He woke to a voice.
"Take it away."
It wasn't loud, but it cut deeper than anything he could understand. There was fear in it. Disgust. Something trembling beneath authority. He couldn't move. His body felt wrong—too small, too light, like it didn't belong to him. His vision blurred as light burned into his eyes, the air cold and sharp against his skin.
"…No."
The same voice again. Closer this time.
He didn't understand the words, but the feeling behind them—he knew it.
Rejection.
Something inside him shifted.
Then broke open.
Joey.
The name surfaced first. Then everything else followed.
A house. Small. Ordinary. Warm. A family of four. A father who worked too much but still tried. A mother whose smile made the room feel alive. Two older siblings who argued constantly and still stayed close.
And him.
The third.
It wasn't perfect.
But it had been enough.
He had been happy.
Until he turned eight.
The memory didn't ease him in. It dragged him under.
The hospital. The silence. The way no one looked at him.
"There was a mistake."
He remembered standing there, confused, waiting for someone to explain it properly.
"He isn't your child."
The words didn't land at first. Not until the rest came.
The real son. Dead. A nurse's mistake. A body switched. A lie buried under paperwork and silence.
And him—placed there to replace something that couldn't be fixed.
He remembered looking at his mother, waiting, hoping she would deny it.
She cried.
But not for him.
That was when something inside him stopped.
Not shattered. Not violently broken.
It just… ended.
The change came slowly after that. Cruel in a quiet way.
The house stayed the same.
But he didn't belong in it anymore.
His father spoke less. His siblings stopped speaking entirely. His mother couldn't look at him without turning away, like his existence itself was something unbearable.
Then came the words.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"You took his place."
"We raised the wrong child."
Joey stopped responding. There was no point.
He learned to stay quiet. To take it. To disappear.
By the time he turned ten, he understood something clearly.
He didn't belong anywhere.
He stopped expecting kindness. Stopped waiting for anything to change. Every day felt the same—quiet, heavy, empty.
Then came the diagnosis.
Terminal brain cancer.
The words were said plainly, like they didn't carry weight. Like they weren't meant to matter.
But Joey understood the room. The silence. The shift.
He looked at his mother, thinking—just maybe—this would bring her back.
It didn't.
She laughed. Not loudly. Not fully. Just a broken, uneven sound.
"…So it ends like this," she murmured. "Good… good…"
Joey froze.
"…Mom?"
She didn't look at him.
"…He can just disappear," she whispered. "Then everything can go back… everything can be right again…"
The words weren't angry.
They were relieved.
His father said nothing. Just nodded to the doctor, as if confirming something.
His siblings didn't cry. Didn't speak.
One of them looked at him—
then looked away.
That was all.
No one held his hand. No one said it would be okay. No one stayed.
Something inside him collapsed completely.
The hospital became his world. White walls. Cold sheets. The constant smell of antiseptic.
Pain came quickly.
And it stayed.
His head felt like it was splitting apart most days, pressure building until even breathing felt wrong. Some nights he couldn't see. Some nights he couldn't think. Some nights he just lay there wishing it would stop.
Treatment didn't help. It only stretched the suffering.
He curled into himself, fingers gripping the sheets as pain tore through him again and again.
And every time—
he was alone.
No footsteps. No voices. No one coming through the door.
At night, it was worse.
That's when he cried.
"Mom…"
Nothing.
"…Dad…"
Nothing.
Eventually, even the words stopped.
Only the crying remained.
He wasn't just dying.
He was being erased.
Days blurred. Weeks passed. He stopped counting.
He grew weaker. Quieter.
Until one night, the pain didn't fade.
It stayed.
Constant.
Crushing.
Joey lay there, unable to move, tears slipping silently down his face.
"…I don't want this…"
No one answered.
His breathing slowed.
The darkness closed in.
And then—
he was gone.
Silence followed.
Then something else remained.
Not light. Not warmth.
A vast, empty space stretched endlessly around him.
"…So this is death," he murmured.
"You expected something kinder?"
The voice was low. Heavy. It didn't echo—it settled.
Joey turned. Something stood behind him, indistinct, like the world refused to give it form.
"What are you?"
"Something your world would call a god."
"You lived poorly," it said. "You died worse."
"…Yeah."
"You resent them."
"…I don't know."
"You were not seen. Not chosen. Not loved."
Joey's jaw tightened slightly.
"…So what."
"I can give you another life."
"…Why."
"I have interest in what you could become."
Silence.
"The world you will enter is not kind. You will not be welcomed. You will be feared. You will be despised."
Joey didn't react.
"You will be born as my son."
That made him look up.
"For that reason alone, the world will reject you before you even understand it."
"…So it's the same."
"No."
The presence stepped closer.
"This time, you will not be weak."
Something shifted in Joey's gaze.
"You will carry my power. You will be born with it."
No comfort. No promise.
Just truth.
"You will suffer again. You will be alone. Nothing will be given to you."
A pause.
"But your path will be yours."
"…And if I refuse?"
"Then you return to nothing."
Simple.
Joey exhaled slowly.
"…I don't want to die like that again."
"Then accept."
"…Fine."
The space shattered.
Darkness rushed in.
"Live," the voice said.
"Or be erased."
Cold rushed in, followed by weight and then sound.
"…Take it away."
He opened his eyes.
The woman holding him trembled, her grip unsteady, her eyes filled with something he recognized instantly. Fear. Disgust. Something beneath it that tried to hide behind authority and failed.
He didn't understand the words, not fully. But the feeling behind them—he knew it.
Rejection.
It settled into him immediately, without confusion, without resistance. Like something familiar returning to its place.
"…This isn't right…"
Her voice shook.
For a brief moment, her grip tightened.
Then she threw him.
His small body hit the marble floor with a dull, hollow sound. Pain followed—sharp and immediate, spreading through him without mercy. But he didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just lay there, staring upward as shadows moved above him.
"…Get it out."
The voice was colder now. Empty.
Footsteps approached, hesitant and uneven. Hands lifted him carefully, almost as if trying to undo what had just been done.
"…Forgive me…"
The whisper trembled.
He didn't respond. There was nothing to respond with. Nothing to say.
He had already understood.
Nothing had changed.
The night air outside was colder. It pressed against his skin as he was carried away from the palace, away from light, away from voices. The world moved around him, distant and quiet, as if he didn't belong to it.
Then the movement stopped.
A door creaked.
He was set down.
The surface beneath him was rougher now—wood, worn and uneven. The scent was different. Old. Damp. Forgotten. The footsteps retreated quickly, almost relieved, and then there was nothing.
Silence.
He lay there alone.
Again.
He didn't cry. Didn't move. Didn't expect anything.
That part of him had already died once.
Time passed, though he couldn't tell how much. The world remained still until a sound broke through it.
Wood shifting.
A door opening slowly.
Soft light spilled across him, not harsh like before. Footsteps followed, slower this time.
"…What's this…"
An older woman stepped forward. The cloth around him shifted as she knelt, revealing his face.
Her eyes met his.
She froze.
"…Gods…"
There it was.
Fear.
He recognized it instantly.
He waited.
For her to step back. To leave. To do what everyone else had done.
For a moment, it looked like she would.
Then—
she didn't.
"…You're just a child…"
Her voice was quiet. Uncertain. But not cruel.
He kept watching, waiting.
She hesitated, then reached down and lifted him carefully, like he might break under her touch.
"…You'll live," she murmured.
Something in his chest shifted.
It was small. Unfamiliar. Something he didn't understand and didn't trust.
Her hands were rough.
But warm.
Warm.
It didn't hurt.
That was new.
"…No one should be left like this…"
She held him close, not tightly, just enough to keep him there.
Something inside him began to move. Slowly. Painfully. Like something buried too deep was being forced back to the surface.
His chest tightened. His breathing faltered.
Then it broke.
A sound escaped him, weak at first, then trembling as tears spilled without control. His body shook as the cries came, uneven and raw, like he didn't know how to hold them back anymore.
The woman stilled, then pulled him closer.
"It's alright," she said softly, her hand resting against his head. "You're safe now."
Safe.
The word meant nothing to him.
But the feeling—
that warmth—
hurt more than anything before.
Because it was something he had never known.
Something he didn't understand.
Something he didn't believe in.
"I'll take care of you," she continued quietly. "No matter what you are."
His cries didn't stop, but they changed. Less pain. More release.
"You need a name," she murmured.
She looked at him for a long moment.
"…Arthur."
The name settled over him.
He didn't react. Didn't understand it.
His crying weakened slowly as exhaustion overtook him, his small body easing slightly against her. His eyes remained open, still watching, still remembering.
He had been given another life.
And it had begun the same way the last one ended.
But this time—
someone didn't let go.
And deep inside him, something dark remained.
Not raging.
Not broken.
Just—
awake.