The first impact wasn't light, nor sound, nor pain. It was air. A dense, humid air that invaded his lungs like a merciless wave, forcing his ribs to expand against his will. It felt as if his body was being forcibly inflated, every cell screaming in silent protest. He felt his chest contract and relax in a rhythm he didn't control—an automatic, relentless cycle. The air came in cold, went out warm, carrying a salty taste that clung to his throat. He tried to resist, tried to hold his breath to regain some control, but his body betrayed him. It breathed on its own, like a machine programmed to survive, regardless of his mind.
Why is this happening? The thought floated in his consciousness, slow and viscous, as if wading through thick fog. He knew something was wrong—deeply wrong—but he couldn't quite articulate what. Fragmented memories flickered in his mind: vague images of a previous life, like half-forgotten dreams. He remembered walking down busy streets, driving a car, feeling the hot sun on his face—a grown man's face, with expression lines, maybe some stubble. Now, none of it made sense. His body didn't respond to the most basic commands. He tried to flex his fingers, lift an arm, turn his head. Nothing. It was as if his muscles were made of jelly, limp and inert, without strength to obey. Every attempt ended in mute frustration, an empty echo in the void of his mind.
Panic began to set in, but even that was muffled, as if his brain lacked the capacity to process intense emotions. He forced his mind to focus. I am... who? The name came slowly: something familiar, but distant. Erick? Yes, Erick. But why did it feel so strange now? His memories were a tangled mess: laughs with friends at a bar, late nights studying in college, a monotonous office job, maybe an accident—a sharp pain in his chest, flashing lights, then total darkness. Death? The idea hit him like an invisible punch, but his body didn't react—no trembling, no sweating, no racing heart beyond the mechanical rhythm. It just breathed, stubborn and automatic, as if mocking his confusion.
He tried to open his eyes. His eyelids felt heavy, stuck, as if they'd never been used before. With Herculean effort, something gave way. Light flooded in, but not clear—a blurry white and gray haze, diffuse, without defined edges. It was like looking through a smudged lens or murky underwater. He blinked, or at least tried; the sensation was vague, uncertain, as if his eyelids were too new to work properly. The world wouldn't focus. Vague shapes danced at the edge of his vision: elongated shadows, slow movements that seemed far away. The air around him was humid, laden with a metallic, almost sweet smell—blood? Sweat? Something primal that his body recognized instinctively, but his mind rejected vehemently.
This isn't real. It must be a dream. A coma. A drug-induced hallucination. Anything but this. But the discomfort was too real: the strange weight of his body, the weakness in his limbs, the relentless breathing, insistent like a broken clock. He tried to move again, channeling all his willpower into lifting a hand. Nothing at first, but then, slowly, as if his body was learning to exist, a subtle tremor ran through his arm. His hand moved—not precisely, but in an uncontrolled spasm, like a puppet with randomly pulled strings. He tried to bring it closer to his face, to see, to touch, to confirm it was still him.
The hand appeared in his blurry field of vision. Small. Tiny. Short, chubby fingers, without defined nails. And the color... gray? No, a bluish-gray tone, like skin exposed to extreme cold or... painted? Poisoned? He blinked again, trying to focus, ignoring the throbbing pain behind his eyes. The hand trembled, unsteady, as if it didn't know how to behave. He tried to clench his fingers into a fist, to test his strength. He failed. Instead, they opened and closed in a childish reflex, without purpose, as if they belonged to someone else.
What the hell is this? The thought came sharp, slicing through the mental fog like a blade. This isn't my hand. My hand is bigger, stronger, with scars from old fights, prominent veins from years of work. This... this is deformed, tiny, like someone injected me with something, turned me into an experiment. Was I kidnapped? Drugged? Some crazy lab, illegal tests? His imagination ran wild: images from horror movies, mad scientists, alien abductions. Maybe a virus, a mutation. The bluish skin—hypothermia? Poisoning? He tried to shake the hand, but the movement was weak, pathetic, and the panic grew, suffocating rational thoughts.
He tried to look around, forcing his eyes to adjust to the blur. The world began to take vague shapes: a low, irregular ceiling, like hand-carved stone, with water droplets dripping somewhere distant, echoing like a broken clock. The sound was constant, like a muffled waterfall, mixed with humid buzzing. It wasn't a sterilized hospital, with machine beeps and antiseptic smell. It wasn't a modern room, with white walls and air conditioning. It was raw, primitive, like a hidden cave or dungeon, the air thick with salty humidity that stuck to his skin. Where the hell am I? A bunker? An underground prison? Someone captured me, drugged me, and now I'm hallucinating?
Nearby movements caught his attention. Figures. One was large, imposing, blocking part of the diffuse light. Bluish-gray tones—skin like that strange hand? The shape approached, and he felt the air shift, heavy with a smell of salt and metal, like rusted iron. Huge fingers touched him, pressing his skin with clinical firmness, not gentleness. The touch was rough, calloused, like hands used to heavy labor—or violence. He tried to pull away, writhe, yell "let me go!", but his body didn't obey—instead, it let out a pathetic sound, a thin whimper that echoed strangely in his own throat, like a child's cry.
Another presence joined. This one smaller, more hesitant, with trembling movements. A figure with something prominent on its head—hair? Bright red, flaming, contrasting with the dull gray around. The smell was different: softer, mixed with salty sweat and something wet, like tears. A sound escaped this figure: a contained, irregular sob, like someone holding back emotion. Smaller hands lifted him, with trembling care, and the world spun again, disorienting, like a broken roller coaster. He felt his body pressed against something warm, soft—a chest? A hug? The overload of sensations overwhelmed him: the pulsing heat, the other person's racing heartbeat, the smell of warm milk and salt, all mixed in sensory chaos that made his head spin.
Voices sounded above him. Deep, guttural, like muffled growls. Incomprehensible words, like an ancient language, full of hard consonants and drawn-out vowels, nothing like Portuguese or English. It wasn't anything familiar—Asian? African? Made-up? He forced his mind to catch patterns, to decipher, but his brain felt too slow, too confused to process. It was like listening through damp cotton: sounds without meaning, tones conveying raw emotion but no content. The deep voice—definitely male—was authoritative, evaluative, like a doctor inspecting a patient... or a scientist testing a subject. The other, higher-pitched, laden with emotion, perhaps sadness or relief, like someone who had suffered.
They're talking about me. The thought came instinctively, chilling him inside. But why? What am I to them? A prisoner? An experiment? I was kidnapped and turned into... this? He tried to scream, get attention, bellow "who are you? What did you do to me?", but what came out was another weak, instinctive cry, without formed words. His body betrayed his adult mind—trapped in a fragile shell, unable to articulate anything beyond primitive sounds. Frustration grew, mixed with mounting panic, like a snowball rolling downhill. He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the blurry vision. The figures gained more definition: the large one was muscular, with angular features, narrow eyes that pierced him like needles. Bluish-gray skin, identical to that strange hand. A mutant? An actor in a horror movie? The other figure, the woman—yes, now he saw feminine traits—flaming red hair, swollen face, red eyes from recent crying. She held him with desperate possessiveness, but with trembling, weak hands.
He was passed between hands. From the warm, humid embrace to the cold, impersonal inspection. The man—captor? Father? No, impossible—lifted him, turning him like an object on an assembly line. Something reflected the faint light: a metallic surface, perhaps a sharp blade or improvised mirror, polished enough to catch shapes. The reflection appeared, distorted but revealing. A small, swollen face, large dark eyes blinking uncoordinated, grayish skin with irregular blue tones. Sparse hair, almost nonexistent, just a thin reddish tuft. Mouth half-open, releasing irregular breaths, like a fish out of water.
This... this is me? His mind rejected the image, as if it were a cruel joke. It can't be. My face is angular, with brown eyes, straight nose. This is... childish. Unfinished. A baby? The realization began to form, slow and painful, like a wound opening. Not kidnapped. Not drugged. Reincarnated? The word echoed in his mind, absurd but inescapable, pulled from stories he'd read, animes he'd watched, fantasy books. But this isn't fiction. This is real—real pain, real confusion, real weakness. He tried to move his head to see more, to deny it, but his weak neck barely supported the weight, and the world tilted dangerously. The man spoke again, short and dry, and the woman replied with a trembling voice, as if reluctantly agreeing. An agreement? A sentence?
Exhaustion came in overwhelming waves. The body—this tiny, treacherous body—couldn't handle the mental effort. Thinking was exhausting, like running a marathon with cotton candy legs. He fought to stay awake, to absorb more details, to piece together the puzzle. The environment: damp stone walls, with thin veins of water running like eternal tears. Faint light from lanterns or torches, flickering dancing shadows on irregular walls. Salty air, as if near the sea, but confined, without fresh breeze. Distant sounds: crashing waves? Muffled shouts, like echoes of struggle or pain? This isn't the world I knew. No humming electricity, no car noise or cities. It's primitive, but organized—a remote village? A hideout?
The woman took him back, cradling him against her chest. A low hum escaped her, a strange, soothing melody in a language that sounded ancestral. His body reacted against his will: the crying stopped, muscles relaxed, as if programmed to obey maternal cues. He hated it—being controlled by animal reflexes, not rational choice. He tried to focus on old memories: family laughing at barbecues, friends at parties, a normal life with normal problems. Now, all lost, replaced by this: absolute weakness, endless confusion, an unknown and hostile world.
Hours passed? Minutes? Time was elastic, distorted by the infant mind, as if every second stretched into eternity. He fell asleep and woke in short cycles, each time more aware, each time more desperate. In one of those awakenings, his vision cleared a bit more, revealing details that were previously blurs. He was lying in an improvised crib—rough cloth stretched over hard, irregular wood, smelling of humidity and salt. He tried to roll to the side, to explore, but his body slid clumsily, like a doll without balance. Small hands entered his field of vision again: grayish-blue, tiny soft nails. He brought them closer to his face, touching his skin hesitantly. Soft, new, overly sensitive to the cold air. A shiver ran through him—not from cold, but from revulsion and strangeness. Did they experiment on me? Turn me into a freak?
Who am I now? Where did I come from? Why this? Questions without answers swirled in his mind, increasing disorientation like a vortex. Other figures appeared occasionally: tall people dressed in dark, practical clothes, with headbands that looked like insignia. Engraved symbols? Hanging weapons? One approached, touching his forehead with a calloused, cold finger. The touch was evaluative, as if testing temperature or resilience. Words exchanged between them, short grave laughs. He didn't understand a syllable, but the tone was approval? Pride? Or mere scientific curiosity?
Hunger came later, unexpected and ravenous. An emptiness in his stomach, growing into sharp pain that spread throughout his body. His body cried before his mind could process—an automatic, loud, demanding reflex. The woman—mother? Captor?—appeared almost immediately, lifting him with trembling hands. The smell of warm milk overwhelmed him, and instinct took complete control. He suckled, hating every second of the humiliating dependence, but unable to resist the primal urge. As he fed, his mind wandered in circles: This isn't a dream. I died and... was born again? But where? Why me? And this strange skin... a curse? A genetic disease? Or something they did?
Days dragged on like this—or were they endless hours? Infant time was chaos, without clocks or routines to anchor it. Each awakening brought more clarity: vision improving gradually, ears catching subtle nuances in surrounding voices. The language remained a mystery, incomprehensible, but patterns emerged—repetitions of sounds that seemed like names or commands. The woman called him something soft, repetitive, like an affectionate nickname, but he tried to repeat it mentally and failed, his mouth unable to form coherent sounds beyond babbling.
Exploring the limited world within reach: the rough crib, cold stone walls, low ceiling that seemed to press down. Clumsy movements became obsession—rolling to one side, kicking weak legs, trying to sit. Each attempt was a tiny victory and a crushing defeat: slow progress, but a constant reminder of his bodily prison. Nights were worse: total darkness swallowing everything, strange sounds echoing—like metal clashing metal in the distance, grunts of effort, perhaps training or fighting. Fear grew, mixed with morbid curiosity. Who are these people? Why did they bring me here? Or... was I born here?
Finally, in a moment of relative quiet, lying under the faint light of a flickering torch, the realization solidified like a weight on his chest. I was reincarnated. In this tiny body, in this strange and hostile world. Grayish-blue skin, people with mutant-like appearance, damp and primitive environment. What the hell. The thought came bitter, followed by dull, impotent rage. Why me? What did I do to deserve a second life like this, trapped in weakness? But there were no answers, just the humid silence and the distant sound of running water. His small body kept breathing, waiting to grow, ignorant of what awaited beyond those stone walls.
Sleep came again, but this time loaded with raw determination. Survive. Learn to control this. Figure out where the hell I am. Because if this was a second chance—or a curse—he would face it, even if it hurt like hell.
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio