It was a stormy night, the kind that swallowed sound and swallowed sight. Snow blanketed the ground, turning the world into a frozen wasteland. The wind howled through the trees and buildings, and the occasional crack of ice breaking under pressure punctuated the eerie quiet. Amid the flurry of white and darkness, a lone figure moved like a shadow, almost invisible against the raging storm.

  The figure’s cloak billowed behind him, long and tattered at the edges, but it covered everything about him except for the tiny sliver of his chin and mouth that were visible in the faint glow of the distant streetlights. His movements were quick and smooth, gliding through the storm like a phantom, one with the darkness itself. There was no crunch of snow under his feet, no rustle of his cloak in the wind—just silence.

  The first guard stationed near the gates was utterly oblivious. He leaned against the wall, shaking his arms for warmth, his eyes barely staying open in the biting cold. He didn’t even notice as the figure slipped past him. So silent and so quick, he could have been a trick of the light—or a phantom. The figure moved on, vanishing into the snowy void.

  The second guard was more alert, shifting his gaze back and forth as the storm raged on. But the wind was relentless, carrying whispers and ghostly movements that made his senses dull. He shook his head, squinting into the swirling snow. For a moment, he thought he saw something—a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision. But when he turned to look, there was nothing. He blamed the wind for playing tricks on him and resumed his watch, never realizing how close the figure had come to slipping past.

  The last guard, stationed just before the entrance, was the sharpest of the three. His eyes were trained, and his posture was rigid, scanning the grounds with careful precision. His instincts flared up as he felt a change in the air—a presence, something out of place. He spun around quickly, his hand reaching for the weapon at his side, but all he saw was snow and shadows swirling in the storm.

  He didn’t notice the figure, now directly behind him, moving swiftly and soundlessly through the snow-covered ground. The guard’s breath fogged the air as he strained his senses to pick up on what had triggered his instincts, but the figure was already gone, gliding through the final stretch and disappearing into the darkness beyond.

  The storm continued its relentless assault on the landscape, covering any traces of movement, burying footsteps, and swallowing sounds. It wasn’t until the guards exchanged shifts that they realized something—or someone—had bypassed them entirely.

  The dark figure finally stopped, well away from the perimeter. His breath was visible in the freezing air as he looked back at the guards still standing in place, none the wiser. He reached up, pushing back the edge of his cloak just enough to reveal his face, hidden beneath the hood.

  It was 433.

  433 had traveled tirelessly through the storm, moving through thick woods, icy plains, and lonely roads that seemed endless. The journey to Norfolk was not a short one but pressed on with a singular focus, driven by the questions gnawing at his mind. The few days on the road felt longer than they were, the bone-chilling cold and howling winds his only companions. The path was fraught with danger—icy slopes, stray patrols, and bitter cold that seemed intent on freezing the life out of him. But he pushed forward, finding brief moments of rest in abandoned barns and hollowed-out buildings before continuing toward the city.

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  When 433 finally reached Norfolk, he was weary but not exhausted; his body was trained for endurance and honed for survival. He pulled his hood lower to conceal his face and entered the city cautiously. Norfolk was bustling, yet his presence went unnoticed amidst the usual crowd of merchants, travelers, and citizens. He kept to the shadows, avoiding eye contact, moving like a ghost through the busy streets until he reached a small, inconspicuous hotel on the city’s edge.

  The hotel wasn’t luxurious, but it was warm and provided shelter—a welcome reprieve from the relentless cold outside. He paid for the room using cash, exchanged a nod with the tired clerk, and made his way to the second floor. Inside, his room was simple: a bed with worn-out sheets, a small table with a cracked mirror, and a window that overlooked the quiet alley behind the building.

  433 shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, breathing in the stale air and letting his shoulders relax. He removed his cloak and dropped it on the chair by the window, revealing the faded clothes beneath that had seen too much travel and too little rest. He walked over to the bed and sat down heavily, the mattress creaking under his weight.

  Despite the warmth, 433 couldn’t shake the chill that ran down his spine. His mind was racing, replaying the events of New York, the ambush, and the terrifying realization that he had been given a second chance by a voice claiming to be Hades. The thought of a god—if that’s what the voice truly was—left him uneasy, and each passing day without answers only deepened that feeling.

  He knew what he had to do to speak with that voice again, and the answer unsettled him deeply: he needed to die.

  433 leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands as he wrestled with the concept. He had faced death many times before, in countless fights, and even when he felt the coldness of a gun against his skull. But those were situations where death was a threat, something to be avoided. Now, he was contemplating walking straight into it.

  “There has to be another way,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. But he knew there wasn’t. He remembered the moments just before he died—the silence, the darkness, and then the eerie voice that offered him the impossible. It had only spoken to him in the moment of his death, as if waiting for him on the other side. There had been something tangible, an overwhelming presence that made the encounter feel more real than any nightmare.

  433 clenched his fists, staring down at the floor. The voice had been clear about his task: he had been given a second chance to correct his mistakes, to fix whatever had gone wrong. But he needed answers. Why had he been chosen? Why would a god interfere with his fate? And what was the price of this so-called second chance?

  As he sat there, the memories flooded back—of the cold muzzle against his head, of the moment everything had gone black, and of the emptiness that followed. He had to relive that moment again—to embrace death willingly this time—in the hopes of getting the answers he so desperately needed.

  The thought made his stomach turn, but he steeled himself, pushing down the fear and uncertainty. 433 knew that whatever the truth was, it was tied to that voice, to the strange, otherworldly force that had pulled him back from the brink of death. And if that meant walking back into the darkness, he would do it.

  After what felt like hours, he exhaled slowly, his resolve hardening. He didn’t know when or how he would attempt it, but the path before him was clear. He glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror, seeing not the weary traveler but a man on a mission—one with questions that needed answers, no matter the cost.

  433 lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the storm outside continued to rage. His fingers traced the grooves in the worn sheets, his mind working through the grim plan he had set for himself. He was alone with his thoughts, his questions, and the knowledge that to find the truth, he had to face death once more.