The last thing I remembered was the shriek of metal.
The subway was crowded, every inch of the car packed with exhausted commuters, students, and office workers. I was one of them—just another face in New York City, hunched in my jacket, earbuds in, the usual playlist humming away. The train had been running late, and people muttered their complaints, too caught up in their own misery to notice the faint vibration that rolled through the tracks.
Then it happened.
A sudden lurch, a grinding sound, sparks in the dark tunnel. The lights flickered, cut out, came back in a sickly glow. There was shouting—someone cursing, someone else screaming. Then the impossible sight: another train barreling toward us on the same track, headlights blinding, horn blaring.
There wasn't time to think. No time to move. Just a frozen heartbeat and a wall of steel.
Impact.
And then nothing.
…..
When I opened my eyes, I expected fire, wreckage, blood. I expected paramedics or—God forbid—a morgue. What I got instead was… silence.
A ceiling. Pale, cracked plaster. A faint smell of herbs, antiseptic, and something earthy.
My head throbbed. My body ached in ways that didn't make sense. I tried to sit up and hissed—the movement sent a sharp stab through my skull. My hand went up automatically, brushing against something rough and stiff. Bandages. Thick ones, wound tight around my head.
"What…?" My voice rasped. It didn't even sound like me.
The room wasn't familiar. Stone walls, old wooden beams, a single narrow window letting in a weak light. A table off to the side with metal tools—primitive, almost medieval. Definitely not Mount Sinai, not NYU Langone, not any hospital in New York.
And when my eyes landed on the mirror across the room, my heart stopped.
The reflection wasn't mine.
A boy—no, a young man—stared back. His hair was a dark violet, messy and unkempt. His eyes glowed green, sharp and wary. His body was lean, bruised, covered in cuts. A white-gray uniform clung to him, militarized but worn, with straps and buckles I'd never seen outside of war movies.
I stumbled back. "No… no, that's not me."
I gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening. The reflection moved when I moved, tilted its head when I did. I touched my cheek. The boy touched his. My pulse pounded in my ears.
"That's… me?"
Panic surged in my chest, burning and suffocating. My hands trembled. My legs shook. I wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in my throat.
This wasn't my face. This wasn't my body.
What the hell is happening?!
I staggered, nearly tripping on the stone floor. Pain lanced through my head, sharper than before, like knives digging behind my eyes. Then—images.
Not mine.
A boy's childhood, filled with loneliness. Rough voices jeering, fists slamming into his ribs, his face. Soldiers-in-training, laughing as they used him as their punching bag. The taste of blood in his mouth. The snap of bone. And then—the last beating. His head slammed into stone. His body trembling, fading. Darkness swallowing him whole.
The pain faded. I gasped, clutching my chest.
Those memories weren't mine. But they belonged to the body I now occupied.
His name… his name was Jin.
And Jin was dead.
I pressed a hand to my face, fingers shaking. So what the hell am I? Some parasite? Did I—
The thought broke apart. Too much. My breathing sped up, shallow, ragged.
"I need to get out of here," I whispered. "I need to leave, now."
I staggered to the door, each step clumsy and foreign. The hall outside was dim, lined with flickering lanterns. The air was thick, suffocating. A nurse walked past—though she didn't look like any nurse I'd ever seen. Her uniform was plain, her cap rough linen, her arms carrying a tray of herbs.
She blinked at me. "You shouldn't be standing—"
"I want to leave," I snapped, my voice shaking. "Discharge me. Right now."
Her brows knit. "You've suffered a head injury. You need—"
"I said let me out!"
My shout echoed, raw with desperation. She recoiled, lips pressed thin. A pause. Then, reluctantly, she nodded.
Minutes blurred. Papers, signatures I couldn't read, orders barked in a language that sounded half-familiar. And then—I stood before him.
A man in full uniform, his presence suffocating. Broad shoulders, a scar across his face, eyes sharp as blades. A general. My… instructor? His gaze pinned me like an insect.
"So," he said, voice low. "You want to quit."
"Yes," I forced out. My throat was dry. "I—I'm not cut out for this. I can't be a soldier."
His silence stretched, heavy, unbearable. I swallowed, forcing the words out. "I can't handle it. I won't survive here."
For a moment, I thought he'd order me executed for cowardice. Instead, he sneered.
"Pathetic. The army has no place for the weak. Get out of my sight."
And just like that—I was dismissed.
No paperwork, no ceremony. Just cast aside, like garbage.
…..
The streets of the Capital stretched before me.
It was massive. Towering buildings, sprawling markets, paved stone roads filled with noise and life. Merchants barked their wares, children darted between carts, guards in polished armor patrolled with spears at the ready. The air was thick with spices, sweat, smoke.
I wandered, disoriented, the world spinning around me. It was strange—familiar, but wrong. The faces, the voices, the architecture. None of it belonged to New York. But some part of me recognized it, like déjà vu twisted into reality.
Where was I?
I stopped at a wall plastered with posters. At first, I thought they were political notices. Then I saw the drawings.
Faces. Names. Bounties.
Wanted posters.
I leaned closer, scanning the ink, the bold strokes. The names didn't register at first. The drawings were rough. But then—one word cut through the haze.
Night Raid
My blood ran cold.
A group of citizens passed, whispering as they glanced at the posters.
"Night Raid struck again…"
"They're demons. Murderers."
"No… they're after the corrupt nobles, I heard."
The words echoed, each one slamming into me like a hammer.
Night Raid….?
I blinked at the posters again, reading the names scrawled beneath the faces. Reading them once. Twice. My lips moved, mouthing them silently.
And then it hit me.
The anime. The blood-soaked story. The assassins, the revolution, the endless cycle of death.
Akame. Leone. Mine. Sheele. Bulat. Lubbock. Tatsumi. Najenda. Esdeath.
Images surged in my head. Scenes I had watched years ago. Death after death. Friends slaughtered. Villains triumphant. Heroes broken. Even the protagonist—gone, snuffed out before the end.
Shit, shit, shit!
My knees buckled. I clutched the pavement, my nails scraping against stone. People stared, muttering. I didn't care.
"Why…?" My voice cracked, low, desperate. "Why here? Why this world?!"
My breath came fast, ragged. My chest tightened, suffocating. My vision blurred.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't some sick joke.
I was in Akame Ga Kill.
The one world where anyone could die at any moment.
And I wasn't a protagonist. I wasn't even a side character. I was Jin—some no-name soldier who never even existed in the original story.
Hopelessness washed over me, cold and crushing. Fate here was brutal, merciless.
If I did nothing, I'd die. If I tried to fight, I'd die. If I tried to run—hell, I'd still probably die.
So why me? Why here?
I pressed my forehead to the stone, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the judgment.
"Why the hell am I here?!"
My shout echoed through the crowded street.
And for the first time, I realized—there was one real answer.
Only survival.