He awoke screaming.
The sound tore out of him, raw and desperate, echoing off the stone walls of a narrow, dank alley. He curled in on himself, clutching at his chest, gasping for air that tasted wrong—sweet and metallic, with an acrid bite that made his nose wrinkle and his eyes water. For a second, he was sure he was dying again, sure the pain would swallow him whole.
But there was nothing. No pain. No blood. No broken bones or burning fire in his lungs. He blinked, wild-eyed, and realized that the agony—so real a moment ago—was gone, replaced by a strange, numb emptiness. His skin prickled with cold sweat, but his body felt whole, untouched.
"What the hell? Wasn't I just—?"
He pressed his hands to his chest, then his face, then the back of his head, searching for wounds that weren't there. His heart hammered, but everything else was still. He forced himself to sit up, back pressed to the rough, damp stone, and tried to steady his breathing.
The alley was silent except for his own ragged breaths. The sky above was the same impossible blue, but the world beneath it was utterly alien. The air carried scents he couldn't name—spices, smoke, something like ozone. The shadows seemed to shift and breathe, pooling in corners where the light couldn't reach.
He tried to stand, knees trembling, and staggered to the mouth of the alley. The street beyond was a fever dream: buildings stacked at odd angles, their walls painted in colors that shimmered and changed in the sunlight. Strange signs hung above doorways, the writing a swirling blend of English and Japanese, half-familiar and half-wrong. People passed by—some with skin like polished bronze, others with hair that glowed faintly or eyes that flickered with unnatural light.
Izuma's mind spun. He caught snatches of conversation—words twisted and broken, a strange, hybrid language of Japanese and English intertwined that seemed to slip through his ears and settle in his brain. He understood just enough to make sense of it, the years of language study in school suddenly, bizarrely useful.
"…shoppu wa…closed…ano, you see…dangerous at night…"
"…no money, no entry, wakarimasu ka?"
He pressed himself against the cold stone, heart pounding. His thoughts raced, tumbling over each other in a frantic, dizzy spiral.
"This isn't a dream. This isn't home. I died—didn't I? I –I remember the pain. I remember the car, the blood, Hana's scream. I remember dying–matter a fact I remember it all."
...
"But I'm here. I'm…alive? Or something like it."
He looked down at his shaking hands, flexed his ever so twitching fingers. They shook, but they were steady enough to prove he was real. The world felt too sharp, too vivid, every color and sound turned up a notch. A bead of sweat traced down his temple, tickling his skin.
"Lucky me," he thought, a half-hysterical–half-nervous laugh bubbling up in his chest. Of all the things to prepare for, at least I can understand what they're saying. Sort of.
He took a step out of the alley, flinching as a cart rattled past, its driver shouting something in that broken, patchwork language. No one looked at him twice. No one seemed to care that a boy in a school uniform had appeared out of nowhere,wild-eyed and shaking,or not as yet it seems.
He wanted to scream again, to run, to wake up in his own bed. But the world didn't change. The sky stayed blue, the air stayed strange, and the alley stayed empty behind him.
Izuma took a shaky breath, forcing himself to move. He had to do something—anything. He stepped out of the shadows, heart pounding, and the world watched him with a thousand unfamiliar eyes.
He was lost, but alive. Dazzled, scared, and more alone than he'd ever been...