Sam Witleck knew fire. Not just the science of it—temperature thresholds, oxygen feeds, structural weak points—but the feel of it. The way it crept up behind you when you weren't looking. How it roared like it hated you personally. At twenty-four, with six years on the force, Sam had stared down enough blazes to know when something was off. And tonight? It was off.
The call had come just after nine. Old apartments off East Ridge had gone up like matchsticks. No gas leak, no accelerant, no warning. Just sudden, violent flame. By the time Engine 5 rolled onto the scene, the building looked like hell had chewed it halfway and was coming back for seconds.
Sam adjusted his helmet, ignoring the hairline trickle of sweat already forming under his gear. "Alright," he barked to his crew. "Standard entry. Clear the bottom floor fast. Watch each other's backs."
He was first through the doors, as always. The heat was a wall, immediate and oppressive, pressing down like the air itself was angry. Smoke rolled through the hallways like it had somewhere to be. Flames licked along the wallpaper, hungry and eager. And deeper in—screams.
Sam didn't hesitate.
He moved through the corridors with practiced speed, bootfalls steady, grip tight on the axe in his hand. He found a mother huddled near a stairwell, baby wrapped tight against her chest, both coughing through soot. "Go," he told her. "I've got you." She didn't argue. People rarely did when Sam Witleck looked them in the eye.
The building groaned above, and the fire didn't just burn—it watched. That was the only way to explain it. Something about the way the heat curled around corners, always one step behind. He didn't believe in omens, but tonight felt cursed.
He found an old man collapsed against a banister, face gray under ash. Sam hauled him up one-armed. "You're not dying on me tonight, old-timer."
And then it happened.
The boom wasn't just sound—it was impact. The world flipped. Sam hit the wall hard, ears ringing, lungs seized. The ceiling cracked like thunder. And then—collapse. Fire. Wood. Pain.
He didn't remember blacking out. He remembered thinking this is it. Not fear. Just a strange, hollow regret.
But when Sam came to, there was no smoke. No pain. No gear.
Just cool air. Fragrant and soft. He sat up slowly, expecting sirens or screams or the sterile white of a hospital ceiling. But the place he found himself in was...impossible.
Marble stretched around him, massive and gleaming, shot through with veins of gold. The air buzzed faintly, like the whole place vibrated on a different frequency. And ahead, on a throne too large to be practical, lounged a man who looked like he'd woken up drunk at the Roman Colosseum and never left.
Thick, wild hair. Muscles like coiled vines. A goblet of wine in one hand. A staff topped with grapes in the other. His toga was slipping off one shoulder and he didn't seem to care. When he grinned, it was all teeth and danger.
"Well, look who finally decided to rejoin the party!" the man roared, voice echoing like thunder on marble. "Welcome, Sam Witleck. Welcome to the afterlife!"
Sam blinked, trying to push through the fog in his head. "The...what?"
"The afterlife!" the man repeated cheerfully, raising his goblet. "You didn't think you could go pulling grandpa from a burning building and just walk away, did you? That ceiling flattened you. Impressive, by the way."
Sam stared at him, pulse steady despite the absurdity. "Who the hell are you?"
"Name's Dionysus. You might've heard of me. Wine, madness, ecstasy—blah blah blah. Bit of a reputation." He stood and gave a mock bow. "You died a hero. Bit of a tragic end. But," he added, eyes gleaming, "I've got something more interesting in mind for you."
Sam rose to his feet, gaze sharp. "You're offering me what, exactly?"
"A second chance." Dionysus gestured, and suddenly the room bloomed with color—murals animating on the walls, flames dancing in braziers with unnatural rhythm. "Different world. Different rules. You, upgraded. New abilities, new face, same soul."
Sam crossed his arms. "Why me?"
Dionysus took another lazy sip. "Why not you? You played hero. Self-sacrifice. All noble and boring. Time to shake things up."
A wheel materialized beside him—huge, glowing, sectioned into hundreds of spinning names. Sam caught glimpses. Hogwarts. Naruto. Genshin Impact. Gotham. The Vampire Diaries.
"Give it a spin," Dionysus said, smirking. "Let fate pick your battleground."
Sam hesitated. He wasn't sure what bothered him more—that this might all be a dream...or that it didn't feel like one.
He stepped forward, placed a hand on the wheel, and spun. Hard.
The names blurred. Time bent. The room seemed to hold its breath.
And then—click.
The Vampire Diaries.
Sam's mouth twisted. "Seriously?"
Dionysus cackled. "Oh, this is too good. Moody teenagers! Dagger-happy immortals! That town's a soap opera with fangs. You're gonna love it."
A second wheel appeared—this one filled with symbols: weapons, artifacts, icons. Sam saw the Eye of Agamotto. The Death Note. Leviathan Axe. Then—
Red Hood System.
The wheel stopped. The symbol gleamed blood red.
Sam narrowed his eyes. "You're giving me Jason Todd's skillset?"
"Better." Dionysus leaned forward. "You get the system. Instinct, adaptability, gear drops, combat recall. You'll earn your strength. Not just be handed it."
Sam didn't speak. He didn't need to. His silence spoke volumes—and Dionysus watched with something that almost resembled respect.
"Alright then," the god said, rising. "Mystic Falls awaits. Enjoy the drama. The death. The…brooding."
And then the floor dropped away.
Sam jolted upright, breath sharp. Wood beams above. Linen sheets. Faint scent of old whiskey and pine. He was in a bed—someone's guest room.
His hand flew to his chest. No burns. No scars. Just the soft thump of a heart that wasn't sure what it was anymore.
His name—Sam Gilbert. His mind swam. Two sets of memories. Firefighter. Mystic Falls resident. The merge was seamless. Unnatural.
The system pinged inside him. A whisper at the edge of thought.
Welcome, Sam. Red Hood Protocols Initialized.
He stood, joints tight, muscles coiled. His reflection in the mirror showed a younger version of himself—same eyes, harder jawline. There was a bite to his posture now. Like a man expecting a fight.
Downstairs, voices murmured. Someone—Elena? Bonnie?—laughed.
He didn't go to them.
Instead, he walked to the window, peeled back the curtain, and stared down at Mystic Falls.
It looked peaceful.
But he knew better.
The storm hadn't started yet.
But it would.
And this time, Sam wasn't running into fire for anyone else.
This time, the flames would answer to him.