I didn't hear the impact.
I remember the headlights—white-blue, too clean to kill someone.
The kid's scream, sharp and small.
And the backpack.
Bright yellow, shaped like a lion.
It bounced once when I shoved him.
Then the car took me.
They said I was a hero.
Said I gave my life to save a child.
Put flowers where I died.
Lit candles. Wrote words like "brave," "selfless," "gone too soon."
They didn't know me.
I wasn't brave.
I was just tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep can fix.
The kind that lives behind your ribs and never leaves.
I was Renji Kazama.
Twenty-four. Quiet. Average. Existing.
My father died, and I kept going.
Because I didn't know what else to do.
Every day was a copy of the last.
Wake up. Pretend. Work. Say the right things.
Smile like I wasn't rotting underneath.
So when I saw that kid in the street…
I didn't hesitate.
I didn't think.
I moved.
Not because I wanted to save him.
Not because I wanted to die.
Just because someone had to.
And no one else did.
No light. No tunnel.
No warmth.
Just silence. And then—a break.
Not in bone. Not in thought.
Something deeper. Like a door forced open from the wrong side.
I fell.
Weightless. Unmade. Alone.
And then a voice—not divine. Not cruel.
Just honest.
"You didn't die to escape."
"So don't live like you did."
I gasped.
The world returned in sound and pressure and light.
My throat burned. My skin screamed.
I was crying. Alive.
New lungs. New body.
Newborn.
But I remembered everything.
That's how my second life began.
In a world where power flows through your soul—and blooms in your eyes.
They called it Spectra.
Most awaken Gray. Some Green. A rare few shine Violet… or beyond.
But only when they turn sixteen.
I was born with no color.
No light.
No spark.
Just a weight in my chest.
And a truth I could feel, even before I had words for it:
I wasn't supposed to be here.
Not in this world.
Not like this.