Flying Sparks, Reapers, and Death

Jaran Reddington Part 1

The red needle slipping past the white 100 was the last thing Jaran saw before the world went black. One second, he could feel the cool breeze through the open roof of his convertible riffling through his hair. The next, his ears were ringing. His head spinning. His body aching beyond measure. The edge of the world was becoming hazy, and he could feel a warm substance trickling down his temple. Eventually, all feeling left him, and Jaran slipped into a permanent slumber.

Sometime later, Jaran blinked his eyes open, heavily disoriented. Judging by how the dark was now streaked with wisps of light, it has been a few hours since he had lost touch with his senses. Dazed, and in a sort of trance, Jaran climbed out of the once-glorious BMW M4, rubbing his arm against the cut glass. Oddly though, his arm remained unbruised. The edges of his vision were now black, giving him a tunnel vision of sorts.

At the furthest point he could see, there stood a man dressed all in black, right down to the shoes. There wasn’t even a streak of any other colour. Seeing no other viable option, Jaran began to limp towards the figure, hoping he would offer some sort of explanation for this weird state of being he seemed to be trapped in.