Chapter 1: The Man Behind the Numbers

He blamed the books and movies. They had painted a picture of gangster life that was far too appealing—cool, rebellious, and daring. Deep down, he knew it was a foolish thing to blame, a convenient scapegoat for the choices he had made.1

But blaming himself? He could never do that.

There was an old saying on Earth that seemed to narrate his life like a haunting melody: "You can run from everything but your karma."11

Contrary to what movies showed about gangsters, he wasn't the stereotypical mob boss or the muscle behind the operations. No, he was the brains. The man who managed the books, who made sure the numbers added up, who handled the business affairs for small mafia families.2

Born into a family that had always valued education and integrity, he had been a prodigy in his younger years. Teachers used to say he was a genius, always acing every subject, always ahead of the curve. He had even graduated in accounting, a field that promised a stable and respectable future. But that intellect, that razor-sharp mind, became his downfall. He thought he was too smart for his own good, too clever to be confined by the boundaries of nine-to-five jobs.

He saw opportunities where others saw risks, loopholes where others saw walls. And so, rather than using his skills for legitimate purposes, he chose the path of quick and easy money. Before he knew it, he was neck-deep in a world he had once only read about in crime novels—managing finances for criminal organizations, cooking their books, and making sure their ill-gotten gains appeared legitimate.2

The saying "You become the company you keep" had never felt truer. Surrounded by people who lived life on the edge, he found himself becoming desensitized to activities that were not just morally questionable but outright illegal. Money flowed in like water,1

But he had his boundaries. He could stomach activities that ended lives; that was the cost of doing business in his world. But when it came to robbing people of their freedom, especially when he himself was forced to work for a big mafia boss because he was too good at what he did—that was where he drew the line.3

He made himself believe that he felt this way because there was a shred of humanity left in him. The truth was that he was just selfish. Since he was forced to do the bidding of a bigger boss and his freedom was taken away from him, he found himself despising the very people he worked for, the very world he had so eagerly joined.3

His twisted anger at his employer grew into greed. He started skimming off the top, siphoning money from the mafia businesses. In his mind, they deserved it. They were criminals, after all, and he was just taking his fair share of the loot. But karma has a funny way of catching up with you. One fateful night, bosses sent their morally bankrupt henchmen to his home. He found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, holding a one-way ticket to what he assumed would be hell. Except, it wasn't hell that awaited him. He felt the bullet pierce his flesh, and for an instant, time seemed to stand stil10

A locket around his neck glowed. This locket was an heirloom given by his grandmother. He knew that from ancient times, his family had always been devout worshippers of the goddess of knowledge and harmony. It was said that in ancient times there were many gods and the world was full of miracles. But as time passed, miracles ceased and most of the gods were forgotten. His family was one of the few that had kept the beliefs alive, even after almost all of humanity had forgotten them. The glow stayed for a while, then he lost consciousness. When he became conscious again, he could not see or feel anything; he was not sure where he was.2

Then he heard a voice, a voice so distant it felt as if it were emanating from eons away, from realms so unfathomable they defied all understanding. It was thunderous yet feminine, echoing through the void as if it had been searching for a long, long time—searching through the now and the never, through eternities and forevers. "How fortunate to have finally found someone. You bear my mark, little one," the voice intoned. "You may think you've just died, but I have been searching for a soul like yours for what feels like an eternity. You are not just blessed, young one; you are the last proof of our existence. Take all that is left of us and make wise use of it. We do not wish for you to avenge us, but to live, to survive, and to embody what we were—the true ones. Your survival will be the proof of us in a never-ending eternity, a resounding answer to those hungry, greedy beings who take everything without consequence or thought. Consider yourself chosen!"11

Every word from the distant feminine voice made his soul tremble, as if each syllable carried the weight of entire universes. Though he couldn't speak, even if he could, he wouldn't dare. To speak of it felt like blasphemy. His soul felt weighed down by an immense, inexplicable pressure, a sensation so intense that it manifested as a phantom ache in a neck he no longer physically had. It was a paradox, a contradiction that defied logic. How could he feel burdened when he had no body to experience such sensations? Yet, the weight was undeniable, as if the distant voice had imbued him with something so heavy that it transcended the absence of his physical form. It was a torment that felt agonizingly close to hell, a sensation that made the surrounding atmosphere seem even more dim and suffocating than it already was. He couldn't breathe, yet paradoxically, he couldn't die either. It was as if he were carrying a monumental burden, a gift, or perhaps a curse from that distant voice, something so profound that it affected the very essence of his being.2

As he continued to float in this ethereal space, he found that the immense pressure, the inexplicable burden that had once weighed him down, began to lessen. It was as if the weight was being absorbed into the very fabric of his soul, becoming a part of him. Over time, what had once felt like a monumental burden now felt like an integral part of his being. It was no longer something he carried; it was him. As he floated, time itself seemed to lose its meaning in this space, becoming a fluid, almost irrelevant concept. He floated for so long that the very notion of time might have lost its significance, even if it had any to begin with. The sensation of endless floating made him ponder the voice he had heard, the being that had spoken to him.