Paulo awoke with a jolt, his consciousness snapping into existence like a frayed wire sparking in the dark. But there was no dark, there was nothing. An infinite expanse of void stretched in every direction, a complete absence of light, colour, or form. It was not blackness; it was oblivion, a canvas untouched by even the faintest brushstroke of reality.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed in his ears, but when he tried to look around, his eyes met only emptiness. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind as he raised his hands, or at least, he thought he did. There they were, his own flesh and bone, visible against the nothingness, as if illuminated by some internal glow.
His skin was pale, veins pulsing faintly beneath the surface, and his fingers trembled as he flexed them. That was all. No ground beneath him, no sky above, no air whispering against his face. He floated, or perhaps stood, in a limbo that defied sensation.
"How did I get here? What is this place?"
The words tore from his throat in a ragged, agonized rasp, each syllable laced with pain that radiated from deep within his skull. It felt like shards of glass grinding against his brain, a migraine amplified to excruciating levels.
He clutched at his head, fingers digging into his scalp, but the void offered no relief, no echo to his voice, no surface to lean against. He spun, or tried to, searching desperately for any sign of life, any landmark to anchor him.
Nothing. The void swallowed everything, leaving him isolated in his own existence. Sweat beaded on his forehead, though he could not feel its warmth; it was as if his body existed in a vacuum, detached from the world. Memories flickered at the periphery of his thoughts, elusive shadows that slipped away before he could grasp them.
Had he been in an accident? A dream? Or something worse?
Suddenly, without warning, his vision blurred. His hands, those tangible proofs of his being, faded fr
om sight. Terror surged through him like ice water in his veins. He waved them frantically in front of his face, but they were gone, invisible, as if erased from reality.
"No, no, this can't be…" His voice cut off as the void shattered.
In an instant, the nothingness exploded into a kaleidoscope of sensations. Colours bloomed before him: the deep emerald of towering trees, the rugged browns and greys of jagged mountains, the golden hues of sun-kissed sand.
The air rushed in, thick and warm, carrying the scent of pine resin and earthy soil. Gravity asserted itself with brutal force, pulling him downward onto a coarse, gritty surface that bit into his palms and knees. He gasped, lungs filling with oxygen that tasted faintly of salt and wildflowers.
The world materialized around him, a vast desert valley ringed by colossal mountain ranges, their peaks piercing a cerulean sky dotted with lazy clouds. Ancient oaks and pines dotted the landscape, their branches swaying gently in a breeze that rustled leaves like whispers from forgotten gods.
In the distance, a river glinted like a silver ribbon, carving through the sand. The impact of arrival hit him then, not gradually but all at once, as if his body had been delayed in processing the trauma. It felt like being slammed by a freight truck at full speed, bones jarring, muscles screaming, every nerve ending alight with fire.
He crumpled forward, forehead pressing into the warm sand, which shifted beneath him like a living thing. Pain exploded in waves, radiating from his core outward, making his vision swim with black spots.
But as quickly as it came, the agony began to ebb, leaving him breathless and disoriented. He pushed himself up on shaking arms, spitting out grains of sand that clung to his lips like tiny invaders. His clothes, jeans and a hoodie, were torn and dirt-streaked, but otherwise intact.
"How on earth did I end up here? Better question is, who am I and where am I?" The words tumbled out in a confused murmur as he grabbed his head, fingers pressing against the throbbing centre of his pain.
It pulsed rhythmically, a drumbeat of torment that made thinking nearly impossible. Warm liquid trickled down his temple, sticky and metallic. He pulled his hand away and stared at it in horror: crimson blood coated his palm, thick and glistening under the harsh sunlight.
So much of it, enough to suggest a grievous wound, perhaps a fractured skull. His heart raced faster, adrenaline flooding his system. He reached back to the source, expecting to feel a gash, raw flesh, exposed bone. But his fingers met smooth, unbroken skin.
The blood on his hand evaporated before his eyes, dissolving into nothingness like mist in the morning sun. He blinked, rubbing his eyes with his clean hand, but the evidence was gone. No stain, no residue. His head still ached, but the sharp edge of the pain had dulled to a manageable throb.
"That's strange," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustle of wind through the trees. "Bodies can't just heal on their own. Not like that." He flexed his fingers, watching the play of muscles and tendons, marvelling at the impossibility.
Was this some kind of hallucination? A near-death experience? The sand beneath him was real enough, rough and warm, embedding itself under his nails as he sifted it through his hands.
As he sat there, knees drawn to his chest, fragments of memory began to coalesce like puzzle pieces falling into place. A name surfaced first: Paulo. Yes, that was it. Paulo Satoshi, 17 years old, from a bustling city where skyscrapers of Tokyo loomed like judgmental giants and the air hummed with the constant drone of traffic.
Images flashed: a crowded hallway, lockers slamming, laughter that never included him. Then, the rooftop, wind whipping through his hair, the city sprawled below like a miniature model. The edge, cold metal railing under his palms. The leap. The rush of air, the ground hurtling up to meet him. Blood pooling on the pavement, his vision fading to black.
"So, I am Paulo," he said aloud as he remembered his name after he died and also evaluating the name on his tongue. It felt right, familiar. "But why did I jump from the school rooftop and try to commit suicide? Well, at least I'm still alive."
He stood slowly, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn's, brushing sand from his clothes. The world around him sharpened into focus: the mountains were not just distant shapes but monolithic guardians, their slopes etched with crevices and dusted with sparse vegetation.
Birds wheeled overhead, their cries piercing the air like arrows. The sand stretched for miles, interrupted by clusters of resilient cacti and boulders worn smooth by time. A deeper realization dawned on him, slow and insidious, like the creep of dawn over the horizon. He had not died, not fully. Perhaps, in that split second before impact, something had intervened.
Transported him here, to this alien yet earthly realm, before the blood loss could claim his death. The universe, or whatever force governed it, seemed intent on preserving him, stitching his wounds with invisible threads. Why? For what purpose? He shook his head, trying to dispel the philosophical fog. Survival first. He needed water, shelter, answers.
Turning his gaze to the nearest mountain, a behemoth of granite and shale rising thousands of feet, he noticed something anomalous: a gaping hole punched clean through its side, ragged edges like a wound from a giant's fist.
Debris littered the base, boulders the size of cars, shattered rock fragments glinting in the sun. The tunnel extended onward, visible through the breach, carving a path straight through not one, but three consecutive mountains, each pierced in perfect alignment.
His eyes dropped to the ground beneath his feet. There, hidden partially by shifting sands, was a massive crater, easily fifty feet across and ten feet deep, with radial cracks spiderwebbing outward like veins. The centre was scorched, sand fused into glassy clumps from immense heat or force. Paulo stepped back, heart pounding anew.
"So, when I was transported, I crashed through these mountains and landed here," he explained to himself, voice trembling with a mix of awe and confusion. "But that's odd because I didn't feel the pain, not until after."
He paced the crater's rim, mind racing. The trajectory lined up perfectly: from the void, hurled like a meteor through solid rock, emerging unscathed on the other side. The impact should have pulverized him instantly and should have reduced his body to paste.
Yet here he stood, whole and healing. Superhuman resilience? A gift from this new world? Or a curse, binding him to an existence he had not chosen? Before he could take another step, the floodgates of memory burst open. It was not just the act of jumping that returned. it was the why.
Five minutes ago, in his old life, or was it hours? Days? Time felt warped here. The school rooftop had been his escape, the final act in a symphony of despair. Paulo closed his eyes, and the scenes replayed with vivid clarity, but it all came crashing down.