The last thing Kiyotaka remembered from his first life was the taste of blood and broken glass.
Rain hammered the windshield as the truck's headlights exploded across his vision.
Brakes screamed. Metal folded. The world spun sideways.
Then—silence.
No sirens. No voices. No pain.
Just darkness.
"…seriously?" a dry voice said somewhere above him. "Truck. Very original."
Light snapped on.
Kiyotaka opened his eyes and found himself standing—somehow perfectly upright—on what looked like white tile stretching into forever. No walls, no ceiling, just brightness.
In front of him sat a man on a simple chair, wearing a plain white shirt and dark pants, sleeves rolled up like he'd been doing something mildly annoying, not judging the dead.
He was handsome in a forgettable way. The kind of face people trusted and then forgot.
Kiyotaka looked down at himself.
Same body. Same height. Broad shoulders. Lean build from years of bad sleep and hospital coffee. Sharp jawline, straight nose, smooth pale skin that made his black hair and dark eyes stand out more than they should.
He'd been called "scary handsome" before—like someone had drawn a model's face and then given it a dangerous brain.
Now he looked perfect.
No cuts. No blood. Clothes clean.
"Am I dead?" he asked calmly.
The man arched an eyebrow.
"Most people start with 'Where am I?' or 'Who are you?'" he said. "But yes. Dead. Very dead. Head‑on collision, instant. No heroic surgery, no miraculous save. You didn't even make it to the ER."
Kiyotaka's left eye twitched.
"So the irony is you killed a future surgeon before he ever got to operate. Bold choice."
The man sighed.
"Humans and their ego. You die and immediately assume the universe wrote the scene just to spite you."
He leaned back, studying Kiyotaka.
"God," he added after a moment. "Or something close enough that you don't have the vocabulary to argue."
Kiyotaka stared at him.
"You look…normal."
"What did you want?" the man asked. "White beard? Thunder? A glowing aura? A hospital hottie in a lab coat?"
Kiyotaka considered it.
"A clipboard would help," he said. "At least pretend you're doing rounds."
A beat of silence, then God laughed—an amused, tired sound.
"You're taking this well."
"I'm too tired to panic," Kiyotaka said honestly. "And if this is some post‑trauma brain show, I'd rather not scream in front of my own hallucination."
God snapped his fingers.
A chair appeared behind Kiyotaka. He sat without comment.
"So," God said. "Normally this is where I give a speech. 'You lived, you died, congratulations, here's your afterlife, try the light.' But you're…interesting."
"How flattering."
"Shut up," God said mildly. "You're an orphan who clawed his way up on scholarships, obsessed over medicine to an unhealthy level, and died before you ever became what you wanted to be. That leaves…unfinished business."
Kiyotaka's jaw tightened.
"I didn't spend my whole life with textbooks to end up as roadkill," he said. "If this is it, then yes, I'm going to complain."
"Good," God said. "Because I'm feeling generous. Think of this as a…case review. You get one request. Not infinite wishes, not 'make me king of everything.' One focused demand. I'll listen. No promises."
"One request?" Kiyotaka repeated. "Not 'go back,' I assume."
God shook his head.
"Timeline's done. Flatline is flatline."
Kiyotaka leaned back, eyes narrowing.
All his life, every decision had been about survival and progress. Rent or food? Food and overtime. Sleep or study? Study. Relationships or exams? Exams. He had never wasted energy on wishing for impossible things.
Now he had one shot to be selfish.
He didn't want revenge, wealth, or some anime harem.
He wanted the one thing he'd been chasing since that first anatomy book in the group home.
"I want impeccable talent for learning and understanding medicine," he said slowly. "Not just memorizing. True comprehension. Surgery, anatomy, pathology, pharmacology—if it's medical, I want to absorb and integrate it faster and deeper than anyone."
God watched him, unreadable.
"No combat magic, no world domination, no 'make me the strongest'?" he asked. "Just…medicine?"
"And a body that can keep up," Kiyotaka added. "Potential for an amazing body. Strong, healthy, perfect baseline. Great stamina, fast hands, good reflexes. No genetic disasters."
God stared.
"…That's it?" he asked. "That's your big, final request? You die and you ask for the ability to grind harder in medical school?"
Kiyotaka met his gaze without flinching.
"You asked for something focused," he said. "That's focused."
"You could have demanded infinite wealth."
"If I'm the best in the OR, money follows."
"You could have asked for a quiet life with a loving family."
Kiyotaka's expression didn't change.
"I don't know what that looks like," he said simply. "I know what a perfect anastomosis looks like. I know what a clean incision looks like. I know the curve of a scalpel better than any family photo I never had."
God exhaled through his nose.
"Humans," he muttered. "Obsessed creatures."
He eyed Kiyotaka again, this time more sharply.
"And you're not exactly a saint," God added. "Your record is full of questionable choices. Lustful, careless with feelings, emotionally unavailable. You broke a lot of hearts without even noticing."
Kiyotaka didn't deny it.
"I never promised anyone forever," he said. "I didn't have forever to give. I barely had time for myself."
He shrugged.
"Yes, I like sex. Yes, I like beautiful people. I don't think that cancels out the hours I spent saving lives as a student, even when no one was watching."
God snorted.
"You weren't saving that many yet."
"I would have," Kiyotaka said quietly. "If you hadn't let a truck run a red light."
God gave him a long, flat look.
"It is very strange," He said at last, "to have a human argue about my traffic management."
"Then fix it," Kiyotaka shot back. "Send me somewhere else. Give me a shot where all this training, all this obsession, all this useless, painful knowledge can be used fully."
He leaned forward, eyes dark and sharp.
"Drop me in a place where surgery matters," he said. "Where the OR is war and the doctors are insane enough to fit me."
God's lips twitched.
"You…want a drama," He said slowly. "Something like those shows you watched at 2 AM instead of sleeping."
A series name flickered through both their minds: a hospital where surgery was brutal, emotions exploded, and relationships were disasters wrapped in scrubs.
"Grey's Anatomy," Kiyotaka admitted. "Surgeons like that. Cases like that. Chaos like that."
God laughed outright this time.
"You're asking to be reborn into the universe of a medical drama where half the staff should be in therapy and the other half should be in jail."
Kiyotaka's mouth curved.
"Like I said," he replied. "Somewhere I fit."
God rubbed His temples.
"You get one talent," He reminded. "Impeccable medical learning and understanding. I'll link it to your brain—fast integration, high retention, deep comprehension. You will still need to study, but it will be…different. Faster. Sharper. Almost unfair."
"And the body?"
God flicked His fingers.
"You'll be born with excellent potential. Strong cardio, quick reflexes, good baseline strength. Hands perfect for surgery. Face that makes people stare and lose track of their sentences. Tall enough, broad shoulders, that kind of 'hospital hottie' nonsense your shows love."
Kiyotaka nodded.
"Fine."
"But," God added, voice cooling, "this isn't free."
He stood, and for the first time the endless white space felt heavy, like gravity had thickened.
"You want talent? A high‑potential body? A front‑row seat in a place like Seattle Grace, where disasters fall from the sky every week?"
"Yes."
"Then you go back with the same handicap you started with," God said. "You'll be an orphan again. No loving parents. No soft safety net. No legacy name to open doors. It will be your talent, your choices, your grind."
Kiyotaka didn't hesitate.
"…Is that supposed to scare me?" he asked.
God studied him in silence.
"You truly don't care."
"I don't know what family feels like," Kiyotaka said. "I know what ambition feels like. I know what purpose feels like. Give me that again. I'll take the rest myself."
God watched him for another long moment, then exhaled.
"You are a very strange human," He said softly. "And a little terrifying."
"Thank you," Kiyotaka said.
"That was not entirely a compliment."
God lifted His hand.
"Fine," He said. "Reborn in New York. Orphan. Scholarship path. You will crawl your way to a top medical school again—Harvard suits you—and from there, you will match into Seattle Grace as a surgical intern, right alongside all the walking disasters you admired."
He pointed two fingers at Kiyotaka's chest.
"One more warning," He added. "Talent is not control. You will learn fast, understand deeply, and your body will respond beautifully—but your flaws go with you. Your lust. Your emotional distance. Your habit of using people as temporary warmth."
Kiyotaka's lips quirked.
"I'll manage."
"Try not to break too many hearts between surgeries," God said dryly. "And try not to let your genius make you cruel."
The brightness around them intensified.
"Good luck, Kiyotaka," God said. "You wanted chaos. Don't drown in it."
The world blew apart into white.
And then—
He woke up.
Not in the OR. Not in a hospital bed.
In a cheap crib in a noisy city, with no parents' voices and no comforting hands.
An orphan again.
Drop‑dead handsome, even as his features formed—nurses cooed over "those eyes" and "that perfect little face."
He grew under fluorescent lights and secondhand clothes, but every time he could reach a page, his hands found books.
The talent God promised was there from the start.
Letters clicked into words too fast.
Basic science turned into anatomy, physiology, and surgery diagrams that made sense far earlier than they should have.
He climbed the same ladder, but this time the rungs moved smoother under his fingers.
Scholarships came easier—but he still fought for them.
Teachers whispered "gifted" and "genius" and "this is unnatural."
He stayed the same at his core.
Obsessed with medicine.
Dangerously handsome in a way that made classmates stare.
Lustful, curious, never tied down—he kissed who he wanted, slept with who he wanted, and walked away when his alarm for the library rang.
From orphanage to high school to pre‑med, his life was a montage of late‑night study sessions and cheap meals, bright screens and borrowed books.
Harvard Medical School accepted him on a full scholarship, almost like the universe remembered the script.
Only this time, the talent God gave him turned every lecture into something sharper.
He didn't just memorize.
He saw how things connected—how blood flow patterns predicted complications, how anatomy dictated surgical approach, how tiny decisions in the OR changed everything.
Professors watched him with a mix of admiration and unease.
"Top of the class."
"His insight is…beyond his training."
"He learns like he has done this before."
Outside class, the pattern continued.
Beautiful face, sharper tongue, warm body, cold exits.
He did not fall in love.
He fell into beds and back out again.
He saved his real devotion for the knife.
By the time Match Day came, his name sat comfortably at the top of rankings again.
He stood in that crowded hall with the envelope in his hand, déjà vu crashing over him like headlights.
He tore it open.
Seattle Grace Hospital
General Surgery – Intern
The same chaos he'd asked for.
He flew to Seattle, moved into a small, poorly furnished apartment, and unpacked his life in quiet movements.
The night before his first day as an intern, he stood in front of the mirror in his bathroom.
The man staring back was everything God had promised.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a plain T‑shirt.
Smooth skin, sharp jawline, mouth that looked like it was made for smirks and sins. Dark eyes that could cut as cleanly as any scalpel. Black hair falling in just enough chaos to look intentional.
He was the kind of man patients would trust on sight and nurses would gossip about in break rooms.
The kind of doctor who would have his own stupid nickname if this were a show.
He smirked at the thought.
"Drop‑dead handsome, huh?" he murmured to his reflection. "You really committed to the bit."
On the cheap wooden wardrobe, his new white coat hung perfectly pressed.
On the desk, his ID badge waited.
Name: Kiyotaka
Position: Surgical Intern
Hospital: Seattle Grace
He picked up the badge and let it sit in his palm.
Truck accident.
A bored God with rolled‑up sleeves.
One insane wish.
Reborn an orphan in New York.
Scholarships, again.
Harvard, again.
Now this.
He could feel it under his skin—the talent humming, the body ready, the years of study in two lives stacking up behind his eyes.
He set the badge down and turned off the bathroom light.
Tomorrow, he would walk through those sliding doors as one more intern on the board.
Somewhere in that maze, people like him—beautiful, broken, brilliant—would already be moving.
He intended to cut his way straight into the center.
He lay down, closed his eyes, and for a moment, in the darkness, he thought he could hear God's tired voice again.
"You wanted chaos. Don't drown in it."
Kiyotaka smiled into his pillow.
"Watch me," he whispered.
The alarm was set for 4:30 AM.
On his first day at Seattle Grace, the knife would finally move from his dreams into his hand.
And this time, nothing—not a truck, not fate, not his own flaws—was going to take it away before he carved his name into that hospital's history.