The heroes had managed to turn back time to a year before the battle.
But that year anniversary was closing in, and the post-traumatic stress from having died and coming back to life was increasing every day.
The sun was just starting to peek up from the mountain outside my window.
No use in trying to go back to sleep; I’d just have the same horrific dream over again.
I rolled out of bed and stretched, feeling my body aching from last night’s work. My shoulders were sore from painting, my arms raised over my head for hours. But the outcome was worth it.
My fingers searched for the glasses I knew were on my nightstand somewhere, since I couldn’t see well without them. Everything was just blurry.
Yay for great genetics and astigmatism.
I can thank my mom for the sight issues.
No matter.
Once my glasses were secure on my face, I looked around the large warehouse apartment to see it in the same condition it was when I fell asleep.
Organized chaos.
Before the big battle last year when I died, I had been a hot shot in commercial real estate, eager and hungry, always looking to be on top of the world. I had money, women, and power—the life my dad had always wanted for me. He was a politician, so he wanted me to have all the power I could. To him, those things measured success.
But then the world was falling apart, and in the end, none of that mattered.
Death doesn’t care how old you are, or how much money you have in your pocket. Death comes swiftly and doesn’t discriminate.
After I was given a second chance at life, I decided I was going to live it the way I wanted, not the way I was bred to live it.
So I became an artist.
I’d always been interested in art, but my dad told me art was for poor people.
The fifty-thousand-dollar painting I sold yesterday would disagree with him, but I didn’t do it for the money. I did it because art set my soul ablaze.
I lived the way I wanted. If it doesn’t make me happy then I don’t do it.
Right now, my body was aching for some movement to really work out the soreness.
Within minutes I was dressed and ready to go for a run in the park near my warehouse.
Seahill was covered in a lovely layer of snow, but the path had been shoveled by the time I got to the park.
Pulling my feet up one by one, I stretched my legs out then took off in a light jog. The cold air burned in my lungs, which was a nice reminder that I was lucky to still be breathing.
My muscles were warm as my feet pounded against the frozen ground, and my mind was focusing on the present instead of the past year.
Then a dragon jumped into my view.
“Holy shit,” I cursed and dove into snowy bushes to my right. I died once, and I wasn’t interested in dying again by some mythical creature that somehow was alive in the city.
Through the bushes, I watched as it ran merrily down the trail without a care in the world. It was a small dragon, but still. Adragon.
As it neared me, my sight caught movement behind it. A woman.
I couldn’t help but stare. The dragon looked back at her, checking to make sure she was within its sight before stomping off to take a dive into the snow and pop back out, sort of like a fox would do. It was cute.
Seeing that the dragon was occupied, I studied the woman as she was jogging close to the bushes where I was hiding.
