A teenage boy ran across the busy NYC street, backpack bouncing, mind elsewhere. A screech of tires cut through the air—too late. A car clipped him. Pain exploded from his body as he hit the asphalt, the world tilting violently.
People shouted. Horns blared. The taste of blood stung his lips. My body throbbed fiercely; all there was was pain, then nothing. Panic gripped me, but life started to flash before my eyes—what confused me was that it wasn't my life. Everything faded.
The boy's eyes fluttered open. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils. I blinked, trying to orient myself, and my arm throbbed violently inside a cast. Pain radiated up my shoulder, reminding me of the accident.
Voices murmured nearby—doctors, nurses, distant chatter—but everything felt muted, unreal, like I was watching from the edge of a dream.
And then, the flashes returned. Fragments of another life—vivid yet impossible—sprang into focus. Moments I couldn't possibly have lived: a family, MCU movie at the theatre, small regrets, unfulfilled potential. They weren't my own, and yet… they felt like home.
I tried to move, wincing as the pain shot through my arm. The cast felt heavy, almost foreign, like it didn't belong to me. Every movement reminded me of the car, the screech of tires, the sudden impact—and yet, in the back of my mind, the flashes of another life lingered, stubborn and insistent.
"Hey… you awake?" a soft voice called. I turned my head slowly. A nurse hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, eyebrows raised in cautious concern.
"I… yeah," I croaked, my throat dry. "Just… a little dizzy."
"Understandable," she said, giving me a reassuring smile. "You took quite a fall, but you're lucky. Broken arm, some bruising, but nothing life-threatening. You'll be fine."
I nodded, though I barely registered her words. My thoughts were tangled, caught between the dull ache in my arm and the fragments of another life swirling in my head.
The quiet was broken by a soft knock at the door.
"Hey… you awake?" the nurse called, peeking in.
I blinked, barely registering her.
"Time to go, sweetie. Doctors say you're all set—broken arm will heal on its own," she repeated, a little more firmly this time. "Nothing more we can do here."
I hesitated, caught between the pain in my arm and the fragments of another life swirling in my head.
"Come on now," she said again, this time from the doorway, clipboard in hand. "We need you up. Can't have you loitering here all day."
Finally, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cast heavy in my lap. Then I froze. A wheelchair sat waiting beside the bed, and I blinked at it, genuinely surprised. Slowly, I lowered myself into it, testing my balance.
"Alright, let's get you out of here," the nurse said, gently pushing me toward the elevator. "Take it easy with that arm. No sudden movements."
I nodded, each motion a sharp reminder of the accident, and yet the fragments of another life lingered beneath the surface—insistent, impossible, and strangely familiar.
The automatic doors slid open, and sunlight spilled over the sidewalk. The city smelled of exhaust and hot asphalt, alive with the hum of traffic and distant chatter. I paused for a moment, letting it all wash over me. The flood of impossible memories—the family I never had, the movie nights, the quiet regrets—finally settled, intertwining with the reality around me.
I took a deep breath and carefully swung my legs out of the wheelchair. The pavement beneath my feet felt solid and real, grounding me in the moment. Pain flared sharply in my broken arm, but it was manageable. I stood there for a few seconds, adjusting my balance, letting the city's energy fill me.
And then, thoughtfully, I took my first steps. Each one was deliberate, measured, as if testing both the world and myself. It was a small, fragile act—but in it lay the first real claim on everything new. I looked forward, the city sprawling before me, and began walking toward where I was supposed to go.
I pushed open the heavy doors of the orphanage and stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old carpet, mixed with the faint sweetness of the kitchen somewhere in the back. Voices echoed off the walls—laughter, scolding, the occasional shout. Everything felt… normal, I supposed, but at the same time, nothing felt familiar.
I hugged my arm close to my chest, testing my balance as I walked down the hall. My cast was cumbersome, but manageable. Still, every step reminded me of the accident, of that screeching car, and of the flashes—the impossible memories that had settled into my mind like stubborn ghosts.
When the other children saw me, they moved aside. I flinched slightly and kept moving, my stomach tightening.
I scanned the room, taking in the other kids. Some were busy with games, others with homework. Their faces were curious, some cautious. I felt… separate from them. Not just because of the arm or the accident, but because of something deeper.
I swallowed and moved forward. I had to blend in. But even as I walked past the groups of kids, a quiet part of me stayed alert, noticing small details—the way someone shifted nervously, the faint hum of activity, the patterns of movement.
I pushed open the door to my room. The familiar creak of the hinges made me pause for a second, grounding me. The room was quiet—empty, as usual. My side of the bunk bed was neat, my belongings arranged the same way I'd left them. The other side waited for my roommate, who was probably out somewhere.
I set my bag down on the desk and rubbed my arm, testing the movement carefully. The cast still felt heavy, but at least I could move it without screaming. I sat on the edge of my bed, letting the quiet of the room settle over me.
Even though I wasn't new here, today felt different. The accident, the memories, the strange sense of… being more than myself—they made everything feel sharper, almost foreign. I glanced around, taking in the small details of the room—the faded posters on the walls, the stack of books on the desk, the worn carpet under my feet. Everything was familiar, and yet… not quite the same.
I leaned back, closing my eyes for a moment. The orphanage had always felt like home, but for the first time, I realized that home felt… different.
And then, almost absurdly, a strange thought popped into my head. I let out a scoff, muttering under my breath, "Status."
Sleep hit me fast. One moment I was staring at that weird floating panel, the next I was out cold. No dreams, no strange flashes, no phantom memories trying to hijack my brain. Just… nothing.
When I woke up, everything was different.
Not the room. Not the bed. Me.
The foggy disorientation from the hospital? Gone. The weird overlap of two lives? Settled. Reality had finally… clicked.
I was dead.And this was the after.
Not the dramatic, angelic kind. More like: "Congrats, you've been rebooted. Try not to die again."
I sat up, stretching my good arm above my head and rubbing my face with the other. My body felt like mine for the first time since the accident.
And, great, it was stupid early. The kind of early where the building creaks like it's still thinking about waking up.
I grabbed my towel and shuffled to the bathroom.
The lights flicked on with a buzz. Cold water on my face helped more than anything else. I stared at myself in the mirror—the same kid, same messy hair, same tired eyes… just with an entire universe of difference inside.
Whatever. No point spiraling before sunrise.
I headed to the kitchen next. A few leftover scraps sat wrapped in the fridge. I took a little—just a nibble—to stop my stomach from complaining. Then I saw it.
The wall calendar.
A giant circle over today.Red. Bold. Slightly aggressive.
BREAKFAST DUTY – ME.
I stared at it for a full second. "…My turn," I muttered, exhaling.
Right. No escaping that.
I pulled out the big pot, set it on the stove, and started cooking maize meal the way this place needed it:Massive batch.Simple.Feeds everyone.Cheap.
The smell filled the kitchen as the pot simmered. I tasted it once—perfect. Warm, thick, comforting. Kid-proof.
When it was done, I took my share, then wrapped the pot in that thick insulated cloth with the Oscorp logo stitched in the corner. Probably designed to keep radioactive samples warm or something, but here it was babysitting breakfast.
I sat at one of the kitchen tables, blowing on my bowl, trying to enjoy a rare quiet moment before the stampede of half-awake kids descended.
Kids were beginning to wake up—doors creaking, footsteps dragging, sleepy groans echoing through the hallway. The morning rush was about to explode.
I slipped back into my room, and flopped onto my bed. The mattress groaned, but honestly? It felt good. Comfortable. Like I could stay there for a minute, breathe, pretend I wasn't some… reincarnated anomaly walking around in a secondhand body.
I had just started getting cozy, settling into that soft, early-morning half-doze when—
A voice boomed from the hallway:
"Breakfast Kid! You alive? Let's go!"
The floor leader.The human foghorn.
Great.So much for comfort.
I exhaled, rolled onto my side, and prepared for whatever chaos the day decided to throw at me next.