The sky was an overcast gray, soft sunlight filtered through passing clouds. The cemetery grounds were quiet except for the rustling of trees and the occasional cough or sniffle from those gathered. But it wasn't sorrow that hung in the air — it was reverence. The kind people give to a life well lived.
The tombstone was polished granite, simple yet beautiful. Etched into it were the words:
Jenna Kossel Slevann
Born: November 27, 2020 – Died: November 23, 2041
"Twenty-One Years of Pure Happiness."
Above the text was an image of Jenna, smiling — captured on a warm, golden day, when the world still made sense. The kind of photo that told a whole life in one moment. Jim had chosen it himself. He remembered the exact day it was taken. They'd been watching the rain together, their first real storm. Jenna had laughed with her eyes closed, face tilted to the sky. That laugh could power stars.
People came in black and white — not for tradition or mourning, but in honor of how Jenna had wanted to be remembered. No endless weeping, no theatrics. Just people, remembering joy.
Jim stood quietly near the front, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. His heart was heavy, yes, but not in the way most would expect. It was full — of gratitude, of grief, of love that would never fully fade.
That's when he saw Max Donman.
Max had been Jenna's friend long before Jim ever met her. Maybe he preferred being more than a friend once, though Jim never asked. He approached slowly, cutting through the small crowd like a ghost through fog.
He didn't smile. Didn't shake hands. He walked straight up to Jim and hugged him — tightly, forcefully. His lips were near Jim's ear when he spoke.
"This girl was alive when you met her," Max whispered. "I gave Jenna Kossel into your arms, and you killed her."
Jim tensed. Max didn't stop.
"You're going to live a hell of a life — both in New York and in Senedro. I'll haunt you wherever you are, dude." Then Max stepped back, eyes dark with something more than grief.
Vengeance. And he walked away, not looking back.
Jim didn't follow. He didn't need to. The words had landed like nails into his chest. But it wasn't the bitterness that struck him most — it was something else. When their eyes had locked, just for a heartbeat, Jim had seen it. A flicker. A memory.
A moment that hadn't happened. Or… should have. Maybe Jenna still had another day. Another hour.
And suddenly, it all made a terrible kind of sense.
The Setrums hadn't taken her. The cancer hadn't beaten her on its own. No, this wasn't fate. It was interference. This… was Mr. Tang.
He had heard rumors. Whispers that Mr. Tang had found a way to use cancer patients as fuel for his rain experiments. That governments had signed off in secret. That somewhere in the shadows, a trade had been made: life for atmosphere. Sacrifice for survival. And Jim had missed it.
He had been too blinded by grief to notice. Too focused on letting go, he hadn't thought to question why the end had come so fast. Why Jenna had gone so quietly. Now he understood.
He hadn't just lost a wife. He'd gained an enemy. And Max Donman… he knew something. Maybe he was a pawn. Maybe he was complicit. But one thing was certain: This wasn't over.
Jim Slevann stood quietly, watching the last shovel of dirt fall over the grave. A wind picked up. Somewhere far beyond the clouds, Senedro was watching. And Jim? He was no longer mourning. He was preparing.
"Maybe Jenna was meant to go," Jim murmured, eyes locked on the sky above the cemetery. "Okay. That's fine."
But then a bitter thought struck: What about the rest?
What about the young boy in Nairobi, just diagnosed? The teenage girl in Buenos Aires whose parents were selling their last property to pay for another round of treatment? What about the millions — those who could fight, who still had a chance?
Jim clenched his jaw. Mr. Tang wasn't just exploiting death. He was harvesting it. And the world was letting him.
No. Jim clenched his fists. "I can't sit here while Mr. Tang turns death into business. I won't."
He'd been quiet for too long. Earth wasn't the place he could fight from anymore. Not with Mr. Tang's reach, not with governments bowing to convenience over compassion. No, to stop this evil — this global manipulation — Jim Slevann needed to become more than just a man.
He needed to return to Senedro. Not just for a shift. Not for a clock-in. Permanently.
He was a Night Rider. The Setrums may have gone silent on Earth, but in Senedro, he still carried power. A role. A voice. And a responsibility. That was where he could actually do something.
First, though, he had to close a chapter — properly.
He found Matt, his elder brother, alone on the back steps of the funeral reception hall. The evening air was cold, and Matt had a bottle of soda in one hand, gaze fixed on the street. Jim joined him, sitting down quietly.
Matt glanced over. "You okay?"
"I will be," Jim said. "And… I wanted to talk to you."
Matt turned toward him, confused. "About what?"
"I'm going away," Jim said. "Far. For a long time."
Matt's face twisted. "Now? After Jenna? You're just gonna disappear?"
Jim held up a hand. "Not disappear. Just... shift focus. There are things going on that you don't see. Things beyond this world."
Matt stared at him for a long beat. "You mean Senedro." Jenna had told him about it last time Jim was in a comma.
Jim nodded. Matt looked down at the bottle, then back at Jim. "So this is goodbye."
"Not forever," Jim replied. "I'll come back. But right now, I need to be where I can make a difference."
He placed a hand on Matt's shoulder.
"I need you to cover for me. Tell Mom I'm touring — healing, figuring life out. It'll make sense. She won't press. Just… protect her from the truth until I can come back and explain it myself."
Matt swallowed hard, nodding. "I'll do it. But come back alive, okay?"
Jim smiled. "You don't know how stubborn I am."
They hugged — the kind of hug that says this might be the last for a long time. Now all that was left was his body.
Jim had already chosen the place: The Haven. The underground facility Jenna once helped fund — a dormant sanctuary for patients, hidden in the Appalachians, still powered and safe.
There, he would lay down his human shell, tucked into one of the cryo pods under low-energy suspension. Locked. Protected. Waiting for the moment it would be needed again.
Jim left a note beside the pod, just in case he didn't make it back. And then — in one deep breath — he let go. He let go of Earth, of grief, of guilt. And when the shift came, his soul burst into Senedro like a comet through the sky. No more clock-ins. No more divided life.
This time, Jim Slevann came to stay.