I didn't survive death—it followed me here.
Consciousness slid back into me like a dull knife, slow and unwanted. Cold air pressed against my skin. My lungs refused to work for a second too long, and my heart kicked like it didn't want me alive.
I opened my eyes to nothing—blackness, thick and suffocating.
No memories. No warmth. No name that belonged to me anymore.
"...fuck."
A pathetic word for a shattered reality—but it's all I've ever had. Pain? Rage? Fear? "Fuck" works for everything when you no longer know who you are.
Twelve years.
That's how long I've been trapped here. Reborn—not blessed. Reincarnated—not chosen. No golden finger. No divine system. No cosmic fairness. Just raw suffering, failure, and the quiet cruelty of survival.
People glorify reincarnation. They call it a second chance.
No one ever asks: who had to die for you to be born again?
Because that's the truth, isn't it?
Something died so I could crawl into its skin. Was it reincarnation… or murder?
This notion keeps me awake at night.
But right now, my body is too painful to think.
My skin was hot, my old scars throbbed, and the cold stone underneath me stung like ice.
Water dripped—drip, drip, drop—above me, echoing through the darkness.
A cavern. Moss glistened on the rocks where water ran down. My gut rumbled, hollow and loud.
"Guess beggars can't be choosers." I peeled moss from the stone and put it in my mouth. Tasteless. Slimy.
But it did not kill me.
I took a handful of cool water and swallowed greedily, nearly moaning with relief.
For a minute, I leaned against the granite wall to breathe.
The memories began to resurface.
Mother was a prostitute. Father was simply another nameless customer. I was on my own by the age of five, after she died. Begging for crumbs and stealing when I had to. Not the most glamorous isekai life, huh?
"At least in this world, she lived a little longer," I told myself.
My eyes became heavy. Too heavy. My body felt like it was sinking into the stone.
"As if you wanted to sleep for eternity."
The voice shocked me awake. Cold. Familiar. Almost mine.
I froze. In front of me was a boy—my reflection. Narrow face, high cheekbones, tangled red hair with sun-bleached tips, and hazel-green eyes rimmed with gold. Scars covered his flesh. He was wearing a brown tunic and my wooden slippers. I thought I'd lost them.
"You motherfucker," I hissed. "How do you have my slippers? More importantly, why the hell do you look exactly like me?"
He chuckled. Low, mocking. "Look around, fool."
The cave no longer existed. My breath caught. I was in a hospital.
A woman lay in bed, pallid and silent. A man bowed over her limp hand, his shoulders trembling with sadness. An infant wailed in the corner.
My clone whispered to me, "Your first sin. The sin of killing your mother in order to be born."
My chest tightened, rage tearing at my throat. "You bastard!" I swung at him, but my fist went through him like vapor.
The scene shifted.
A seven-year-old child ran across the street, chasing an ice cream vendor. An elderly man, his grandfather, hurried after him.
Screech. Impact. A car crashed into the elderly man. Voices were raised, and panic spread.
"Your desire led to your grandfather's death," the clone added coldly.
Excuses flowed through my thoughts. I was just a kid. I did not know. But excuses do not bring back the dead. I remained calm. I'm staying calm now.
The scene twisted again.
An intoxicated man, smelling of misery, snarled at a twelve-year-old boy. His belt dangled in his palm. The boy's arms and waist were covered in scars, some new and others old.
"Go on," he spat. "Bring my alcohol. Why are you still alive, boy?"
But the boy—me—did not move. Did not flinch. Instead, he shoved the drunk. Only one desperate push. The man lost his balance on the stairs—
—and fell. He cracked his neck at the bottom. Dead.
The clone's eyes looked into mine. "Third sin. Your desperation killed your father."
My hands twisted into fists. My voice vibrated the air. "What the fuck do you want from me?!"
But my words reverberated in silence.