The Seventh Line

THE SEVENTH LINE

Book I: Echoes of a Winter

PROLOGUE: ASHES

(Timeline Log 6)

They say hell is a place of fire and brimstone, a punishment designed by an angry god for sinners. They are wrong. Hell is not a place you go when you die. Hell is repetition. Hell is knowing exactly how the song is going to end, note for note, and being unable to stop the orchestra.

I had heard this song five times before. And now, as the ceiling of the Lampontaín Mansion groaned above my head like the ribcage of a dying beast, I knew this timeline was coming to an end.

My eyes burned, not only from the thick smoke creeping across the marble floor, but from the weight of the memories beginning to overlap-like burnt slides of a life that didn’t belong to me, but that had killed me repeatedly.

Chronology 1. A torrential downpour lashed my face. I was soaked, holding the hand of a girl with white hair and sad eyes, promising her in the midst of the storm that I would find a way to save her. The sound of thunder drowned out her sobs. It was the first time I felt the chill of defeat, a chill that not even today’s fire could burn away.

Chronology 2. The Spinning Void. Absolute Vertigo. I stand on the edge of a skyscraper. I see that same girl falling toward the city lights, her dress billowing like a withered white flower. I scream, reaching out, just millimeters from touching her fingers before losing her to the night. The sound of her body hitting the pavement still echoes in my nightmares like an eternal gong.

Chronology 3. Stifling humidity. Dense jungle. The metallic scent of fresh blood staining the green leaves. I’m on the ground, slowly bleeding out from an abdominal wound, listening to their footsteps fade as my vision blurs. Dying in the green silence was a slow agony, a reminder that no matter how fast you run.

Chronology 4. Suffocating darkness. Dust filling my lungs. The crushing weight of tons of rock and concrete shattering my legs in a cave. The echo of panic bouncing off the stone. It took hours for me to die that time, praying to gods I don’t believe in for the earth to finally swallow me whole.

Chronology 5. Operating room light, white and clinical. I’m strapped to a metal hospital bed, the leather straps burning my wrists. I scream until my vocal cords rupture, begging them to turn off the machines. And then, the arrogant face of Cain Sígala, smiling with utter disdain as he raises a dark weapon and shoots me right in the forehead. That was the quickest end, and perhaps the most merciful.

It had all started with the promise of victory. It always started like that, didn’t it? With the stupid, arrogant hope that this time we’d outsmarted them.

I remember the texture of the paper I’d held in my hand just twenty minutes before. The original contract. We found it in a safe in Mr. Sígala’s office, hidden behind an oil portrait of a great-great-grandfather with the same empty stare as Cain. Milla had deactivated the alarm with surgical precision, her fingers fluttering across the keypad as I watched the door, my heart pounding in my ears. Francis had knocked out the guard at the south entrance, a man who was simply in the wrong place, in the wrong line. Jesús was waiting for us in the truck, engine running, ready to drive us out of that viper’s nest in the streets of Monterrey.

We had the contract. We had the lighter. We just had to burn it. But the Lampontaín mansion wasn’t just brick and concrete. It was a living organism, an extension of the Shadow, and it wasn’t going to let us cut off its food supply so easily.

The first explosion didn’t sound like an explosion, but like a deep exhalation: a sigh of hot air that swept through the marble halls. Then came the screams. Not the panicked screams of ordinary people, but the indignant shrieks of Monterrey’s elite as they realized their money wasn’t indestructible. Fire doesn’t distinguish between a Parisian silk dress and a mechanic’s work clothes; they both burn with the same ferocity.

We ran. God knows we ran.

Lucía was in front of me, clutching the hem of that damned red dress that seemed to foreshadow the blood about to spill. I could see her back tense, her shoulder blades sharp beneath the thin fabric, moving with the desperation of a trapped animal. Her blue eyes-those glacial eyes I’d fallen in love with in the school cafeteria-were fixed on the only visible exit.

“This way!” she shouted, turning toward the Great Hall. -The service exit is blocked!-

At that moment, the world lurched.

Without warning. One of the main columns, weakened perhaps by decades of moral decay or simply by the physics of fire, gave way. The sound was deafening, a high-pitched thunder inside the house. I watched as the main roof beam was pulled away in slow motion. It was a monstrous piece of ancient, heavy wood, adorned with carvings of cherubs that now looked like grinning demons.

“Lucia!“I screamed, my voice cutting through the smoke.

I lunged. I didn’t think. My body reacted with the muscle memory of five previous deaths. I pushed her with all my might, clearing her from the collapse.

And then, the impact.

At first, I felt no pain. Only an absurd, immense pressure, as if the entire sky had decided to fall on me. The air left my lungs with a wet sound. My legs... simply ceased to exist in my mind. There was no pain, only a cold, terrifying disconnection from the waist down. I was pinned to the marble floor, face down, the taste of ash and blood filling my mouth.

The pain came a second later. A white, pure, liquid scream shot up my spine and exploded behind my eyes. I screamed, or tried to, but only a hoarse gurgle escaped my throat. Smoke descended rapidly, a black, oily curtain devouring the oxygen.

“Sheshiret!” Lucia’s scream cut through the cacophony of the fire.

I turned my head. The movement caused the beam in my back to settle, crushing what remained of my vertebrae. I bit the floor to keep from fainting. I had to see her. I needed to know if it had been worth it.

Lucía was three meters away, on the rubble. The push had saved her from being crushed, but not from the fire. A shower of embers had set the hem of her dress ablaze. She’d put it out by beating it with her hands, but I could see the burns on her arms: her white skin now stained with soot and red blisters.

She crawled toward me. Her blue eyes were now filled with absolute terror. Not for herself. For me.

“No... no, no, no...” she sobbed, trying to move the beam. Her hands-hands designed for playing the violin and painting watercolors-pressed against the solid wood. It was useless. The beam weighed half a ton.

“Go...” I said raspingly. My voice sounded like I was chewing glass. “Lucía... go.”

“Shut up!” she screamed, with a fury I’d never seen in her. “I won’t leave you! Not again! You said we’d break it! You promised!”

The accusation hurt more than the fire. Yes. I had promised it in every line, in every one of my failures. I failed. I failed them all.

The heat was rising. I could hear the sirens in the distance: useless. No one was going in there. The Sígalas would make sure the firefighters arrived too late.

“Sheshiret...” Lucía stopped pushing. She collapsed beside me, coughing violently. She looked at me, and for a second, I saw resignation in her eyes. She leaned down and stroked my cheek with her trembling fingers.

“He’s coming,” she whispered.

I didn’t have to ask who. I felt it. The temperature in the hallway didn’t drop, but the light changed. The flames seemed to lose intensity, as if something were draining their energy. The shadows in the corners began to stretch, detaching themselves from the walls.

A silhouette formed at the top of the main staircase. The Shadow.

In this life, it had taken a vaguely human form, made of dense smoke and static. It was a malevolent gravity dragging us toward the abyss. It descended the stairs with insulting calm. The contract had expired. The debt was being collected.

I looked at Lucia. She was staring at the entity, paralyzed. The Shadow was coming for her. I was just collateral damage.

No, I thought. I’m not going to die like this.

With an effort that almost knocked me unconscious, I moved my right hand and pulled the Black Book from my denim jacket. The leather was hot, resonating with the entity’s proximity. I flung it open. I had nothing to write with, but my hand was torn and bleeding. Perfect.

I brought my bloodied finger to the page. I didn’t write words; I poured out my mind. I wanted my “self” on the next line to feel that hatred. I pressed my finger against the paper. The blood was absorbed by the page as if the book were thirsty. I felt a deep pull within me. I was saving the game.

SYSTEM LOG: END OF CYCLE 6. STATE: CRITICAL. CAUSE OF FAILURE: Uncalculated Fire Variable. SAVED MEMORIES.

“Sheshiret... I’m cold...” Lucia whispered.

The Shadow was two steps away. The entity extended a smoking hand toward her forehead.

“Don’t touch her!” I screamed, coughing up blood.

The Shadow paused for a millisecond, seemed to laugh, and then touched Lucia. I saw the blue light in her eyes being absorbed. Lucia simply went dark. Her hand fell limply onto the ash.

He was gone. Again. The ceiling above us let out a final groan. I clutched the book to my chest. I had seconds. I focused on a single message for the idiot who would wake up tomorrow. The fire roared, a wave of heat that swept across the world. I felt the darkness envelop me, but my soul clung to the pages.

“See you later, you son of a bitch...” I whispered into the void.

The ceiling collapsed. The world turned white. Then red. And finally, black.

End of prologue.

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