I woke up to the white ceiling and the steady beep of machines.
My first thought?
"No way—I really died?"
Then I took a deep breath.
No pain, just… stillness.
Alive.
Actually, it felt good. No—excellent.
But something was off.
I tried to sit up, but my body felt weak. Really weak.
I looked down at my arms.
"…What the hell?"
Where were my muscles? My forearms looked smaller. Shoulders flat. Even my skin—pale as hell.
"Does blood loss make you look like this?" I muttered.
None of it made sense. I'd spent five years building that body. And now I looked like I hadn't touched a dumbbell in years.
And this room?
Big windows. Expensive equipment. The bed felt like a mattress from some five-star hotel.
Since when did my town have hospitals like this?
The door opened, and a young nurse walked in. Blonde hair in a neat bun, wearing a warm smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Stem," she said, walking over with a clipboard. "I'm Rebecca. Your nurse. How are you feeling?"
I blinked.
"…Mr. Stem?"
That name didn't mean anything to me.
"I'm… sorry. What did you call me?"
"Mr. Stem," she repeated politely.
Ste—what?
I had no idea what she was talking about. That wasn't my name.
Still dazed, I asked, "How long was I out?"
Rebecca checked her notes. "Just one day, sir. You were unconscious when the emergency team brought you in."
"One day? Then why do I feel like this?" I looked at my arms again. "I lost all my muscle. What happened to me?"
She tilted her head, confused. "There's been no change in your muscle density, sir. You're in perfect condition."
"Perfect?" I scoffed. "I feel like a noodle."
I rubbed my face, still irritated. "Can I leave?"
She smiled. "Of course. Your car will be ready in five minutes."
My car?
"Wait," I said. "Aren't you going to ask about my bill?"
Rebecca giggled. "You're funny, sir."
I stared at her.
I wasn't joking.
I got out of bed and walked toward the elevator. The hospital felt more like a luxury resort than a medical center.
Then I caught a glimpse of myself in a hallway mirror.
I froze.
"…No. Freaking. Way."
My muscles were gone, yeah—but my face…
It was different. Sharper jawline. Clear skin. Eyes more intense. I looked like some Hollywood actor.
No—I looked like Johnny Depp.
Young Johnny Depp. Like, Pirates of the Caribbean era.
"What the hell did they do to my face?" I whispered.
Was this a dream? A coma side-effect? Did someone give me plastic surgery while I was out?
Nothing made sense.
I stepped out of the elevator and walked through the front lobby, still in shock.
That's when I saw it—a black Rolls-Royce, parked out front like it was waiting just for me.
A man in a suit stepped out and smiled.
"Good morning, sir. How are you feeling?"
"…Are you talking to me?"
"Of course, Mr. Stem," he said, walking over and opening the back door for me.
There it was again. That name.
Stem.
Was this some kind of mental illness? Some brain glitch from nearly dying?
I hesitated, staring at the open door. Then I thought:
"Screw it. Let's just go with the flow."
I got in.
The leather seat was like butter. Smooth, soft, warm. It hugged me in the best way possible. A tiny control panel on the side let me adjust everything from lighting to legroom.
I had never sat in a car like this in my life.
It felt… rich. Powerful.
I stared out the window as the car pulled away.
"This has to be a dream."
How did I go from a random office guy to looking like a movie star, riding in a Rolls-Royce, being called Mr. Stem?
Nothing made sense.
But the road ahead was clear.
And I had no choice but to follow it.
The ride was smooth. Too smooth. I leaned back into the seat, trying to act like I belonged there—but inside, my mind was racing.
We passed clean streets, wide roads, and tall trees. Everything looked expensive. Clean. American.
I didn't recognize anything.
Is this even my town?
Is this even my country?
After twenty minutes, we pulled up to a gate taller than a bus. It opened automatically.
The driveway was long—stone-paved and lined with lights and flowers that probably cost more than my old apartment. At the end of the road stood a massive white house, like something out of a movie. Marble pillars. Huge windows. A fountain in front. The American flag waved gently beside a strange symbol I didn't know.
I stepped out slowly.
The air smelled different. Like fresh grass, flowers, and money.
The chauffeur gave a slight bow. "Welcome home, Mr. Stem."
Home?
I wanted to laugh. Or cry.
But I didn't. I just walked up the steps.
The door opened by itself. Inside—marble floors, glass walls, gold trim, stairs that curved like a movie scene. Everything was spotless. Minimalist but rich. Like someone paid an artist to design the air.
A woman in a suit stood waiting. "Welcome back, sir. Your room has been prepared. Would you like lunch or rest first?"
I stared at her. "…Water."
She nodded and walked off like she already knew everything about me.
I stood there, still trying to process it all.
I had died in a street fight.
Woke up in a hospital.
Now I was in America, in a mansion, being called Mr. Stem.
And somehow, I looked like a rich version of someone else.
What the hell is going on?