"Andreas! Snap out of it, boy! What's the thermodynamic efficiency of a Carnot engine operating between 27∘C and 127∘C?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and mocking. Andreas's gaze was fixed on the chipped paint of the desk in front of him, but his mind was replaying Rod's sneering grin. "Don't you dare lose that race, Andreas. You hear me? Don't even think about it." Rod's threat, whispered like a venomous promise in the deserted hallway this morning, was a cold knot in Andreas's stomach. Lose, and the "punishment" would be far worse than any broken bones. Rod's reputation for creative cruelty preceded him.
What race? He wondered. But that was not what mattered at the moment, what mattered was the question before him.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly sandpaper dry. The numbers danced meaninglessly before his eyes. He knew the formula, he'd studied it until dawn, but the words wouldn't form. He couldn't speak.
A ripple of snickers spread through the tiered seating. The girl in the front row turned to look, her expression a mix of pity and discomfort. He hated that look. He hated himself. That was how everyone looked at him. It wasn't pity. It was a mockery.
"Well, Andreas?" Professor Thorne's voice hardened, edged with contempt. "Cat got your tongue? Or is it that the simple concepts of physics are beyond your meager intellect?" He paused, letting the silence fester. "Honestly, I don't know what your parents were thinking about sending you here. Oh! A bird just told me you are an orphan. A complete waste of time, money, and perfectly good oxygen. You're a failure, Andreas. You were born a failure, and you'll die a failure. You'll never make anything of yourself. Now, sit down!"
The laughter swelled in a suffocating wave that threatened to drown him. He felt every pair of eyes on him, burning holes into his already raw skin. His cheeks flushed crimson, and he sank back into his seat, the plastic cold against his back.
Talk about numbers, there are numbers he should worry about. The numbers on his academic portal flashed in his mind: 2.1 GPA. Below the required 2.5. He would be dropped from the program. Another failure. Another number, his accrued debts.
His backpack, slumped by his feet, contained all he owned. Just yesterday, a stark white eviction notice had been taped to his dorm door, demanding immediate payment. He'd packed his worn clothes, two textbooks, and a tattered copy of 'The Iliad' – the only things he deemed valuable enough to save. The rest he'd left, to be confiscated alongside the room.
The bell shrieked. Andreas didn't wait. He was out of his seat before the echoes faded, weaving through the throng of students, his head down. He cut across the manicured university gardens, ignoring the vibrant bloom of roses and the chirping birds.
He knew the shortcut, a winding dirt path that led to a forgotten gate at the back of the campus. If he could just get out, disappear into the anonymity of the city, maybe he could think. Maybe he could breathe.
He was almost there. The rusted iron gate was in sight. Then, a shadow. No, several shadows. Rod. And his goons: Butch, the hulking one, and Slim, whose sneer was a permanent fixture.
"Running away, are we, Andreas?" Rod purred, blocking the path. "Thought we had a little chat this morning. About the race."
Andreas tried to sidestep them, but Butch moved with surprising speed, his massive hand clamping down on Andreas's shoulder. Slim produced a handkerchief, reeking of something sickly sweet, and pressed it firmly over Andreas's nose and mouth.
The world spun. His vision blurred. He struggled, a desperate, futile thrash against the encroaching darkness. A cold, heavy wave washed over him, and then, nothing.
***
The first thing he registered was the oppressive quiet, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of an engine. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, glued shut.
When he finally managed to pry them open, a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. Dusk. The sky was a bruised purple, fading into inky black, dotted with the first hesitant stars.
A sudden, deafening roar ripped through the air, followed by another, and another. Cars. Headlights, blindingly bright, pierced the gloom from a distance, growing larger, faster.
He struggled to his feet, swaying like a drunken sailor, his headlight and fuzzy. The lights bore down on him, two immense, glaring eyes, trapping him in their merciless beams.
A figure emerged from the glare, silhouetted against the oncoming headlights. Rod. He walked slowly, deliberately, his smile a cruel slash in the fading light.
"Well, well, well," Rod began. "Look who finally decided to join the party." He stopped mere feet away, his eyes glinting. "Race and be free, Andreas. Or leave them and die. Whichever way, you're going to suffer." He threw his head back and laughed.
Before Andreas could react, two burly men, unfamiliar faces, grabbed him, one on each arm. They smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne. His legs were still weak, and he offered little resistance as they half-carried, half-dragged him towards a sleek, dark vehicle. The rear door was wrenched open, and he was shoved inside, landing unceremoniously on the plush leather seat. Then it was closed with a heavy thud.
One of the men who had shoved him, a lean figure with a scar running down his cheek, leaned in. "Listen up, kid," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "You're going to win this race. You could win two million dollars if you win. This car? It speeds faster than Rod's little toy. It's got something under the hood that will leave him in the dust."
Two million dollars. The words, so alien and Greek in his desperate world, resonated with a hollow clang. Andreas wasn't an optimist. He knew, deep down, that this was another one of Rod's elaborate, sadistic games. But a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of hope ignited within him. Maybe. Just maybe.
His hands gripped the steering wheel. The leather felt cool beneath his clammy palms. He inhaled deeply. The smell of the new car mingled with fear. He turned the key. The engine roared to life. He looked ahead, the road a dark ribbon stretching into the unknown.
"Two million dollars for the Ayatollah of road n' raced. Let's go!" The starting gun cracked.
Andreas floored the accelerator. The car surged forward with an almost terrifying speed, throwing him back against the seat. The road was a blur, the other cars behind him quickly diminishing to mere specks.
He felt a surge of exhilaration, brief and intoxicating. He was winning. He was winning! Two million dollars? Could it be real? This car has a nitro? He wondered.
Then he needed to brake. A turn loomed ahead. He stomped on the pedal. Nothing. He pressed harder, panic clawing at his throat. The pedal went all the way to the floor, limp and unresponsive. The brakes were gone.
His eyes darted to the door handle. He clawed at it, pulling, twisting, but it was locked. Solid. Unyielding. It was all a trick. All of it. The hope, the two million dollars, the promise of escape—all was a cruel, elaborate joke designed to amplify the agony of his inevitable end.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Finally!" He shouted. "Finally I will die!"
He shook his head, struggling to navigate the speeding death trap. Crash to the trees or the culvert, or go straight ahead? Why? Why had he never known love? Why had he never been truly happy, truly good? He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of hoping, tired of the relentless, crushing weight of his existence.
"Good," he whispered, a grim smile touching his lips. "Let me just die."
The car veered sharply with a sickening screech of tires on asphalt. The world tilted, spun, and then—
Impact. A symphony of tearing metal, shattering glass, and a sickening crunch of bone.
The metallic body of the car contorted around him, pinning him, crushing him. A sharp, searing pain erupted through his chest, spreading like wildfire through every nerve ending. He felt something break, then something else. He felt his lungs failing, his pulse slow. He became a crushed insect, helpless and broken.
He knew. He knew this was it. The end. His breath hitched and he coughed blood. And through the agony, a strange, overwhelming sense of peace bloomed in his chest. He smiled. He finally smiled.
ARES
APOLLO
ARTEMIS
ATHENA
DEMETER
DIONYSUS
APHRODITE --EROSA --NTEROS
HEPHAESTUS
HERA
HERMES
POSEIDON
ZEUS
WELCOME TO THE MEDIEVAL SYSTEM. YOU WILL BE REINCARNATED AS EROS.
The line EROS blinked over and over. His brain was dying. He couldn't process. But he could still see.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE AGAIN? BLINK TO ACTIVATE THE SYSTEM AND LIVE AGAIN…
Andreas looked on. The last vestiges of thought dissolved like sugar in hot tea. He read the words again, as though a luminous screen had materialized before his fading consciousness. He would gladly accept death. He had nothing left to live for.
He coughed and a warm spray of blood splattered across his eyes, stinging. The sudden, unwelcome sensation caused his eyelids to clench reflexively, forcing a blink.
SYSTEM ACTIVATED. INITIALIZING REINCARNATION PROTOCOL…
It was the last thing he saw.