corner chair. He was on his feet before his mind caught up with his body, already moving toward the bed.

"Boss? Boss, you're awake!"

Damon Sterling was sitting bolt upright, chest heaving, both fists clenched around fistfuls of the bedsheet. Marcus shoved a pillow behind his back and started firing off questions like bullets.

"How do you feel? Is your head still killing you? You feel sick? Dizzy? Say something, man, you're scaring me"

When Damon just sat there, staring straight ahead like he'd forgotten how to speak, Marcus's stomach dropped. He spun toward the door.

"I'll get the doctor"

"Tiger."

The old nickname stopped Marcus cold. Damon's hand had shot out and caught his wrist.

"I'm fine. Just... give me a second."

Damon closed his eyes.

And in that single second of darkness, two lifetimes of memory slammed together and fused into one.

When his eyes opened again, they landed on the pale blue sky outside the window and something in his expression had changed completely.

I've been reborn.

Three days before the world ends.

This was the beginning of everything. And it was also his one and only chance to burn the old timeline to the ground and build something better in its place.

His fingers drifted up to the bandage wrapped around his skull, the wound beneath it still throbbing dully.

If his memory served and it did, with brutal clarity now today marked the fifth day since he'd been dragged into an alley behind Kingsley Preparatory Academy and beaten half to death on Preston Whitlock's orders.

Preston Whitlock. Golden boy of Kingsley Prep, son of a state senator on the surface and underneath that polished exterior, heir apparent to the largest criminal syndicate in the entire state of Texas.

Their rivalry hadn't started because two crime families simply couldn't share the same sky, though that was part of it.

The real reason was a girl.

Grace Sullivan. A scholarship student with a face that stopped conversations cold the moment she walked into a room and the kind of luck that made monsters like Preston Whitlock take notice.

Preston had wanted her the second he laid eyes on her. When charm didn't work, he'd turned to threats her grandmother, her only family left, dangled over her head like a blade. When even that failed, he'd slipped something into her drink at a party, meaning to finish what blackmail couldn't.

In his first life, Damon hadn't been able to stomach it. He'd led his crew through the door of that party himself, beaten Preston to a pulp in front of half the school, and made sure every camera in the room caught it.

Preston never faced real consequences money like the Whitlocks' bought silence in every courthouse that mattered but the humiliation had planted a seed of hatred that grew for three straight years.

They'd clashed constantly after that. And every single time, Damon had come out on top.

Which was exactly why, this time around, Preston hadn't fought fair.

It wasn't carelessness that put Damon in this hospital bed. His parents had died the week before suddenly, violently, and far too conveniently and grief had cracked him open. He'd waved off half his security detail just to be alone with the pain.

That was the opening Preston had been waiting for.

In hindsight, this beating was nothing. A bruise on the timeline. What mattered was what came after the ridicule, the whispers, the way the attack dragged out his recovery for weeks he didn't have to spare.

Because three days later, the sky would turn red, and the world he knew would end.

The delay had cost him everything. The old guard within the Crimson Talon Syndicate the elders his father had left behind had used his weakness as proof he wasn't fit to lead. That single crack of doubt splintered the entire organization from the inside, right when unity was the only thing standing between his people and extinction.

Thousands of brothers who trusted him with their lives had died screaming in the jaws of things that shouldn't exist, because the empire meant to protect them had already been rotting from within.

That collapse alone had made his second life a nightmare of scarcity and blood.

But worse far worse was the truth about his parents.

Their deaths hadn't been an accident. It had been an execution, dressed up to look like tragedy.

And one of the men who'd ordered it was Victor Whitlock. Preston's father.

Now that fate had handed him a second chance, wiping out the entire Whitlock bloodline wasn't a want anymore.

It was a debt that had to be collected.

But vengeance would have to wait its turn. Rome wasn't burned in a day, and neither would the Whitlocks be.

Right now, there was only one priority: the tattoos. He needed the ritual started immediately, and he needed as many of his people marked as possible before the sky turned red because everything he hoped to build depended on it.

Damon turned to Marcus, his gaze steady in a way that made the older man straighten instinctively.

"Tiger. Do you trust me?"

Marcus blinked like the question offended him. "Boss, the hell kind of question is that? If it weren't for you, I'd have burned to death in that warehouse fire three years ago. My life's been yours since that night trust doesn't even enter into it. The whole world could turn its back on you, and I'd still be standing right here."

Damon looked at the face in front of him familiar, and yet somehow new all over again and allowed himself a small, tired smile.

He clapped Marcus hard on the shoulder.

"Then I need you to handle two things. Fast."

Marcus's spine went straight, all business now. "Talk to me."

"First, find the best tattoo artist on this continent. I don't care what it costs or who you have to drag out of retirement. Bring them to me today."

"Second, get word to Uncle Frank. Tell him I'm awake, and whatever he's in the middle of, he drops it. I need him here. Now."

"Consider it done."

Marcus was already moving, footsteps fast and sure down the hallway. A moment later, his muffled voice carried back through the door.

"Every man on this floor better keep their eyes open. If our boy loses so much as a hair while I'm gone, I'll skin every last one of you myself."

Damon huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to the window.

"Don't worry, Tiger," he murmured to no one. "Not this time. This life, I'm not going to let you die saving me."

His gaze drifted back to the pale, deceptively peaceful sky, and something hardened behind his eyes.

Three days.

In three days, an apocalypse unlike anything in human history would arrive without warning. The moon would turn the color of blood, and the line between day and night would simply cease to exist.

A strange crimson mist would roll across the earth, and everything it touched plants, animals, the world itself would begin to change. Territories would warp and expand a thousandfold overnight. Reality would stop playing by its own rules.

And humanity's slaughter would begin in an instant, with no mercy and no warning shots.

Within a single year, global order would collapse completely. Seventy percent of the world's population would be gone.

The dying would only slow once scattered survivors banded together into fortified bases, once the handful of surviving global powers finally got their footing back.

But that fragile peace wouldn't last. Because a few short years later, monstrous, myth-born creatures would begin clawing their way into the world, one after another, each one a fresh countdown to extinction.

Those were the true end of days. Not the mist. Not the collapse.

Damon's jaw tightened as he remembered the suffocating despair of his first death betrayed, cornered, and left to face one of those creatures completely alone.

If he ever got the chance, he'd personally put a bullet in every last one of the traitors who'd stood on rooftops shouting about "order" and "unity" while quietly selling humanity out from underneath itself.

Because it was people like that not the monsters who'd finally snuffed out mankind's last flicker of hope.

He'd died before he could stop it. But he'd lived long enough to see exactly how it ended.

The weight of that memory settled heavy in his chest. Humanity's odds this time around were still razor-thin.

Slim. Not zero.

Because after the sky turned red, every person marked with a tattoo who stood beneath that crimson mist would have a chance a real one at awakening.

Survive the awakening, and they'd rise as a Divine Tattoo Envoy, wielding power drawn from the ink burned into their very skin.

Power enough, maybe, to give humanity a fighting chance this time.