The sound of glass… shattering.
Crack.
A whisper drifted through the darkness
soft, calm, too faint for the world to hear.
Transmi… smigr… #TRANSMIGRATION.
For a moment… everything froze.
A man sat alone in a wheelchair inside a mental hospital.
The moon outside burned a deep red, its light sliding in through the window and painting his black clothes crimson.
Then
a voice.
As the man tried to stretch his arm, the entire room twisted.
His vision blurred
and suddenly he stood among a group of people who looked like adventurers, a travel bag slung over his shoulder.
In front of him they laughed, talked, smiling like old friends.
He tried to reach them tried to say something
but before he could turn, the ground vanished.
He dropped straight into dark water.
Cold. Heavy. Drowning.
He fought. He kicked. He tried to breathe
but his sight faded, his heart thundering as everything went black.
Crack…
He blinked now lying in a pile of bodies.
His voice trembled, raw with frustration.
"Dammit… dammit… shit shit! Why? Why? Nobody told me this! Nobody said this place was deadly!
They're all dead… all of them…"
"Ah… aaah… AHH "
Before he could lift his head, that same calm voice returned.
He snapped around.
His whole body was soaked in blood.
Even his hair carried the metallic smell.
Crack.
The atmosphere flipped again.
Buildings. Streetlights. Cars screaming past
vrooom, vroom, piiing, piiing.
Students rushing to school.
Workers running to their offices.
Girls gossiping about their day.
He tried to stand
but he wasn't on the ground.
He was falling.
Fast.
He tried to grab something anything
but gravity didn't care.
He knew if he hit the street, he was gone.
He screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
"HELP! This isn't funny! Somebody help!
Somebody PLEASE
Tell me this isn't real!
What the hell is going on!?"
His voice broke into silence.
A brutal impact.
His head hit the pavement hard.
Blood exploded across asphalt.
Phones flashed.
Cameras clicked.
People crowded around his ruined body.
His last thought:
So this is how I die…
Darkness swallowed him.
Crack…
He found himself sitting on a chair.
A sleek black-and-gold pistol rested in his hand.
He raised it slowly, pressing the barrel to the side of his head.
In the mirror, his reflection grinned back
a twisted smile like a Joker wearing human skin.
He chuckled… then pulled the trigger.
Blood sprayed across the room.
Fragments of his brain scattered over the walls and floor.
His head slumped onto the table.
His fingers slipped from the gun as it clattered to the ground.
The room flooded with red.
Crack.
He now stood in a muddy street.
Children ran past.
Horses pulled carriages.
Voices echoed in an unfamiliar language.
Everything felt foreign
alien
wrong.
Rain poured as crowds brushed by him without a glance.
Then a voice
a young girl shouting.
She called out her name: Quinn Morrow.
His body reacted, but his mind lagged behind.
He reached for her, but the crowd shoved her away.
Crack.
The world shifted again.
He was inside a small house.
Only a desk.
A single chair.
A tiny door in the corner.
A shattered mirror beside it.
He rose slowly, looking around as the silence pressed in.