The afternoon air was shattered by a sudden, sharp crack, a sound that unmistakably resembled a gunshot, instantly followed by the piercing shriek of tires desperately clawing at the rough asphalt.
The violent sounds ripped through the ordinary hum of midday traffic, an unexpected and jarring intrusion into the mundane rhythm of the day.
In the immediate aftermath, a child's cry sliced through the lingering chaos a high, thin wail of distress that abruptly ceased, leaving behind an unsettling and heavy silence in its wake.
Suddenly, the world was bathed in an intense, blinding glare of headlights. Two powerful beams of light, emanating from an unseen source, pierced through the ordinary daylight with terrifying intensity.
They felt like the judgmental gaze of some ancient, unforgiving deity, their brightness momentarily eclipsing the sun itself. And then, amidst the confusion and shock, his focus narrowed sharply on a single, vulnerable figure standing in the middle of the road. It was a little girl, seemingly barely old enough to begin her formal schooling, her small frame visibly trembling as she stood frozen in the center of the blacktop. A bright crimson rubber ball slipped from her numb fingers, bouncing once before rolling away, forgotten in the face of the imminent and overwhelming danger that was rapidly approaching.
For Wang Hao, time seemed to warp and compress into a single, terrifying image that seared itself into his mind. He saw the massive truck, a hulking metal behemoth with its engine roaring like an enraged beast, bearing down on the child with relentless and unstoppable speed. He registered the rapidly shrinking distance between the heavy vehicle and the small, fragile form of the girl. And a chilling, creeping sense of inevitability began to tighten its icy grip around his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs.
Without a second thought, without any conscious calculation or deliberation, Wang Hao found himself running. It wasn't a reasoned decision; it was a primal, unadulterated instinct that surged through him, as sharp and clear as shattered glass, propelling his body forward with an urgent and desperate momentum.
He reached her in what felt like both an eternity and no time at all. The moments stretched and compressed simultaneously as he closed the impossible distance. With a desperate surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he reached out and shoved her small body forward, pushing her with all his might, away from the direct path of the oncoming destruction.
Then came the sound a sickening, heavy thud that resonated deep within his bones, instantly followed by a series of sharp, tearing crunches that spoke of immense and brutal force. Impact. A shattering. Bone, metal, and even time itself seemed to fracture and splinter in that single, horrifying instant of collision. And finally, after the cacophony of violence, an all-encompassing, suffocating darkness descended, swallowing him whole and plunging him into an absolute and silent void.
He awoke with a sudden, ragged gasp, his body arching violently off the cold, hard surface beneath him as if jolted by a powerful electric current. His lungs screamed for air, desperately pulling in a stale, heavy draft that tasted faintly of dust and something else… something distinctly metallic. Every muscle in his body seemed to throb in protest, as if startled by its own unexpected return to existence after a period of oblivion.
A dull, persistent ache bloomed behind his eyes, a rhythmic throbbing that echoed the frantic pounding of his own heart against his ribs. He instinctively pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, his fingers encountering rough, unfamiliar skin instead of the smooth texture he expected.
"Ah… damn…" a voice croaked out, the sound surprisingly weak and raspy.
The voice that had escaped his lips was undeniably not his own. It felt thin and reedy, slightly higher in pitch than he was accustomed to, lacking the familiar resonance and weight he had always known. It was like hearing a distorted and unsettling echo of himself.
The ceiling above him was a haphazard patchwork of darkened timber, the individual planks warped and uneven with the undeniable passage of time and the elements. Ugly, discolored blotches, the tell-tale signs of ancient water damage and neglect, bloomed across the aged wood like grotesque, silent flowers. In the far corner of the room, a lone oil lamp flickered weakly, its tiny flame a fragile, desperate dance against the encroaching darkness, uncertain of its own precarious hold on existence and casting long, distorted shadows across the room.
This… isn't my room, the chilling thought echoed in his mind, sending a cold wave of disorientation and growing panic washing over him. There was none of the sterile scent of antiseptic that he vaguely associated with waking up after an injury, none of the crispness of clean white sheets, none of the soft, reassuring hum of medical machinery, nor the ever-present, muffled murmur of city life that usually drifted through his apartment window, a constant reminder of the world outside.
Instead, he was enveloped by an oppressive silence, broken only by his own ragged breathing and the crackling of the dying oil lamp. And the scent in the air was thick and cloying a strange and unsettling mixture of damp rot, something vaguely metallic that he instinctively recoiled from, like the lingering odor of old blood, and the earthy, musty odor of decay that spoke of long neglect and forgotten spaces. It was a smell that permeated the very fabric of the room, hinting at age and disrepair.
With a groan of effort, he tried to push himself up into a sitting position, his limbs feeling heavy and unresponsive.
His arms obeyed sluggishly, moving with the stiff reluctance of waterlogged wood, each movement sending a jolt of unfamiliar pain through his torso. As he attempted to swing his legs over the side of whatever he was lying on the floor or perhaps a crude bed they betrayed him entirely, offering no support as his weakened muscles failed to engage.
Thud.
The unexpected impact of his body hitting the coarse, uneven floor sent a sharp jolt of pain shooting up his spine, forcing a choked gasp of agony from his lips. Cold. So terribly cold. The rough, unforgiving surface beneath him was undeniably, painfully real against his skin.
"Ugh…" he groaned, the sound muffled by the dusty floor.
He looked down at his hands, his breath catching sharply in his throat as a wave of profound shock washed over him.
They were not his hands.
They were smaller, the delicate bones beneath the pale, bruised skin jutting out like frail, brittle branches, unnervingly delicate and unfamiliar. A network of angry bruises, in various shades of purple and blue, marred their pallor, and the slender fingers trembled uncontrollably, as if remembering a pain and trauma that was not his own.
This isn't my body.
The terrifying thought dropped into his mind like a heavy stone into a still pond, the ripples of disbelief spreading outwards, chilling him to the very core of his being.
Panic did not come immediately, not in the full, overwhelming sense. Not quite yet. Instead, a dull, growing awareness slithered in, insidious and cold, a creeping realization that something was profoundly, fundamentally wrong.
This place, this stale, heavy air, this unfamiliar self everything was alien and deeply unsettling. The angles of the room were strange and disorienting. The pervasive scent of oil and iron clung to the air like a persistent, unwelcome ghost. Everything looked old, worn, and somehow… dead.
Did I… die? The terrifying question hung in the oppressive silence, heavy with unspoken dread and a profound sense of the unknown.
Just then, the door to the room, a roughly hewn slab of wood that looked ancient and heavy, groaned open with a long, mournful creak, the sound echoing ominously in the stillness.
A young girl, appearing to be no older than twelve, stumbled into the room, her breathing ragged and shallow, as if she had been running. Her young face was pale and streaked with fresh tear tracks, her expression a mixture of fear and exhaustion. Her eyes, wide and filled with a barely-contained torrent of raw emotion, darted nervously around the dimly lit room before finally locking onto him. She clutched a small, stoppered vial tightly in her trembling hand, the viscous liquid inside catching the weak, flickering lamplight, a disturbing fluid the color of dark, clotted red.
"Shi Yao! You're awake!" she breathed, her voice a strained whisper of disbelief and overwhelming relief, as if she had been expecting a far different outcome.
The unfamiliar name struck him like a physical blow, a foreign sound that somehow resonated deep within him, like a pebble striking the still surface of a forgotten well, sending ripples of confusion through his already disoriented mind. Shi Yao? Who was Shi Yao? He had never heard that name before in his life.
She dropped to her knees beside him, her movements frantic yet strangely practiced, born of worry and perhaps from having done this before. Her small hand reached out, her touch surprisingly firm and gentle as she carefully took his arm, her fingers wrapping around his with a surprising strength despite her fragile appearance. Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft, almost a plea, threaded with a profound and palpable relief. "Here, drink this. It'll help you."
With remarkable gentleness, she lifted his head with both her small hands, her grip stronger than her frail appearance suggested, and carefully tipped the open vial to his dry, cracked lips. He instinctively opened his mouth, his throat parched and aching.
The liquid within was intensely bitter, with a sharp, metallic tang that coated his tongue like old blood, making him want to gag. It felt heavy, almost viscous, as it slid slowly down his dry throat, leaving a strange, unsettling aftertaste.
"Brother," she whispered, her eyes searching his with an almost desperate intensity, as if trying to find some sign of recognition or normalcy within his gaze. "You scared me so… Please, just rest now. Don't try to move too fast."
Brother? The unfamiliar term hung in the air between them, adding yet another layer to the growing and overwhelming confusion that swirled chaotically within him.
He stared back at her, his mind reeling, desperately trying to grasp the situation. She offered him a small, hesitant smile, her relief evident in the slight trembling of her lips and the glistening of unshed tears in her eyes.
And somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind, the fragmented memories and the fading consciousness of Wang Hao began to rattle faintly against the unyielding and foreign walls of a mind that was clearly not wholly his own.
Who was Shi Yao? Why did this strange name feel like it somehow belonged to him now, echoing in the empty chambers of his unfamiliar memory? And why, despite the unexpected warmth of the girl's touch on his arm and the fragile, flickering light of the oil lamp in the corner, did the air around him feel so terribly, inexplicably cold?