Buzz, ring-ring- ring-ring- ring
The phone on the cluttered desk vibrated against the stack of books, filling the small room with an annoying hum. It buzzed like an impatient insect, refusing to let him sleep.
The bedroom was modest, with a twin bed pushed against one wall, a narrow study table with a brass lamp, a worn-out wardrobe, and a chair with faded fabric that sagged from years of use. The 220 sq. ft. space was divided neatly, giving the room a cozy feel. Despite its age, the room had a warm, lived-in atmosphere, like someone had spent countless nights hunched over books and screens.
On the bed lay a boy, probably fifteen or sixteen, with a solid build from good meals, but a face that told a different story. His soft, round features made him look like a child of eight or ten, with a peculiar expression that adults often saw on babies' faces. Right now, his boyish face was scrunched up in a strangely serious expression, his brows furrowed like he was pondering a profound question—though in reality, he was just struggling to answer his phone.
The boy groaned, wriggling across the mattress until his arm flopped toward the desk. His palm slapped around blindly until his fingers finally curled around the buzzing device. He dragged it up, pressed it to his ear, and muttered, half-asleep, "Hello…?"
An energetic voice exploded through the speaker. "Yo, Rick! What's up?"
Rick blinked groggily. "Not much, Mich. You?"
Mich boomed in a comically forced Santa impression, "Ho! Ho! Ho! There's a meeting to discuss the fusion energy engineering project we did with the university students. You in?"
The goofy laugh grated on Rick's half-conscious brain, but Mich's words jolted him awake. His laziness dissolved instantly, and his voice sharpened. "Yeah, I'll be there. What time?"
"In five minutes," Mich replied.
Rick bolted upright, his face pale. "Five minutes?! Mich, are you serious? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Mich sounded casual. "Our spot, by the park."
Rick hung up and scrambled to get ready. He yanked out a bright yellow t-shirt and khaki-like trousers, slipped them on with practiced speed, and forced his worn-out black sneakers onto his feet.
He crossed the hall to his grandmother's room and rapped his knuckles on the door. "Granny, I'm heading out! I promise it won't be long!"
There was a pause, then a frail but steady voice answered, "Why are you going out now, child? You've only just completed your three-week study schedule. Stay still and rest. Besides…" Her tone softened, trembled. "…I had a dream. A bird flying and dying at your doorstep. Something is going to happen. I can feel it in my old bones. Why don't you stay home, my dear?"
Rick froze. The tenderness in her voice, the quiet plea hidden in her words, tugged at him. His chest tightened with guilt.
But the project—this meeting—it mattered. Too much to skip. He believed, foolishly, that his life depended on it.
"I'm sorry, Granny," he said at last, voice heavy. "But I have to go. I'll be home by six, I promise."
Silence. Then a sigh. "…Alright, dear. Stay safe."
Rick dashed outside immediately, shouting over his shoulder, "Love you, Grandma, you're the best!" The sun hung bright above him, signalling early afternoon.
As he walked down the street, a commotion erupted. "Thief! Thief! Thief!" A lady pointed at the accused, her words hammering into the ears of bystanders. Some backed away. Others pulled out their phones. Most simply froze.
But Rick didn't. He spun around just in time to see a hooded figure dash past him, a purple purse clutched tight under one arm. The thief moved low and fast, agile in a way that screamed experience. Rick was certain he'd done this before.
Rick kicked into a sprint, ignoring the little voice screaming, Mind your business. Rick, raised to help others and inflated by a naive hero complex, had an unhealthy obsession with acting like the main character—an instinct forged in childhood despite a lifetime of bullying.
"Hey! Stop!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I said—STOP!"
People watched. Some assumed it was a prank video. Others laughed. One guy shouted to his friends, wide-eyed, "See? I told you superheroes were real!"
Rick's heart thundered, ego blazing after that comment. He would catch the thief. Make the news. Go viral. Be a role model. Fulfil his childhood dream of being a hero. Maybe even make Granny proud.
The chase veered into a narrow alley—walls smeared with graffiti, reeking of piss and rot. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Buildings loomed tall and indifferent on either side.
Rick didn't stop. Not when the thief glanced back. Not when the shadows deepened. Not even when his instincts screamed don't.
Because in the movies, this was where the hero cornered the villain and did something awesome.
But this wasn't a movie.
And Rick was oblivious to that fact.
The thief stopped without warning. No taunt. No threat. Just a smooth, practised reach into the waistband of his pants—specifically, the inner pocket of his underwear.
Rick skidded to a halt, confused. "Ayo, what are you—"
Pow. The first bullet hit his chest like a sledgehammer. No pain—just heat, crushing pressure, and something tearing inside.
Pow. The second shot knocked him flat. His back slammed into concrete. The sky above spun—grey, uncaring.
Silence. The thief was gone.
Rick blinked. Blood oozed from his chest, warm and sticky, soaking his hoodie.
What… just happened? Granny's premonition rang in his ears.
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Only feel—the cold creeping in, breath shortening, the light above dimming like someone turning a dial.
This can't be it… He had imagined dying plenty of times—in glory, surrounded by robots, alien queens, or blazing fire. Not bleeding in an alley that smelled of piss because he couldn't mind his own business.
What a stupid way to go.
His last thought was an apology. Sorry, Grandma. Guess I couldn't uphold the Chuck bloodline. Maybe you'll forgive me if you knew why I failed your death wish. No need to fret—we'll be reunited soon enough. Maybe…
And then the dark took him.
No tunnel of light. No angels. No peace.
Just black. Thick, heavy black.
Somewhere beyond his swirling thoughts, muffled voices rose—one calm and commanding. "Push harder!" said a mature woman.
"Hyaah!" came a second—young, fierce. Not in pain, but in power.
Reality stirred.
Evane moved with effortless grace, her robe fluttering with residual magic. She had never delivered a child before, but years of observing master healers had honed her precision. Glowing runes shimmered along her sleeves. One hand glowed with gravity magic, the other with conjured water.
The mother—Francisca—was breathtaking. Silver hair clung to her sweat-damp face, ocean-blue eyes blazing with will. Even in labour, she radiated a power that pressed against the air.
"One more push," Evane urged.
Francisca didn't scream. She roared.
Magic surged, rattling the walls. Evane didn't flinch—high-blooded mages often had turbulent births—but this pressure was heavier. Divine.
Timing perfectly, she worked her gravity magic to free the child. Wind blades cut the cord. Puppetry magic tied it. A floating orb of water cleansed the newborn—all in barely three seconds. Flawless.
"Breathe, young one. You are safe."
Magic shimmered golden, flowing into him like sunlight through glass. It seeped into every nerve, every cell, as if the world itself whispered: You belong here.
Evane blinked. Something was… strange.
No crying. Only a single, half-hearted whimper—not fear, not pain. Just breathing.
The baby's eyes, though closed, shifted under the lids—tracking, processing.
Evane handed him to his mother, murmuring, "Francisca… your baby is unusual."
Francisca's head snapped toward her, aura exploding—heavy, dangerous. The air shivered with the baby nestled in her arms.
Evane lifted her hands quickly. "In a good way!" she added fast.
Francisca's gaze lingered, then softened. "Go on."
"It's just… he never cried. And his eyelids tremble like one burning with curiosity. His aura—it's unlike anything I've felt. I've seen prodigies born, but nothing like this. Not strong or intimidating, but… otherworldly."
Francisca looked down at her son, a slow, proud smile forming. "It's simple, Evane. I'm his mother. That's reason enough."
Evane's lips curled into a forced smile. Motherly love, indeed. The aura surrounding Miss Francisca felt like a turbulent storm about to unleash its fury.
"Anyways, Evane," Miss Francisca said.
"Yes, Miss Francisca?" Evane replied.
"Call in Anthony. He deserves to be here."
Evane bowed, her long fabric swirling around her as she departed with a swift, magical stride.
Francisca gently stroked her child's hair, a serene expression on her face. Yet, she sensed it – a hidden turmoil brewing beneath the surface.
In a completely different realm, Rick found himself drifting, lost in a sea of nothingness. Time seemed irrelevant; it could have been seconds, hours, or centuries. He felt disconnected from his body, unable to see, hear, or move. And yet, he existed.
A jarring thought pierced his mind: Am I dead? If so, why was he still conscious? Was he a ghost? But ghosts didn't feel like they were suspended in a warm, suffocating void.
As his awareness grew, he became aware of a strange, muffled sound – voices that didn't resemble human language. The melodic tones seemed almost alien.
Where was he? Had he survived the gunshots and ended up in a hospital? But why couldn't he move his eyelids or control his body? And why did he feel so small, trapped, and... wet?
A chaotic jumble of thoughts flooded his mind, including a concept scientists would dismiss as absurd: reincarnation. "Oh no, not this," he thought. "I've been... rebooted."
As his surroundings slowly came into focus, Rick realized his body had changed. It was smaller, softer, and confined. A muffled voice hummed in the background, a soothing yet unsettling melody.
Blinding light pierced his eyes, and cold air slapped his skin. A soft, warm object pressed against his lips – a breast, he realized with a jolt.
Liquid filled his mouth, sweet and nourishing. Milk.
He didn't need to finish the thought; he already knew. This was baby mode. Panic set in as he tried to open his eyes or move, but his body refused to respond.
His mind, however, was wide awake, racing with thoughts. So, I'm a baby now. At least I'm not a corpse or a goat. That's something.
Francisca cradled her newborn, her expression inscrutable. The chamber still reeked of smoke and rain, while outside, the world celebrated the birth of her child, oblivious to the storm that was to come.
Inside the baby's mind, Rick let out a silent sigh. A silver-haired, magical mother, a midwife, and instant access to nourishment – this was... fine. Everything was fine.
Little did he know how right he was about his mother.
But who was Anthony? His father?
Rick was unaware that his arrival had not gone unnoticed. Sentient powers were stirring, and the world around him pulsed with magic – and danger.
For now, he was just a baby.
A very aware baby.
But that wouldn't last long.