Cold air slapped his face as the world snapped into focus—horns, footsteps, voices weaving past him like a flood. Axamu stood in the middle of a crosswalk, breath fogging, heart pounding.
"Where am i...?"
No one answered. A cyclist swerved around him with a curse. Neon bled across wet asphalt; the sky was a dull slate.
"What the hell is happening...?"
His hands trembled. He looked down—and froze. The fingers were slimmer, the knuckles softer, the skin… younger.
"Huh? Why my hand so small?"
His throat tightened. Every breath scraped. He flexed again, as if the movement might suddenly correct reality.
"No way, is this not my body?"
Panic cracked open inside him. He stumbled to the sidewalk, weaving through strangers, searching wildly for a mirror—anything reflective. A glass storefront loomed ahead, its lights off, the pane dark enough to throw back a clear reflection.
He stepped closer.
A teenager stared back—shorter, leaner, maybe sixteen. Same dark hair, but the face… The face wasn't right. Where features should be—eyes, nose, mouth—there was a smooth, almost blank surface, like frosted glass. And in the middle of that emptiness, a single mark glowed faintly: ?
His stomach dropped.
" WHAT THE HELL IS THIS??!!!"