I gasped awake.
The smell hit me first—sterile, sharp, and cold. Antiseptic and iron. Then came the noise: the steady beeping of a heart monitor, the low hum of fluorescent lights, distant murmurs muffled by thick walls.
My head throbbed with dull pain, like a foghorn blaring underwater. I was lying in a hospital bed, wires snaking out from my arms, my body heavy, like I'd been asleep for years.
I tried to sit up.
Every movement felt wrong.
Not painful—just foreign.
I looked down at my hands, my arms. They weren't mine.
Slimmer. Paler. A faint scar traced the back of the left hand, unfamiliar yet instinctively recognized. The room spun for a second, and my mind scrambled for orientation.
Where was I?
What world was this?
Who was I supposed to be?
