Chapter 1: The Dead Man in the Rain

The rain came down in sheets, each drop hammering the ground with a vengeance. The sky had turned a sickly charcoal gray, and the clouds were swollen and angry. It was like a boiling storm that had been bottled up too long and finally decided to break loose all at once. Thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to rattle the bones, while gusts of wind shoved and twisted everything in their path. Trees bent like dancers in pain. Powerlines swayed dangerously close to snapping. It was the kind of weather you see in horror movies just before someone dies.

“This is just… unreal.”

Life had a habit of being unpredictable, sure… But this? This was absurd. In front of me was a man, very much dead, lying face-first in a growing puddle that had swallowed the sidewalk. His black suit was scorched in odd patterns, like someone had taken a branding iron to him and forgotten to stop. Smoke still curled faintly from his shoulders. The umbrella clutched in his hand was only half-open, its ribs twisted like a spider’s broken legs.

He looked painfully familiar. I knew those shoes. That ridiculous maroon tie with cartoon sushi rolls on it. Even the chipped nail on the left thumb. This wasn’t just some poor bastard caught in a freak accident.

That poor bastard… was me.

Renzo Takashi Cruz Williams. Quarter Japanese, quarter American, quarter Spanish, and quarter Filipino. A blend of cultures so thorough, I couldn’t walk through immigration without someone doing a double take. I used to work for The Midnight Pulse, a shady tabloid firm that paid enough to keep me in instant ramen and existential dread. It wasn’t exactly Pulitzer material, but it gave me stories… and some of them were almost true.

Now I was just another headline: “Local Man Barbecued by Lightning and Stray Wire in Freak Storm.” Probably followed by something insensitive like, “He Died Shocking Everyone!”

The body was twitching slightly, the last cruel echo of nervous energy leaving the system. And there I stood, staring down at myself with what could only be described as professional detachment. I rubbed my chin, trying to process the metaphysical nightmare I was currently starring in.

“How in the world am I seeing this?”

Maybe this was a dream?

Was this some philosophical riddle? A cosmological prank? Did I unlock the cheat code to astral projection with a discount umbrella and a thunderstorm? I mean, sure, I wasn’t the poster boy for safety precautions, but this was ridiculous.

Let’s rewind for a bit.

It started like any other miserable morning. I was walking to work, dragging my feet and mentally flipping a coin between quitting or getting fired on purpose. Maybe spill coffee on the boss again. Maybe send out another “accidental” email with the firm’s dirt to a rival company. Options were plenty, and motivation was nil.

Then the storm hit. It was sudden, brutal, and cold. I wasn’t surprised. I had seen the weather report. “High chance of rain,” they said. So I brought my trusty umbrella. Too bad it didn’t say anything about divine smiting.

First came the lightning. It was a single flash so bright it turned the world white for a heartbeat. Then came the second act: a powerline above me snapped free like a cobra uncoiling, arcing toward me with lethal grace. While I was still mid-shock from the literal lightning shock, the live wire found me.

It all happened too fast. There was neither time to scream nor run. Just a sound like God splitting the Earth, followed by the warm, wet smell of ozone and singed clothing. And then… nothing.

“Poor guy...” I muttered, not without irony, as I looked down at my own face, now wearing the expression of someone whose last thought was probably 'what the hell just happened?' 

“Now, what am I supposed to do?”

Back in the present, I scanned the street. It was deserted. Not a soul in sight. Just the sound of water drumming against the pavement and wind tearing through the city like it had unfinished business. I tried reaching out, thinking maybe I could shake myself awake. But my hand phased right through my corpse like I was some badly-rendered video game character.

“I see…”

There was no denying the truth anymore. I was, by all definitions that mattered, have become a ghost.

“Oh man, this isn’t funny at all.”

A low rumble built in the sky like a growl of an angry beast. Then, as if the universe wanted to rub it in, lightning tore through the sky once more, this time, far off in the distance, a jagged scar of white fire that lit the streets in stark monochrome. I turned slowly, watching it fork across the heavens.

And in the deadpan, bitter way only a dead man could manage, I exhaled and muttered under my breath:

“Well, that’s one way to quit your job.”

Thunder exploded right on cue.

It was funny while it lasted. The whole situation had reached a level of absurdity I couldn’t help but admire. There I was, pacing around my own corpse like a confused tourist in the afterlife, waiting for some robe-wearing, scythe-wielding cliché to show up and explain the next steps. Instead, the universe gave me a front-row seat to my own posthumous humiliation.

The rain eventually gave up, peeling back into a cold drizzle before disappearing entirely. Puddles remained, the streets steaming slightly as if exhaling relief. My lifeless body lay there, soaked and motionless, limbs splayed in a way that lacked any dignity.

And then came the cherry on top. A homeless man, ragged, limping, and with more beard than face, shuffled down the sidewalk. He stopped, sniffed the air like a dog catching scent, and then squinted at my corpse. A quick glance left, a quicker glance right. Then, without hesitation, he knelt down and patted my pockets like he was checking for loose change in an old couch.

“Seriously?” I muttered, crossing my arms as I watched him retrieve my wallet and examine the contents with the scrutiny of a seasoned banker. “You could at least pretend to be upset.”

Not that I had much use for the wallet anymore. Still, being looted before the cops even showed up? That hurt a little.

Minutes later, the flashing red-and-blue lights of patrol cars cut through the fading mist. Officers stepped out, grim expressions forming as they approached the body. One of them said something into a radio, while the other poked around the scene, trying not to step on anything important. Not that there was much to ruin, just a dead guy, a soaked umbrella, and some ash where lightning and voltage had a brief date night.

Eventually, the ambulance arrived, too late for anything heroic. EMTs zipped me up into a black body bag with the efficiency of people who’d done it too many times before.

But of course, that wasn't the end.

A few hours later, the vultures came.

Reporters.

Three of them, to be exact, one with a cheap microphone, the other holding a barely-stable camera, and the last awkwardly adjusting her umbrella while trying to look sad on cue. The broadcast started like all urban tragedies did: a concerned voice overlaying footage of flashing lights and yellow tape.

“Earlier this morning, a man was killed in what officials are calling a freak accident involving a lightning strike and a live powerline…”

“Authorities have identified the victim as Renzo Takashi Cruz Williams, a local journalist. He was twenty-eight years old.”

“The weather had been severe since dawn, and experts are urging people to stay indoors during storms. This incident serves as a tragic reminder—”

I watched all of this from the side of the scene. It wasn’t lost on me that I’d dreamed of being on TV once, though not like this. I used to imagine a pulitzer-worthy exposé, a microphone with my name on it, and me shaking hands with people who used to ignore me.

Instead, my big break came with a body bag and a missing wallet. Figures.

The hours crawled on. I lingered near the street corner, more out of obligation than anything else. I wasn’t sure where to go or what came next. Was there a queue? A waiting room? A paperwork line at the pearly gates?

I sighed and sat on the curb.

“Alright,” I mumbled, “where’s the grim reaper? Is there a hotline I should be calling? Or do I just rot here until the next lightning strike resets me?”

And that’s when it happened.

A faint pulse stirred in the air, like heat rippling off asphalt. Right beneath where I was sitting, a circle of intricate lines and glowing symbols began to etch itself onto the ground, flaring to life in a color that didn’t quite exist in the visible spectrum. It wasn’t chalk, or light, or fire. It was… something else.

The runes pulsed, humming with power. I stood up. My nonexistent heartbeat quickened, if that was even possible.

“I don’t suppose this is standard ghost procedure,” I said aloud, thinking just how ridiculous all of this was. “Maybe I’m hallucinating. Ghosts can hallucinate, right?”

Before I could finish forming a theory, the circle surged, and in a single blink, a column of light shot upward, engulfing me completely.