Today marked the twelfth anniversary of Skyler?Young's arrival in this strange new world.
Before that day he'd been an orphan celebrating a lonely sixth birthday with a paper?cup cake from the dorm matron. He blew out the candle and wished for parents of his own, then drifted into a sugary sleep.
He woke to find himself in mid?slurp, a strand of steaming noodles dangling from his mouth while a fragrant bowl of soup smoked beneath his chin.
Dawn light softened the timber?walled hall. Across the table sat a kindly middle?aged couple, an equally gentle grandmother at the head, and beside him a bright?eyed girl of four or five clutching her porridge bowl.
"Quit staring, sweetie—eat up or you'll be late for school," the woman—Mom, apparently—said with a warm, make?up?free smile.
"Need a ride, son?" asked the broad?shouldered man, toothpick dancing between grins that hinted at the handsome youth he once was.
"No fair! Dad's walking me to kindergarten!" the little girl huffed, face half?buried in millet porridge.
Grandma chuckled and patted her. "Then we'll take your brother first, little star, and you second. Deal?"
Skyler's jaw dropped; the noodle slapped onto the table.
At six he had no words like "transmigration" or "parallel world."
He thought it was a dream—and stayed "asleep" for twelve whole years.
By now the worlds—and identities—had fused. Skyler was eighteen, a senior cramming for exams, part of a cozy five?person household: doting grandma, squabbling?but?loving parents, and a mischievous kid sister.
Life was good: study for the College Entrance Examination, daydream about universities, careers, romance, maybe kids down the line—exactly what any normal teen would do.
In other words, his sixth?birthday wish had come true—parents found, plus bonus grandma and sister.
He wanted for nothing.
Until the night of his eighteenth birthday.
After evening study hall, Skyler pedaled down a dim side?street when a shadow lunged from an alley, bowling him and his bike over.
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He scraped his knees but stood quickly. Under the sodium lamp lurked a gaunt, pallid man in a shredded hospital gown, splattered with blood.
"Mister, are you—"
"Run!" the man hissed, clamping Skyler's shoulders with terrifying strength. "Monsters! They're everywhere! Run—get out—"
"Trust no one…" His breath reeked of iron and despair.
Bang! A gunshot split the night.
Mid?sentence the bullet punched through his temple and out the other side, blossoming a crimson rose.
A metallic mist burst forth, spraying that copper?sweet stench.
His grip slackened; terror froze on his face, bulging eyes etched with hopelessness.
Two seconds later the body thudded to the asphalt.
Skyler stood numb.
Blood crept over his sneakers, warm and sticky. The ringing in his ears gave way to pounding heartbeats: thump?thump?thump?thump…
"Kid, are you hurt?"
"It's okay—you're safe!"
"Close your eyes—don't look down."
Officers swarmed; one pulled Skyler into a Kevlar hug and covered his eyes.
The next morning Skyler's name topped the local headlines: "Escaped psychiatric patient kills two nurses, seizes student hostage, shot dead on scene."
He called in sick and stayed home.
Hard not to be rattled; watching a man's head explode meters away would scar anyone. Stranger still, something about the "psycho" story smelled off, though he couldn't say exactly what.
That night he swallowed a sleeping pill.
And dreamed.
The memories of his body's first six years had long since merged with the transmigrant's, yet hazy fragments still hid in shadow.
In the dream he was four again, on a humid summer midnight.
Too much watermelon had his bladder bursting; tiptoeing past Grandparents' room he heard a furtive rustle inside.
Curiosity pricked. Ear pressed to the cool door, the noises grew clearer—and alien.
It was the whimper of a caged beast spliced with a whale's abyssal moan—agony interlaced with twisted thrill, undercut by a wet, tearing chew.
Gooseflesh crawled over him.
His teacher had just told Little Red Riding Hood that week—was a big bad wolf devouring Grandpa and Grandma?
Heart hammering, he nudged the door ajar.
What he saw through that sliver—!
Terror propelled him back to bed; he dove beneath the covers, bladder forgotten.
Morning found his sheets soaked. He chalked it up to nightmare—until Mom entered, tears spilling. "Skyler… your grandpa passed away."
As she led him out, orderlies wheeled a corpse shrouded in white. By the funeral, Grandpa was only an urn.
He and his sister never saw Grandpa one last time.
Looking back, the holes only widened.
Grandpa adored them—why forbid a final farewell?
Unless memory lied, the shape under that sheet looked wrong—as though one arm was missing.
A heart attack doesn't sever limbs… does it?
Dream?Skyler stared at the stretcher, mind churning.
Suddenly the corpse jerked upright!
Sheet slid away—revealing the hospital?gown lunatic. Eyes gouged, oily blood oozing from every orifice, he clamped Skyler’s shoulders once more.
—Monsters! They're everywhere! Run! Leave!—
—Trust no one!—
"Aaah!"
Skyler shot upright in bed.
Ten a.m. Sunlight perfect, April breeze stirring the curtains, city bustle outside.
"Nightmare, bro?" his sister asked, sitting at his bedside, blinking wide eyes.
He blinked back. "Why are you in my room?"
"It's practically noon. Mom sent me." She rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, okay. Thanks."
She left.
Still dazed, Skyler swung his legs off the bed and gulped water.
His phone buzzed; he thumbed open the chat app.
Water sprayed from his mouth.
