The sea wind was really cold. It felt like it was cutting my skin. The waves were moving slowly. They were hitting the shore with a loud thud.
Dark clouds hung low over the water, blurring the horizon until it almost vanished. The sun was completely hidden, leaving a cold, bluish gray that made everything feel muted and tired.
Seabirds flew lower than usual. They circled once, twice.
On the beach, a man lay face down in the sand, limp and still.
A small, ragged crowd had gathered around him, their voices muffled by the roaring surf as they huddled close, peering down in a mix of curiosity and dread.
"Is he still breathing?" a raspy voice called out above the wind.
"Turn him over, carefully now," another urged, rough hands reaching out to pull at his shoulders. "Don't let him choke on the brine."
That man was me.
I forced my eyelids open.
It was an agonizingly slow process. At first, there was only a suffocating darkness. Then, it gradually dissolved into a blur of grey light and shifting shadows.
I blinked against the harsh salt air.
The indistinct shapes solidified. Silhouettes of strangers towered over me. Their ragged clothes whipped in the gales, and their faces were etched with anxiety.
Consciousness returned in painful, pulsing waves.
And with it, my memories.
The shattered pieces of my past reassembled themselves in my mind. They answered the silent, desperate question that clawed at my chest.
How did I end up here?
Before this, I had been a statesman. A politician feared and admired across the country. In nation XXX, I had risen as the strongest presidential candidate in decades.
"My name is Fragha Van-Willhoft. I am the man who will pull this nation out of the mud and guide us into an era of unprecedented greatness."
My voice had resonated with absolute optimism.
The crowd had erupted into thunderous applause.
"Fragha! Fragha! Fragha!"
My followers were legion. Looking out at the endless sea of banners bearing my name, I was utterly consumed by confidence.
I genuinely believed the election was mine to win.
Until the final stretch. Until there were only ten days left before the election.
I stood face-to-face with my rival beneath the blinding lights of national television. Millions watched us across the country.
My opponent had entered the stage with confidence.
He left it looking broken.
I unveiled a radical vision for the future, something bold enough to shake the nation itself. Economic restructuring, military reform, technological expansion, national sovereignty. Every answer I gave cornered him further.
"You're proposing something impossible," my opponent snapped, sweat visible on his forehead.
I smiled calmly. "Impossible only exists for incompetent people."
The audience burst into noise.
Even the moderators struggled to regain control.
That night, every poll favored me overwhelmingly.
I had dominated him completely.
Within forty-eight hours, the tides turned. The machinery of a shadow campaign tore my life apart.
My wife was cornered and harassed in a dark parking garage. My only son returned from school with a bruised lip, a victim of relentless bullying.
On social media, my reputation was systematically poisoned.
My Opponent had played dirty. He deployed armies of digital mercenaries to spread atrocious, fabricated scandals.
My life was in ruins. My faith in the system collapsed into ash.
Yet, the stubborn ember of my ambition refused to die. It burned brightest on the day of the election itself.
I sat in the plush backseat of my official black sedan. Outside, despite the torrential smear campaigns, a massive throng of my core supporters had gathered.
They held battered signs, chanting my name.
"Do you think we still have a chance, sir?" Thomas, my driver, asked nervously. He caught my eye in the rearview mirror.
I looked out at the crowd. A sudden surge of confidence filled my chest.
"Look at them, Thomas. Those people deserve to know their leader hasn't abandoned them. Pull over by the plaza."
"Sir, security strongly advised against any unscheduled stops today. The atmosphere out there is highly volatile."
"Just pull over, Thomas. I am going to greet them."
That was the single greatest mistake of my life.
I opened the heavy black door with a resolute snap. Stepping out into the crisp afternoon air, I paused to adjust my tailored suit.
A broad smile spread across my face. I raised my hand high, waving to the crowd.
"Thank you, everyone! We will see this through to the very end!"
The effect was instantaneous.
The crowd gasped in recognition. A wave of collective excitement washed over them as they broke through the security barricades, running to swarm around me.
They wanted a savior.
People screamed excitedly the moment they saw me.
"It's Fragha!"
"Sir! Over here!"
"President Fragha!"
Then, time slowed to an agonizing crawl.
The sound of the cheering crowd suddenly dulled. A strange, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My vision blurred at the edges.
From a high-rise building across the plaza, a sharp flash of light caught the corner of my eye.
Crack.
A violent impact tore through the center of my forehead.
A horrific spray of crimson erupted from the back of my skull. The high-caliber bullet tore right through my brain, extinguishing my consciousness in a fraction of a millisecond.
The final image burned into my dying retinas was the collective shock of my supporters.
A young woman in the front row dropped her banner. Her hands flew to her mouth in unadulterated horror. My blood splattered onto the pavement at her feet.
And then, total darkness.
Until I woke up here.
On a freezing, salt-encrusted beach. Staring up at an unfamiliar sky in a world I did not know.