Ferris blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, each pulse sending needles through his skull. Strange contraptions lined the stark white walls, humming and beeping like mechanical spirits keeping vigil. The sharp tang of antiseptic burned his nostrils, so unlike the incense and wood smoke of his monastery. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm despite the chaos in his mind. Focus. Assess the situation.

  He commanded his body to rise - no, not his body, Gabrielle's body - but the unfamiliar limbs betrayed him, refusing his will. The curves and hollows of this form felt alien, wrong, as if his spirit had been poured into a vessel shaped for someone else entirely. His arms trembled when he pushed against the bed, thin and weak, nothing like the steel-corded limbs he’d honed through decades of training. Panic flickered at the edges of his mind, but he shoved it aside. A warrior adapts. Always.

  The door creaked open, and a woman in a white coat stepped in, her face etched with weary indifference. She glanced at a flat board in her hand before looking at Ferris. “You’re awake, Miss Harper. How are we feeling?”

  Ferris opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt raw, the words scraping out like gravel. “Where… am I?”

  The woman sighed, her tone flat. "St. Aldwyn Memorial. Third O.D. this week from your campus. You zoomers and your finals week drama."

  ‘O.D.’? ‘Third Odie’? Pills? Ferris’s mind raced. He remembered the vision - the pills raining down like a storm, the deep, wicked laughter echoing in the background. Something wasn’t right. He tried to sit up again, but the woman placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back with surprising ease.

  “Don’t try to move yet. You’re still weak.”

  Ferris bristled at the casual touch. In his world, no one would dare lay a hand on him without permission. But here, in this frail body, he was powerless. “I need to know what happened,” he said, his voice steadier now.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “You took too many pills, that’s what happened. Now rest. The doctor will be in later.”

  She turned to leave, but Ferris called out, “Wait! The pills… where did they come from?”

  She paused, and sighed, incredible disappointment and impatience radiating from her like repressed killing intent, but her expression neutral and bored. She was looking off into the small room near the door, grooming her hair and turning her head at different angles, as if to examine it. “They were yours, Gabrielle. You know that.”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  But Ferris didn’t know that. He didn’t know anything about this world, this body, or the life he’d been thrust into. He needed answers. Before he could press further, the woman left, the door clicking shut behind her.

  Frustration boiled inside him. He needed to think. His gaze snagged on the bedside table: an orange bottle with a white label, identical to the ones from his vision. This was no accident. He strained to reach for it, but his arms refused to cooperate. Cursing under his breath, he focused on his breathing, centering himself as he would before a battle.

  That’s when he heard voices outside the door - two people, speaking in hushed, urgent tones.

  “Did you see the tox report? Her vitals were off. Doesn’t look like a typical overdose.”

  “Shh, keep your voice down. The doctor said not to talk about it.”

  "Something was in her system, but it doesn't match her prescriptions. And those marks on her wrist..."

  "I said quiet! You want to end up like Dr. Mercer? Just chart it and forget it."

  Ferris’s ears perked up. Not a typical overdose? What did that mean? He strained to hear more, but the voices faded as the speakers moved away.

  He clenched his fists - or tried to. This body was weak, but his mind was sharp. He would find out what was going on, one way or another.

  First, he needed to move. He focused all his energy on his legs, willing them to respond. Slowly, painfully, he swung them over the side of the bed, the thin papery gown crinkling against his skin. A metal pole stood beside him, holding a bag of clear liquid that dripped into a tube connected to his arm. Another machine displayed strange numbers and lines that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Everything about this place was foreign, unsettling.

  He sat there for a moment, catching his breath. Perhaps I underestimated this challenge. But Ferris, the Iron Thesis, was not one to surrender. He would adapt. He would learn. And he would uncover the truth.

  With a grunt that felt pathetically feeble in his new throat, he pushed himself to his feet. The cold tiles shocked his bare soles, and legs that had once carried him through battlefields now quivered like saplings in a storm. He gripped the metal bed rail, refusing to surrender to this body’s frailty.

  In his monastery, they taught that only the dead know peace. Ferris had never sought peace - only victory. He cast his gaze toward the door, toward the mystery that waited beyond.

  First, he would master this broken vessel. Then, he would find who did this - to him - to Gabrielle - and they would learn why warriors never die easily.

  The polished metal surface near the door had caught the nurse's attention—a reflection, perhaps. Ferris narrowed his eyes, suddenly aware of a burning question: what face now housed his warrior's spirit?

  He took one trembling step forward, then another. Even if this body was as weak as a newborn, it was never too early nor too late to begin the path of strengthening. After all, every weapon, even the finest steel, began as nothing more than a useless lump of ore. With proper discipline and tempering, anything could be forged into something deadly.