Black.
Everything was black.
No pain, no light, no noise—just silence, endless and suffocating.
I'm tired…
When will this nothingness end?
As if in answer, something shifted. A breeze brushed against her skin—warm, almost gentle. Then came emotion. Panic. Sadness. A strange ache in her chest. She felt it all. Her soul stirred like it had just been pulled out of deep water.
What was happening?
Her limbs twitched. She could move? Slowly, carefully, she flexed her fingers. They felt… strange. Too small.
She blinked. The darkness faded into a soft blur of color. Her sight was hazy, but she could make out her surroundings—walls, light, shadows dancing on the ceiling. She was in a room.
Her heart pounded.
She reached instinctively for her head—it ached, faintly throbbing with dull pain—but froze. The hand she raised wasn't hers.
It was small. Soft. Chubby. Like it belonged to a toddler.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A… a kid?
What the hell was happening?
She sat up, unsteady, the blanket falling off her. A child's body. Her body. A tiny chest, arms, and legs. She looked down at the pale blue pajamas she wore, then around the room.
It was neat. Too neat. A mobile hung from the ceiling. Toys lined the shelves. Everything screamed child.
She swallowed hard. A mirror on the wardrobe's sliding door caught her reflection. She stumbled toward it, hands trembling.
There, staring back at her, was a small boy.
Messy black hair. Light brown eyes—almost golden, unnervingly bright. His skin was pale, with a sickly hue. He didn't look malnourished, but fragile. Breakable.
Tears welled in his eyes.
Who is this? Why am I here?
Just then, the door creaked open. Quick footsteps entered the room. A woman—early 30s, hair pulled back, eyes wide—gasped.
"Oh, my baby! Icey, what's wrong?" she cried, rushing toward him.
Icey?
She wrapped her arms around him tightly. Her warmth felt so real—so heartbreakingly familiar. Her voice cracked with worry.
But he didn't know her.
Who was she? Why was she calling him that? And more importantly—why did the name feel like it was echoing somewhere deep in his chest?
He didn't have time to think. His body was too weak. He felt feverish. Lightheaded. His tears fell faster, and his vision blurred again.
"Dear!" the woman shouted, panicked, as his head slumped forward. "I think Icey is sick! He feels hot!"
Her voice faded.
Darkness again.
---
He woke later to the quiet hum of a fan and filtered sunlight streaming in through the curtains.
The fever was mostly gone. His body still felt heavy, but the haze had cleared from his mind. He sat up in bed slowly, absorbing everything.
I'm alive. I'm not… Cassa anymore.
No. That part of him—her—had died in that elevator. The man… the blood… the pain.
The man.
His breath hitched.
That voice. That laugh. "Do you want me to make it peaceful for you?"
And that final sentence—"It's just the same as how you can't reject a job given to you by your company."
He clenched the blanket tightly in his fists.
That wasn't just a mugging. That wasn't random. That was a hit. A message.
But who sent it?
And now… now he was here. In this boy's body. In this different place.
Was the man who killed him in this world too?
The thought made his skin crawl. What if this was all connected? What if this wasn't a second chance, but just the next part of the same game?
He needed answers.
---
Later that morning, after hearing the faint sounds of cooking downstairs, he slipped out of his room and wandered through the unfamiliar house. He found a calendar in the hallway and froze.
August 1, 2006.
His chest tightened.
2006?
He remembered it clearly—before he died, it was 2026. He had gone back twenty whole years.
The ground beneath his feet suddenly felt unreal.
He wasn't just reborn. He was reborn in the past.
And not in some fantasy world. This was still Earth—or a version close enough to it. The air felt the same. The light switches, the walls, even the smell of food—it all screamed normal. Familiar.
Except for the names.
"Einish," the newspaper on the dining table had read. The letters were in English, but the places and names were slightly off. Twisted.
Almost like a mirror version of reality.
His thoughts went back to the tattoo. That strange mark on the man's neck. Could that symbol exist here, too? Could he be here?
Would he have to face him again?
And if this man was part of something bigger—some shadowy group or force—then what would stop them from following him into this life too?
Was this boy's body chosen at random? Or was it part of something I don't understand yet?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
---
Back in the boy's room, he stared into the mirror again.
"Icey," he whispered, trying the name on his tongue. It felt strange. Foreign. Yet oddly natural.
A photo on the table beside him caught his attention again. A family photo—mother, father, the boy he now was, and the mother's pregnant belly. They looked happy. Safe. Normal.
But something had happened before he came. Something that nearly killed this child.
The timing was too perfect. Too convenient.
He touched the mirror.
"Who are you, Icey?" he whispered. "And why did I end up in your body?"
There was no answer.
But one thing was clear: he had to survive. He had to grow strong. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
Because whether this was fate, punishment, or something else entirely…
He would not waste it.
"I'll live this life the right way," he said aloud, small voice steady. "And if that man, or whatever group he's from, exists in this world…"
His reflection stared back, fierce despite the soft features.
"I'll find him. And I'll end this, myself."