Forty minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed in the morgue corridor. Quick. Disorderly. Panicked.

  The door burst open.

  Aveline, his mother, stood in the doorway. Her face was red, eyes swollen with tears, hair disheveled. She was panting as if she'd run a marathon.

  Behind her, his father Claude appeared, complexion gray, features drawn, hands trembling.

  For a suspended instant, no one moved.

  Aveline looked at Nael as if seeing a ghost. Her lips trembled. Her hands clenched on her purse.

  "Nael...?" she murmured in a broken voice.

  The sound of his name—spoken with so much disbelief, so much fragile hope—broke something in him.

  "Mom," he replied, throat tight.

  She crossed the room in three strides and took him in her arms with a force that nearly knocked the breath from him. Her fingers dug into his back, gripping him as if afraid he might disappear if she let go.

  "My baby... my baby... my baby..."

  She repeated those words over and over, face buried against his shoulder, tears soaking the cheap t-shirt. Her whole body shook with uncontrollable sobs.

  Nael felt his own tears rising. He hugged his mother back, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with panicked sweat.

  Claude approached slowly, his gaze haunted. He placed a trembling hand on Nael's shoulder, as if to make sure he was real, solid.

  "They told us you were dead." His voice broke. "They told us... there was nothing more they could do."

  His eyes—usually so stoic, so controlled—were red and moist.

  "How... how is this possible?"

  Nael didn't know what to say. How could he explain the being of flames? The tests? The ocean of the dead? The inferno that had consumed his flesh?

  How could he tell them he had met something that existed beyond all understanding?

  "I don't know, Dad. I... I don't know."

  It was the only truth he could offer.

  Claude nodded slowly, then burst into sobs. He wrapped his arms around his wife and son, holding them both against him.

  ***

  The ride home was surreal.

  Nael sat in the back of the family car while his parents exchanged worried glances in the rearview mirror.

  The city scrolled past the windows. The same streets. The same streetlights. The same superhero posters plastered on building facades.

  But nothing seemed the same.

  Everything appeared... sharper. More real. Colors were more vivid. Sounds more distinct.

  He could hear the engine's purr as if amplified. His mother's anxious breathing.

  *What's happening to me?*

  When they finally arrived in front of the house, Aveline insisted that Nael go straight to bed.

  "You need to rest. You've been through... something horrible."

  She didn't know how true that was.

  Nael climbed the stairs to his room. Everything was exactly as he'd left it. His backpack carelessly thrown on the floor. His textbooks piled on the desk. An old superhero poster tacked to the wall, edges worn and torn.

  He closed the door, collapsed on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.

  Silence settled, heavy and oppressive.

  Then, without warning, the images returned.

  The criminal. The insane smile. The explosion. The gaping hole in his abdomen. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The sensation of his entrails spilling onto the ground.

  *"Did you film everything, you coward?"*

  Nael sat up abruptly, gasping. His heart raced. His hands trembled violently.

  He touched his abdomen through the t-shirt, frantically feeling his skin.

  Nothing. No wound. No scar.

  But the memory was there. Burning. Unbearable.

  *I died. I was really killed.*

  Tears flowed down his cheeks without him being able to hold them back.

  He cried silently, curled up on his bed, trying to reconcile the impossibility of his situation.

  Dead. Then alive.

  Finally, exhausted, he sank into a restless sleep.

  ***

  The following days passed in a strange fog.

  The next morning, doctors from the hospital came to the house to perform additional examinations. They took blood samples, measured his blood pressure, checked his heart rate. They asked questions he couldn't answer.

  "Do you feel pain anywhere?"

  "No."

  "Dizziness? Nausea?"

  "No."

  "Do you feel... different?"

  Nael hesitated.

  *Yes. Everything is different.*

  But he simply shook his head.

  The doctors exchanged puzzled looks and conscientiously noted their observations on their tablets.

  In the afternoon, journalists began calling. His mother hung up on them every time, face tight with anger.

  "Leave us alone! My son needs rest!"

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Neighbors stopped by to "check in," but Nael could see the morbid curiosity in their gazes. They stared at him like a circus attraction.

  *The boy who came back from the dead.*

  On the third day, the school called. The principal wanted to know when Nael planned to return to class.

  "He needs time," Aveline replied sharply before hanging up.

  On the fourth day, Nael forced himself to come down for dinner with his family.

  They ate in silence for a while. Silverware clinked against plates.

  Claude finally broke the silence.

  "You know... if you want to talk... about what happened... we're here."

  Nael nodded without responding.

  How could he tell them about the being of flames? The tests? The absolute pain of the inferno?

  They wouldn't understand.

  No one would understand.

  On the fifth day, Nael looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.

  He examined his face. His features were the same. His eyes too.

  Nothing had changed.

  Well, almost nothing.

  He placed a hand on his abdomen.

  Where the criminal had touched him. Where the explosion had opened a gaping hole. Where his entrails had spilled onto the alley floor.

  He felt his skin.

  Nothing.

  No wound. No scar. Not even a mark.

  His skin was smooth, intact, as if the explosion had never happened.

  But the memory was there. Alive. Burning.

  He remembered the pain. The warmth of blood. The cold that seized his body as his life drained away.

  *How can my skin be perfect when I remember seeing it destroyed?*

  On the sixth day, the nightmares began.

  Terrifying dreams where the criminal came back again and again. Where the explosion repeated infinitely. Where he died in an endless loop.

  He woke up screaming, drenched in sweat, heart pounding.

  His mother rushed in every time, holding him in her arms until the trembling stopped.

  "It's just a dream, sweetheart. It's just a dream."

  But Nael knew it was more than that.

  It was a memory. An invisible scar etched into his mind.

  The seventh day finally arrived.

  A full week since his resurrection.

  And that night, the nightmare was different.

  ***

  Nael found himself on a battlefield.

  Around him, the city was nothing but smoking ruins. Buildings had collapsed into piles of rubble and twisted metal. The sky was blood red, obscured by clouds of ash and smoke.

  The air was thick, unbreathable. The smell of blood mixed with that of burned flesh and melted rubber.

  Everywhere, corpses littered the ground. Civilians. Police officers. Heroes. All frozen in postures of pain and terror.

  Nael was on his knees in the middle of this carnage. His clothes were torn and stained with blood—his own or others', he didn't know.

  His wounds burned. But despite the pain, his gaze remained fixed on a little girl desperately running through the chaos.

  She couldn't have been more than eight years old. Her clothes were in tatters. Her face was covered in ash and tears. She stumbled, fell, got back up, kept going.

  From the sky, metal spikes rained down with terrible whistles. They drove into the ground with dull impacts, leaving smoking craters.

  "RUN!" Nael screamed, voice torn. "DON'T STOP! DON'T LET THEM TOUCH YOU!"

  But the little girl was weakening. Her legs trembled. Her breath became short and ragged.

  A spike plunged straight toward her.

  In a final explosion of will, Nael threw himself forward. He grabbed the child in his arms and rolled to the side. The spike drove into the ground at the exact spot where she had stood a second earlier.

  He held her against him, protecting her small fragile body with his own broken one.

  Then he looked up.

  Above them, a man floated in the air.

  At first glance, there was nothing extraordinary about him. A human silhouette. Dark clothes. Black hair slicked back.

  But his eyes...

  His eyes were two bottomless pits. Void of all humanity. Void of all mercy. Void of all soul.

  A cruel smile stretched his lips.

  His laughter burst forth—a terrible sound that echoed throughout the ruined city, making the debris tremble, freezing Nael's blood.

  Then, abruptly, the laughter stopped.

  The man slowly turned his head toward Nael. Their gazes met.

  He could see through him. Read each of his fears. Each of his doubts.

  When he spoke, his voice was low but carried with supernatural force:

  "This time, Nael... what will you do?"

  Nael woke with a start.

  His heart beat violently against his ribs. He gasped, gripping his sweat-soaked sheets. His eyes wide open stared at the darkness of his room.

  The man's voice still echoed in his ears, like an echo that refused to leave.

  *That wasn't a simple nightmare.*

  It was too real. Too precise. Too... intentional.

  Like a memory that hadn't happened yet.

  Like a warning.

  *No. It's impossible. It's just a dream. Just a bad dream.*

  But deep within him, an icy doubt crept in.

  What if it wasn't?

  ***

  Knock knock knock.

  A gentle knock at the door.

  "Nael? Are you still sleeping? Breakfast is ready."

  It was Aveline's soft, reassuring voice.

  Nael didn't respond immediately. He was sitting on his bed, frozen, gaze lost in the distance, as if absent.

  His mother gently opened the door and found him there, silent, shoulders slumped, as if absent.

  Without hesitation, she approached. She placed her hands on his trembling shoulders, then took him in her arms.

  He felt the warmth of her embrace—a refuge in the midst of the storm raging in his mind.

  "Mom's here, don't worry."

  Nael let out a long sigh. The weight on his chest dissipated slightly. His tense body relaxed against her.

  After a moment, Aveline gently stroked his hair. Her fingers trembled slightly, betraying her worry.

  "Nightmares again?" she asked softly.

  "Yes," Nael replied, throat tight.

  She smoothed a rebellious strand and smiled tenderly at him.

  "For now, forget all that. Go wash up. We're having breakfast together."

  Nael nodded. His mother's presence soothed his fears, even if the shadow of the dream persisted.

  ***

  He dragged himself to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

  The fluorescent light above the mirror sputtered before lighting up, projecting a harsh white glow.

  Nael mechanically brushed his teeth, gestures automatic, mind still lost in the nightmare.

  Then he left the bathroom and went downstairs.

  ***

  In the kitchen, the smell of coffee and warm bread filled the air.

  "Something smells good," Nael said, sitting down at the table.

  Claude looked up from his newspaper and gave him a smile.

  "Tell me, son... you're not seeing ghosts these days, are you?"

  Nael gave a slight smile.

  "Yeah. Every day."

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Aveline poured coffee.

  But Nael felt their gazes on him. Furtive. Worried.

  His parents looked at him differently now.

  Aveline constantly checked that he was okay. She touched his forehead to see if he had a fever. Asked if he hurt anywhere.

  Claude tried to act normally, but it was forced. His jokes fell flat. His smiles didn't reach his eyes.

  *Everything is supposed to be normal. But nothing will ever be normal again.*

  Claude suddenly frowned while reading an article.

  "Over the past week, about ten married women have been killed in the area."

  "Ten?!" Aveline exclaimed, abruptly setting down her cup.

  "But why married women?"

  He shrugged.

  "No one knows. No apparent connection between them. No witnesses. It's as if the killer is choosing them at random."

  A heavy silence settled over the table.

  Nael watched them, warmed by this simple, ordinary moment. A moment that, a week ago, seemed lost to him forever.

  "Dad, Mom... I love you."

  Claude raised an eyebrow, surprised, then smiled broadly.

  "Well, well, he's getting sentimental now. Death made him soft."

  They laughed together.

  But beneath the laughter, Nael saw the persistent worry in their eyes.

  *They don't know what to do with me. They don't understand what happened.*

  *Neither do I.*

  After his parents left for work, Nael turned on the television. The same news scrolled by. The same hero faces. The same commercials.

  He was going out of his mind with boredom.

  He put on sports clothes and went out for a walk.

  ***

  He walked leisurely through the neighborhood streets, politely greeting neighbors he passed.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Dupont."

  "Good morning, Mr. Stone."

  It wasn't really his thing, but he knew what his parents would think otherwise.

  *"Be polite, Nael. Be respectful. You never know who's watching."*

  As he arrived near the neighborhood playground, someone called out to him.

  "Hey Nael! You playing with us?"

  He hesitated. Then shrugged.

  "Why not."

  The field was dusty, the goals improvised with piled stones. About ten boys his age were already warming up.

  The match started.

  Nael ran, shot, passed the ball. Nothing extraordinary. He played normally, like he always had.

  But it felt good to move. To focus on something simple. To feel the grass under his feet and the wind on his face.

  For a moment, he almost forgot. The criminal. The explosion. Death.

  The match ended in a draw. Everyone shook hands.

  The other players were exhausted. Bent over double, gasping, hands on knees.

  Nael vaguely noticed he wasn't as out of breath as them.

  *Weird. Normally I'd be wiped out too.*

  But he quickly dismissed the thought. It was probably just adrenaline. Or the fact that he hadn't played in a while.

  ***

  He left the field, hands in his pockets.

  But what awaited him exceeded anything he could have imagined.

  In front of the door, several figures in uniform stood there, arms crossed, faces serious.

  They wore impeccable suits—black with dark blue accents. Their posture was military, straight, imposing. Their eyes scrutinized everything with an intensity that made Nael uncomfortable.

  They were representatives from the Academy.

  Their silent, almost threatening presence silenced all the questions in his mind.

  *No... already?*

  Nael's heart froze.

  *Did they see the match? Did someone report me?*

  *Or worse:*

  *They knew from the beginning.*

  Since the hospital. Since the message sent by the head of service.

  Behind the curtains of neighboring houses, silhouettes discreetly observed the scene.

  Nael felt panic rising. His hands began to tremble.

  *Are they going to take me away? Lock me up? Test me?*

  One of the men stepped forward, a slight smile on his lips.

  "Nael... Impressive performance today. We have much to discuss."

  Nael's heart suddenly accelerated.

  A new chapter had just begun.

  ***

  **END OF CHAPTER 3**