The adrenaline slowly faded from my system.
The ride was still thrilling—but now it was mixed with exhaustion… and cold. Even though the night was warm and I'd put on a yellow hoodie, the wind cut straight through the fabric, leaving me shivering.
We entered a city.
Streetlights blurred past as we sped along mostly empty roads, finally stopping in front of a worn-down apartment block. One glance was enough to tell me this wasn't the best neighborhood—somewhere on the outskirts, lower-income, a little neglected.
But I was used to places like this.
My old apartment had been in a similar area.
The stranger parked the motorcycle and pulled out his keys. He waited—patiently, to his credit—until I steadied myself on solid ground, then headed toward the entrance.
"Just so you know, peacock," he said dryly, pressing the elevator button, "this isn't a five-star hotel. No staff here."
"I'm not an idiot," I shot back just as dryly.
We stepped into a small apartment on the eighth floor.
He flicked on the light and pulled off his balaclava.
For the first time, I saw his face.
Young—early twenties, maybe. Black hair, though only on top; the sides were shaved nearly clean. Pierced ears, a ring in his eyebrow, another under his lip. From beneath his tight black turtleneck, I could see a tattoo creeping up his neck—black flames curling toward his ear.
He looked like trouble.
And his dark eyes only reinforced that impression.
"You can take the couch," he said, pointing to what looked like the least comfortable sleeping arrangement imaginable, then pulled his turtleneck off over his head.
The tattoo I'd glimpsed before extended across the entire right side of his body, disappearing beneath his black sweatpants. His physique made it obvious—he trained. Hard. Muscles shifted under his skin, his abdomen tight and defined.
I stared.
And only snapped out of it when I realized he'd stopped moving and was now frowning at me.
"Sorry," I blurted, dropping my gaze as heat rushed to my face. "So… I can sleep here?" I gestured at the couch, quickly moving past him and setting my bag against the wall.
"Yeah. I'll grab you a pillow and a blanket. You should get some sleep while you can—Start said he'd be here by nine."
I checked my watch.
4:12 a.m.
Right. So much for rest.
I opened my eyes—and immediately regretted it.
The couch didn't just look uncomfortable.
Sleeping on it had been pure torture.
This fragile body felt every lump, every spring, every stray crumb. Groaning like an old woman, I swung my legs off the couch and tried to get my stiff limbs moving.
Just after eight.
I heard water running.
With considerable effort, I pushed myself upright, shuffled to the sink, poured a glass of water, and downed it in one go.
The bathroom door opened.
He stepped out.
Wearing nothing but a small pink towel wrapped around his waist.
I stared.
The defined muscles caught my attention—but the absurd contrast between his appearance and the ridiculous towel made me snort with laughter.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"Sorry—it's just… the towel—" I laughed again.
Without a word, he yanked it off and tossed it straight at my face.
The damp fabric hit me—and slid down.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Revealing everything.
I froze.
Opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
Felt my face burn.
And immediately turned away.
"Hey! Put something on!" I snapped.
"Oh, please," he scoffed. "You're acting like a little girl."
Still, he disappeared into the other room—and came back dressed.
Right.
I'm a guy now.
That reaction probably looked… weird.
Anna, get it together.
But seriously—his body is insane.
And what that towel was trying to hide—
There's no way Alan could ever—
What am I even thinking?!
I can't be checking out guys like this!
I let out a quiet, conflicted sigh.
Now I'm one of them.
"Bathroom's free," he said, drying his hair.
I nodded, grabbed what I needed from my bag, and went to clean up.
There were no styling products here—and for once, I was grateful. No more of that ridiculous slicked-back hairstyle.
After washing up and toweling my hair dry, I stepped out just as he was finishing making coffee.
"If you're hungry, check the fridge," he said. "I need to make a call."
He stepped out onto the balcony.
A moment later, I caught the unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke.
For a second, the urge hit me.
I stopped myself.
Instead, I opened the fridge.
He stayed on the balcony for a while. I could hear his voice, low and indistinct, and the steady drift of cigarette smoke curling inside.
Inside the fridge: slightly spoiled ham, eggs, sandwich bread, a half-rotten tomato, dried-out cheese, a few sauces.
In the cabinets: pans, oil, spices.
Good enough.
I toasted the bread in one pan while sautéing chopped ham and tomato in another, then poured in beaten eggs and sprinkled cheese over the top.
Simple.
Once it was ready, I spread sauce on the toast, added the omelet, and topped it with another slice.
Right as I cut the sandwiches into smaller pieces, he came back in.
"You made breakfast?" he asked, surprised.
"You told me to take whatever I found."
"I didn't think someone like you could cook."
I hesitated.
Nice one, idiot.
"After the accident, I spent time in the kitchen," I said quickly. "The staff liked to talk—I was trying to piece things together. Watching the cook… I picked up a few things."
"So this is your first time actually cooking?" he asked cautiously.
I sat down, took a bite.
"Not bad," I said with my mouth full.
He watched me for a moment—like he expected me to drop dead on the spot.
When I didn't, he finally grabbed a sandwich and took a careful bite.
"…Okay, yeah. That's actually good," he admitted, taking another. "You're not as hopeless as I thought."
"Hey—" I started, then stopped when I saw him smile.
…He has a really nice smile.
"By the way," I added quickly, dragging my attention away, "where are we?"
"Trausen," he said. "What, you don't even remember where your family lives, peacock?"
"Trausen… the one six hundred kilometers from Scroter?" I asked, holding my breath.
"At least you remember the capital. That's something."
I fell silent.
So… I really had just been thrown into another body.
Same world.
My world.
Who would've thought there were hidden academies, gifted people, and monsters lurking in it?
Six hundred kilometers.
My family.
My friends.
My life.
All still out there.
I could go back.
What if I just… ran?
What if my body survived?
What if I could return?
And what if Alan's soul is in my body right now?
If abilities exist—if all this is real—
Then maybe there's a way to fix everything.
To put it all back where it belongs.