The pain is unbearable—every nerve in my body screams, and I can't even open my eyes. My body feels heavy, as if pinned down by an unshakable weight. Sometimes I wonder why life seems so unfair. I was born in an orphanage, never once seeing my parents' faces. Friends? I don't have many… and honestly, I doubt anyone would lose their life if I lost mine.Yet somehow, life had finally started to fall into place. I had just been promoted at work, and for the first time in years, hope flickered in my chest. Things were slowly getting better, as if fate had decided to give me a second chance. But then, in a cruel twist, this accident happened. In one moment, everything I had dreamed of—every little plan, every fragile ambition—was crushed. My life feels like shattered glass, full of sharp fragments of unfulfilled dreams.And yet… I realize something. I'm still alive. My body may feel broken, and my eyes refuse to open, but I can hear voices—faint, yet real. Doctors… nurses… whispers moving around me. Someone must have brought me here, into the safety of a hospital. That thought alone gives me comfort.Still, there's something frightening. My head feels dizzy, the world inside a fog I can't escape. Why can't I open my eyes? Why does it feel like darkness itself has sealed me away from the light? Am I trapped in this body—alive, but unable to move, unable to see?For now, all I can do is hold on to this thin thread of life. As long as I can hear those voices, as long as my heart beats, maybe—just maybe—there's still hope.
"Uff… the weight is unreal. Every limb feels chained to the bed, every breath thick like syrup. Still, there's only one thought: wake up. Move. Anything.With everything left in this body, a finger twitches, then the wrist. Pain sparks, hot and bright. Somewhere, close and startled, a voice breaks into the air—a sharp cry that slices through the fog: 'Master is awakening!'Master? What master?The word clangs around the skull like metal on stone. The effort drains away, and uncertainty washes back in—cold, heavy, unkind. Let go, just for a moment. Breathe.Minutes—maybe more—drag past like slow tides. Then the air shifts. Footsteps gather, fast and breathless, a small crowd pressing into the room. Voices overlap, a tangle of tones and accents, calling out with a strange chorus of names and endearments: honey, son, master. The noise swells, then hushes, as if a curtain falls.Two men enter. The room seems to hold its breath. One of them sits beside the bed; the mattress dips under his weight. A hand—steady, warm, unfamiliar—rests on the forearm. He speaks, low and certain, but the words are gibberish, a language that refuses to align with meaning. Yet somehow, the sound isn't empty. It thuds through the chest like a drumbeat, and with each rhythm, strength crawls back into muscle and bone. Fingers clench. The jaw unhooks. The eyelids lift.Light floods in—too much, too fast. The world snaps into shape: faces, so many faces, none of them known. Their clothes are wrong—textures and cuts that don't belong to any memory. The room is wrong, too—ceilings carved in patterns, walls washed in colors that shift with the lamplight, machines that hum with a tone that isn't quite modern and isn't quite old. The bed is unfamiliar. The body is unfamiliar.A heartbeat stutters. The edges of vision grow grainy, then darken at the corners. Shock runs cold and electric through the spine. The mouth tries to form a question, but the throat offers only air.Unfamiliar faces lean in, expectant and relieved. The hand on the forearm tightens, an anchor against the undertow.Don't pass out again. Not now.