Chapter 3 Seri

Seri

The first thing I did was breathe.

Which, considering the last time I tried that I had been actively dying, was kind of shocking.

Air slammed into my lungs in a sharp, desperate inhale, like my body had been waiting for permission. It expanded too fast, too deep, and it hurt—not like the gunshot, not sharp and tearing, but tight. Stiff. Like my ribs had forgotten how to move and were now deeply offended they had to work for me again.

I gasped.

And the air—

Oh.

Okay.

It was… lovely.

It tasted like moss. Like damp forest floor after rain, like something green and alive and old. There was salt in it too, faint but unmistakable, with hints of jasmine threading through everything like the edge of the sea.

It filled my lungs so completely I felt a little dizzy.

“Okay,” I rasped. My voice sounded like I’d swallowed gravel, and strangely accented.

Probably just from shock.

“I’m okay.”

I opened my eyes, but it was dark.

Not pitch black—just dim, soft, like the world had been turned down instead of switched off.

It took me a second to understand why.

Moonlight.

It spilled through a window somewhere to my left, pale and silver, stretching across the room in long, quiet beams. Not enough to see clearly, just enough to shape things. To suggest.

I blinked a few times, letting my vision catch up.

I was… inside.

That's a good sign, right?

Also, I was lying on something that was definitely not sand.

Or rock.

Or the cold, unforgiving reality of the Irish Sea.

It was a bed.

A very nice bed.

Soft enough that when I shifted even slightly, it gave under me like it was trying to be helpful. The fabric beneath my fingers was smooth, cool—expensive in a way I didn’t have the vocabulary for but absolutely recognized.

I went very still.

If this is the afterlife, it isn’t so bad.

I tried to sit up, but instantly regretted it.

Pain exploded through my right side, starting in my chest, shooting up into my shoulder, and it was so sudden, so vicious, that I gasped and collapsed right back into the pillows. I placed a hand over my chest and felt bandages keeping my wound secure.

“Ah—okay—yep—no,” I choked out. “Still shot.”

My heart started racing, the memory snapping into place.

The poachers.

The seal.

The gun.

Right. That.

“Cool,” I whispered, staring up at the dark ceiling. “So we were just… continuing from that. No fade to black, no reset. This was fine. I'm fine.”

There shouldn’t be pain in the afterlife though, right? Maybe I'm in the bad place. It sure is beautiful, though.

I forced myself to breathe slower.

In.

Out, and tried not to spiral.

One problem at a time.

I turned my head instead, letting my eyes adjust properly to the room.

And—

Okay. That was not helping.

Because wherever I was, it was… perfect.

Not modern-beautiful. Not sleek or minimal or anything I was used to.

Everything was old. Intentional.

The walls weren’t flat. They had texture, uneven in a way that felt purposeful, or maybe just ancient. The moonlight caught on faint carvings or patterns worked into them, something subtle and intricate that I couldn’t fully make out.

To my right, there was an armoire.

And when I said armoire, I didn’t mean IKEA.

This thing looked like it had been standing there for centuries.

It was made of dark wood, carved with designs that twisted and curled like vines, like the forest had come to claim whatever was secured inside. It was the kind of craftsmanship that made you feel like touching it would either grant you a blessing or summon something you absolutely didn’t want to meet.

There was a desk near the window, where the moonlight fell the strongest.

I squinted at it.

Sitting on top of its flat surface was parchment.

Actual parchment.

And a quill.

A quill.

I stared at it for a long second.

“…No,” I said finally. “We were not doing this. I refused. Okay, imagination? This was where I drew the line. If I was alive, take me back to reality now, please. You gave yourself away with this one.”

But even as I said it, something about the room settled around me.

Not in a bad way.

Not threatening.

Just… still.

Too still.

The kind of quiet that felt deliberate.

I glanced toward the window again.

There was nothing out there.

No lights. No movement. Just the peaceful chirp of crickets and the croaking of frogs.

That was the weirdest part.

There should have been something.

Lights. A distant car. It was like I had fallen into the past, and it was perfect.

I shifted slightly, testing how bad things were in my body.

Immediate feedback: very bad.

Pain flared again through my chest and shoulder, sharp enough to make my vision blur for a second.

I let my head fall back into the pillows.

For a second, I just breathed, trying to ground myself in something real.

Which, unfortunately, was not going well.

My hand lifted without me really thinking about it—muscle memory more than anything—as I reached up to push my hair back from my face.

My fingers brushed my cheek.

I paused, and frowned.

That looked—

Wrong.

I pulled my hand back slowly, bringing it into the strip of moonlight.

And I looked at it.

For a second, my brain just… didn’t process.

Like it was buffering.

Because the hand in front of me wasn’t mine.

It was too pale.

Not just pale.

It was white and lightly freckled.

Not the bronze tan I’d spent years building, the kind that never fully faded no matter how many cloudy days Ireland threw at me.

This skin was completely different.

I turned it over.

Palm.

Back again.

Same.

My fingers flexed, slow and uncertain, like they belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing them.

My stomach dropped.

“Okay,” I said slowly, my voice very, very careful now.

I lifted my other hand.

Same.

White.

Not mine.

Not even close.

I stared at them.

At the unfamiliar shape, the unfamiliar color, the way the moonlight caught differently against skin that didn’t belong to me.

What the fuck.